Kilometer 99 (7 page)

Ben climbed down the tree first. I handed him each of the boards, then went down myself. For nearly an hour, we were the only people in the water. The tide was higher than yesterday, and I was exhausted, but it was a fun session all the same—more playful than the day before.

*   *   *

Afterward, I was surprised to find my girlfriends all packed up at the hotel. I figured they'd have slept in. Still rattled by the robbery, they wanted to be rid of this town as soon as possible.

“We're all waiting on you,” Courtney said.

I gathered my towel and a change of clothes. “Already? It'll probably be a while, with showering and breakfast and stuff. I'm starving.”

Courtney looked at her watch. She seemed upset with me, as though I'd not treated the crackhead incident with the proper gravitas. Or perhaps it was all the surfing: I'd failed to play my assigned role in this girls' weekend at the beach.

“Why don't you go without me?”

“Fine,” she said. “We have the room until noon.”

We said our good-byes before I even got to shower. After breakfast, I took a sweaty nap, the same modified fan turning back and forth above like an automated dummy from an old wax museum.

*   *   *

An hour later, I woke up, needing to pee. I emerged from the room bleary-eyed, in a tank top and sarong, and went straight for the toilets.

On my way back, still confused and half-asleep, I saw Ben in the hammock outside his room. A Salvadoran newspaper lay across his lap.

“What time is it?” I held a hand above my eyes like a visor.

“Almost noon,” he said.

“I have to check out.”

“They're pretty flexible here.” He turned one of the pages. “Or you could stay another night.”

Maybe it was the dreamy half-awake state of my brain. Maybe I knew it could be weeks or even months before our paths crossed again. Maybe, after all the great waves and the robbery, the tedious rituals of flirtation and courtship were drained of their normal weight. Whatever the reason, this is what I said to Ben one day after first meeting him: “Could I stay in your room?”

He dropped the newspaper flat to his lap. “I'd like that.”

Courtney had already made a pile of my things atop my backpack. I used my arms like alligator jaws to clamp it all and carry it over to Ben's room. I offered him a half smile as I passed. He kept the newspaper down at his waist, and I wondered if he was hiding an erection.

A smaller room, it had a thin single bed but a proper ceiling fan. I starfished across the mattress and felt the air blow down. It took only a minute to realize that I'd not be falling asleep. A wave of self-consciousness washed over me, woke me up, and forced me to feel silly for the self-invitation.

As if reading my mind, Ben appeared in the doorway. He stood there for a second. I propped myself up on my elbows. We exchanged a volley of loaded eye contact. And though it was only Ben who stood on a literal threshold, we were both about to enter a whole new chapter.

He closed the door and locked it. I sat up on the edge of the bed, my body language doing its best to confirm his assumptions. He took the couple of steps toward me, then went down to one knee. The bed was so low that our heads were almost even with each other.

I'd never kissed a man with a beard before, and so I flinched when he first leaned his head in toward mine—thinking of the prickly stubble Alex used to get after days without a shave. But Ben's beard was soft and fine. In a way, it felt gentler against me than regular skin.

I put my hands upon each of his round shoulders. All his paddling had formed a loose, flat layer of muscle. It felt like a manta ray affixed to his upper back. He grabbed the bottom edge of my tank top. I barely had a chance to raise my arms up before he pulled it off and over my head.

I sat up a little straighter as he went to kiss my nipples. To me, this was always the most tedious part of foreplay. I never minded my tiny breasts; what I hated was the way that boys felt the need to reassure me by paying so much attention to them.

But Ben's beard tickled my chest in a pleasant way. It gave me chicken skin in spite of the heat. I'd always considered myself deficient in whatever nerve endings make this area so sensitive to most women. Now, I wondered if I'd simply never been touched in the right way.

My fingers traced the shape of his shoulder blades. I spread my knees wide. The sarong around my waist melted into the bed. I lay down and closed my eyes. The hiss of Velcro ripping undone and the crisp brush of synthetic fabric sounded as Ben removed his board shorts.

I felt the tickling bristle of his beard against the inside of my thigh. My whole body shuddered at the first touch of it. One leg kicked as if hit by a doctor's mallet. Scared he might take that as a sign of protest, I said, “Don't stop.”

And he didn't stop. I clenched my knees around the edge of the mattress to keep from further squirming. The bearded face between my legs sent electricity all throughout my limbs. It had the feel of something alive yet unfamiliar, like the rubbery muzzle of a horse.

My orgasm was a relief once it finally happened, like walking out a cramp or sending blood to a sleeping limb. I shuddered and panted and pushed his head away.

Ben climbed into the bed. He made love to me in a way that was lighthearted and generous—the opposite of Alex. In spite of the ceiling fan, both our bodies were soon covered in a slick film of sweat spiked with sand and a trace of sunblock.

Once it was over, we lay uncovered on the little bed. I put my head upon his shoulder. Staring up at the spinning fan, I once again craved reassurance, some confirmation that this was the right thing to do. How did I know then that we were getting ourselves into more than a one-off weekend?

Ben wrapped his arm around me more tightly, careful not to displace my head. His fingers settled on the slightly softer, slightly paler triangle of skin at my breast. They searched it for a second, came across a nipple sore from rubbing against surf wax, then backed off.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't have any boobs when I'm lying down.”

“That's okay,” he said. “I don't have a dick after I've been out in the ocean for a while. It's like an eel in a cave.”

I laughed out loud. The bed shook beneath us.

“Seriously, it looks like a second belly button down there.”

I turned my face into his chest and felt the hair against my cheek. Even after the laughter ended, I couldn't stop smiling.

“So you spend a lot of time here, then?” I asked him.

“Depends,” he said. “Couple weekends a month. More if the surf's good.”

*   *   *

From then on, La Libertad became a part of my life. In El Salvador, most volunteers stay sane by going to the capital or visiting friends every two or three weeks. Now, Ben and I went to La Lib exclusively.

I became La Chinita. Though it was perhaps Peseta's least inspired nickname—and though I'm not Chinese—it was nice to have the status. My surfing skills came back quickly. The point was the perfect place for a regular footer to practice.

Kristy prepared our meals and looked after the boards while we were gone. I brought her gifts from the Peace Corps medical office: lotions, tampons, ibuprofen.

Those long weekends—sometimes whole weeks—in La Libertad became the best days of my life. The locals—crackheads and surfers alike—knew who I was and flashed
shaka
s and thumbs-up signs as I walked by. We surfed the morning glass, breakfasted on beans, eggs, fresh cheese, and tortillas. We passed the sweltering daytime hours with naps, sweaty lovemaking sessions, and ice-cold Regias. During sunset surfs at the point, the low clouds turned a weird mix of pinks and blues. The water calmed and took on a reflective, oily sheen. At the far side of the sky, fires from the cane fields sent up columns of smoke that glowed purple in the evening light. Mariachi bands serenaded us. The waves were as good as waves get.

Was I afraid of the crackheads and the other dangers? To some extent. But it wasn't so different from the rest of El Salvador. There was a simple set of rules: You didn't go out at night, never left anything unlocked, never carried more money than you needed. In a sense, the crackhead thieves were more predictable than other elements of the criminal class. Also, I was always with Ben. From the first day I met him, I believed that he could handle anything. That he could keep me safe.

 

9

We wake early. No signs of stirring from Pelochucho's room. Ben and I walk to the beach for a morning surf check—a ritual that's become more about procrastination than actual forecasting. We take a seat on the stone staircase that leads down to the sand.

“Small.” Ben yawns. He's brought along his multitool and a bit of tie wire to fix my broken flip-flop.

“This is Pelochucho's monster swell?” I hand him the bad sandal. “The one we're sticking around for?”

Ben shrugs. “Surfing's a way of life. Waiting is part of it.”

I run my finger through the sand at the bottom of the steps. How many days and hours did I spend thinking about sand in the past two years? How far the men would have to carry it and how much, whether it was fine enough to aggregate the cement. That was river sand, of course; you can't make concrete with ocean sand.

“Here we go.” Ben fashions a sort of wire pin to keep the rubber plug from pulling up through the flip-flop's sole.

“I'm not going to get lockjaw from that, am I?”

“If you do, then it's time to buy a new pair.” He hands the sandal back to me.

“Thanks.” I slip it onto my foot, then rise and take a couple steps. My toes hardly feel the wire. “It works.”

“Course it works.” Ben grins. “I may not be an engineer, but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Peseta wanders up to join us, a T-shirt draped over his head. “No waves,” he says.

“No waves,” we repeat in unison.

Peseta looks as frustrated as we are, though he hasn't entered the water in years.

“Ben,” I say. “Would you mind if I take the Jeep and go to Cara Sucia? I feel like I need to say some good-byes, at least to Niña Tere.” Now that we plan to stick around here a few more days, I can't justify not returning to my village one last time.

“Today?” He takes his eyes off the hapless surf. “I don't mind. Want me to go with you?”

“That's okay. I'll do it on my own.”

Ben nods. “Not like you'll be missing much here.”

*   *   *

El Salvador's coastal highway, the Litoral, is the smoothest and fastest stretch of road in the country. Eastbound, not many miles outside of La Libertad, I cross the Santa Cruz Bridge, where the women of Cara Sucia—my former neighbors—do their laundry in the dry season. I crane my neck to try and spot a familiar face, but speed makes everything a blur.

I find my turn and head inland. The engine winds hard with the quick gain in elevation. The landscape grows familiar. Coastal sugarcane and coconut plantations give way to hills full of corn and beans, a few cows and pigs, humble houses of adobe walls and red clay roofs.

Soon I pass the tiny refugee camp of El Terrero. Their community—which had been a lovely hamlet tucked deep into a valley that runs parallel to this road—was demolished in the earthquake. The residents now live along the dirt shoulder in shacks made from black plastic sheeting and corrugated metal. Over the shelters hangs a homemade banner begging help from both God and the government.

Seconds later, I'm in Cara Sucia proper. A few heads turn as I park next to Niña Tere's house and climb out.

A young man named Chago, who was a tireless worker on the aqueduct, turns and smiles, looking confused by my presence. What does he think? That I still live here? That I've returned from vacation? Who knows what rumors might've followed my exit.

Across the street, a blue-and-white cross is planted in the courtyard, covered in flowers. It's the spot where Felix died. His grandmother must've built the memorial.

“Niña Tere?” I round the corner of her house. “It's me, Malia.”

Her dog, Rambo, howls. His claws click upon the packed dirt of the floor.

“Come in, child.” I recognize Tere's voice. Then I hear Nora's excited squeal: “Niña Malia!”

I enter the house that is, in many ways, the beating heart of my time in El Salvador. It looks as I remember it: thick adobe walls whitewashed on the inside. Wooden beams and columns—all milled by machete—hold up a roof made of red clay tiles and bamboo crosspieces.

Upon my arrival in this village, Niña Tere took me in—long before I'd become a local celebrity with the aqueduct, back when the rest of the Cara Sucians wanted to trade me for a white male, a
real
gringo. I stayed here for several weeks while Tere helped me arrange for the house I eventually rented. I continued to eat with them almost every day.

Niña Tere's husband, Guillermo, lives in Texas and works construction. He sends down generous
remesas
—mainly for Nora's tuition at the private school in Los Planes. Niña Tere is a natural entrepreneur. In addition to his earnings, she mends clothes for extra money, sells tamales and bags of sweetened fruit drinks at all the local soccer games. She serves as secretary for the village council and is the only reason that body gets anything done. The other members are more interested in making speeches and granting titles. Without Tere, I doubt the aqueduct would have enjoyed its year of fruitless construction.

“Have a seat.” She uses her hand to dust off a plastic chair. “Did you bring hunger? We're about to eat lunch.”

I nod and sit down.

“Will you stay here tonight? Do you need to bathe?” She gestures toward the cistern behind her house.

“No, Niña Tere.” I look down at the table, then finally raise my eyes. “I came to say good-bye. I'm leaving El Salvador.”