Authors: Juan Pastor
Sonora (17 page)
Presidente
says.
The man with the pony tail, so far known only as
"Dear"
to the women at the table, serves each of the other
ladies first, making a ritual of giving each of them exactly what
they ask for. Then he gets out a clean cup, fills it with a special
low‐caffeine arabica coffee from Ethiopia. He adds some
honey, stirs it thoroughly, then adds some goat's milk. He sets
it next to Mrs. El Presidente. Without asking, he picks up a
small plate with a piece of carrot cake spread with cream
cheese frosting, and reaches near Mrs. E. P.'s shoulder to set it
near the cup of coffee he's already served her.
As
the man with the ponytail is retracting his now‐
empty hand, Mrs. E. P., without looking, ever so softly and
briefly grazes the top of his hand with her fingertips.
The
gesture doesn't escape the notice of the pair of
sharp green eyes just across the table. Unlike everyone else in
the game room, everyone but one or two members of the
Secret Service detachment assigned to her, Mrs. President
sees everything and forgets nothing. That is, after all, how she
got to be Mrs. President.
Seeing
and remembering everything, however, is not
the most important thing. Analysis and interpretation of the
acquired surveillance is often more important than what
intelligence has been gathered.
How
is it that this lowly, rather unattractive, most
forgettable man knew exactly what the First Lady of Mexico
wanted, and how she wanted it? And how is it that his actions
elicited the most intimate of thank yous? Why did not the First
Lady of Mexico just say a cool, mechanical Gracias to this man?
Did the First Lady of Mexico realize with what affection she
briefly touched the hand of her waiter? Did she even think
about what a bad idea it was getting too close to any of her
help? Did she realize, period, that she had even touched him?
Of course she did!
most casual, most impulsive, actions that carry the weightiest
message.
A Good Old Mexican Standoff
Uncommonly
roomy
is
how
I
would
describe
the trunk of the vehicle I woke up in. Most car trunks
wouldn't have allowed me to stretch out so comfortably, even
though I am not really a very big person. The trunk smelled the
way an old tire might smell if it had been left half‐flat in an old
garage for years, and then someone decided to use it again, fill
it to its proper pressure, but then a puncture in the tire
allowed a little of the compressed air to escape. In other
words, the trunk smelled of agitated stale air and old decaying
rubber. The trunk also smelled of grease, oil, dust, and mold.
And exhaust fumes.
Although
the trunk was roomy, I couldn't lie on my
stomach or back. My hands had been handcuffed behind me. I
tried laying on my stomach, with my head turned first one
way, and then the other way, but soon realized the best thing
to do was lay first on one side until I began to ache with
cramps, and then roll over, with my hands close to my behind,
then lay on the other side until I started to cramp up again. My
feet weren't tied together, so that made movement a little
easier. I was wearing a dress, and every time I tried to move
the dress rode up a little higher, and there was nothing I could
do about it.
Something,
a light pillowcase I think, had been quickly
slipped over my head at the time of my capture. I could easily
breathe through the fabric which was like a light linen that,
fortunately, was very comfortable against the skin of my face.
It had a silky, maybe satiny, feel about it, but I'm sure it was
neither. Not that I had much experience with silk or satin.
It
had a very faint feminine floral smell, and fortunate it
was that the smell was faint, otherwise the combined smell of
it and all the other odors of the trunk would have been
sickening. But I couldn't help thinking that this item had been
intended for a woman, to somehow, in some bizarre way,
make that woman's capture and captivity be a little more
pleasant than it otherwise would have been. This gave me
hope. If the original intent had been for the conspirators to
torture and kill me, a burlap bag and duct tape would have
been sufficient.
I
had treated prisoners who had had tennis balls
shoved in their mouths, and their mouths taped shut. They
had almost drowned in their own saliva. I've seen former
captives with eyelashes and eyebrows missing, the hairs which
we take for granted having been ripped out when the duct
tape was torn from over their eyes.
But,
when I think about it, how often are burlap bags
or duct tape readily available? Any residence or hotel would
have freshly laundered pillow cases. Maybe even silk or satin
ones.
One
more thing I remember about the pillowcase. In
the daylight, I was able to see through it. The effect was like
that of the old photographer's trick of putting gauze over the
lens to soften the image, but I could see through the fabric,
until they put me in the trunk, where it was dark, except for
where the light bled in through the crack between the trunk
and the trunk door lid, probably through damage gaps in the
rubber gasket, which also explains the exhaust smell.
I
only mention being able to see through the pillowcase
for one important reason. After it was put over my head and
secured, a man, most likely the one who'd just put the
pillowcase on me, walked in front of me, and noting my
agitation from my body language, put a finger to his lips, as if
trying to quiet and calm me. I tried not to give away the reality
of my vision by keeping my shrouded head down but looking
up with my eyes only. And I had to strain my eyes upward
because the man was well over six feet tall. He may have been
over seven feet tall. He looked like a giant.
It
didn't occur to me until I was in the womb of the
trunk, but this giant of a man wanted me to see, wanted me to
see him. And what I did see was a very very tall, very very
muscular Mexican bandito with a very large black mustache.
He wore a particular style of sunglasses that I often see
bicyclists or outdoor athletes wear. Not the aviator style that
law enforcement people usually wear, but the ones that hug
the curves of the face and make the wearer look like he has
insect eyes or alien eyes. This bandito, like all his comrades,
were dressed as Mexican Special Police, the Policía Federal, all
in black with black bullet proof vests. Two of them wore the
special bandanas that made their faces, from the eyes down,
look like skulls.
All of them but the giant wore special flat black
cammie
helmets. The giant did not wear a helmet. He wore a
black baseball cap that had a frontal insignia patch which read
"EVERY MARINE A RIFLEMAN".
We
don't travel very long, maybe thirty minutes, when
the vehicle slows to a stop and I hear four quick shots inside
our vehicle. Is the driver hit? I hear other vehicles approaching.
I hear automatic weapons firing and bullets plinking through
metal or cracking through glass.
Someone
gets out of our car. I can hear it and I can feel
it. And I stress some one. Our car had three passengers and
the driver and me. There is a man somewhere near our car
screaming in pain. There is a quick shot. The screaming stops.
There are footsteps crunching in roadside gravel, at least
roadside gravel is what comes to mind from the sound. The
footsteps come closer, toward me and the rear of the car.
I
am on my back, my handcuffed hands under me. I
want to be able to see who is about to kill me, if I can, if there
is enough light to see through the pillowcase hood.
No
shots are fired through the trunk of the car. I take
this to be a good sign. Keys are inserted in the trunk lock. This
must be an older car? I have searched in vain, contorting
myself in various positions, to allow my handcuffed hands,
which are behind me, to probe for a trunk release cable. If
there is one, it is well hidden. I'm pretty sure there isn't one.
I
have noticed during my brief time in the States that
sometimes TV shows extend their seasons by creating one or
more episodes that consist of outtakes snatched from earlier
episodes which are then spliced together with or without
narrative, but usually with, explaining where the show is at
each point in time in the show's timeline. I find myself
watching
outtakes
from
the
"Life
of
Pequeña" show.
Hundreds of brief clips and still shots flash rapidly before my
mind's eye. I have heard this means I am about to die. This
makes me wonder why I didn't see all these scenes when I was
shot near the border. Is it because fate had already decided
that I was not going to die?
I
see my childhood home in Antigua. I see my dearest
friend, Rosaria. I see the Volcan Agua. I see the beach at La
Libertad at Eastertime. I see the handsome blue‐eyed
American boys attending college in Guatemala. The faces of
my family and friends flash before me in ever increasing
swiftness. I see Jesús and I see the Virgen Maria. I think of the
people I met at the Medical School at the University of
Arizona, at the hospitals and clinics where I interned. I think of
the Clinic I started this side of the border, the Clínica de Santa
Rosaria.
I
see Sin. Really. The trunk is open. The sunlight is
blinding even with the pillowcase still covering my eyes. Sin is
bathed in the glaring halo of light like a very old Jesús, just
returning from the desert. Beside him is a Goliath of a man
with large bushy mustache and alien sunglasses.
"Close your eyes." The Mexican giant says.
Someone unties the pillowcase from around my neck
and
removes it. Then glasses are placed on my face.
"Wear
these
until
your
eyes
adjust."
The
now‐
sunglassless
giant says.
Sin's left arm hangs at his side, and blood has stained
the
shredded sleeve.
"Know where I can find a good doctor hereabouts?" He
Every Girl Deserves A Party Dress
Everyone
has a flower inside,
And inside that flower is a word.
‐ a Seri saying
You
had to kidnap me from the Cinco de Mayo
party
they were holding in my honor?" I say. "You couldn't find
someone else to treat your scratch?" I ask Sin angrily.
"We didn't kidnap you to fix me up." Sin says. "Even
though that would be nice."
"I must look a mess." I say. "And for the first time in my
life I had on a beautiful dress. I have never had a beautiful
dress to wear to a party. Now look at it. It's ruined."
"The
U.S. President is
dead." Sin says.
And El
Presidente is wounded. Somehow a bomb was placed in the
library of Mexican Presidential residence. The U.S. First Lady is
on a plane out of the country. No‐one knows where Tejana is.
The rumor mills are already saying that she was behind the
bombing. That's just bullshit."
"Somebody's kind of sweet on somebody, isn't he?"
The Mexican giant says. "I've got to admit, she is a hot
tamale."
"Who are you?" I ask the giant. "You're the biggest
Mexican I've ever seen."
"You mean I'm the biggest person you've ever seen."
He says.
"No." I say.
"I'm not Mexican." The giant says. "Well, I am in a way.
I'm Seri. We were the first Mexicans. Now there are only 650
of us left. If it hadn’t been for Mary Beck Moser and her
husband Edward, there wouldn’t be any of us left. There were
only 200 Seri left in El Desemboque when the Mosers arrived
in the 1950s. Seems like Marias are always trying to save the
world. Mary, like her husband, was a linguist. They came to
study the Seri language, Cmiique Iitom, but she wound up
being primarily a nurse and midwife for our tribe. I understand
Mexicans. Never could figure out what Americans are about.
At least not the ones outside of Texas. They're all effing crazy.
Texas should just secede and become part of Mexico again,
like it used to be."
"There are people who've said that before." Sin says.
"Rick Perry was one of them. I don't know if the rejoining
Mexico was part of his plan ‐ unless he planned to be governor
of that too."
As they rambled on, my eyes started to adjust to the
light. There were shot‐up vehicles all around us. Some vehicles
were missing almost all the glass, some were riddled with
holes like Swiss cheese. Bodies were all over. Blood was
splattered on remains of glass and remains of car interiors.
The car I had been in had only four bullet holes through its
glass, but there was blood all over the glass.
“By the way,” the giant says, “I am really a giant.”
“Yes.” I say. “That is obvious.”
“No really.” The giant says. “My ancestors were real
giants. I am a midget compared to them. They came to the
Sonora by stepping across Hell’s Channel in the Gulf of
California from Tiburon Island. At least that’s what the Spanish
called the island. We Seris call it Tahejöc.
“I’ve heard that legend.” I say.
"It’s more than a legend. We step right over walls as if
they weren’t there. If you need to get over any wall. Let me
know. I’m your man…er…giant. My name is Bo, by the way."
The giant says. "Tejana says we're supposed to get you to
Jalisco as soon as possible."
"Jalisco?"
"Yes. Jalisco."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because that's where they've taken her husband." Bo
says.
"And why would she want me?" I ask.
"She says that you are the best doctor in Mexico." Bo
says.
"Did she say anything else?" I ask.
"Yes." Bo says. "She says to tell you she'll buy you a
new party dress. She says every girl deserves a party dress."
“That is kind of her.” I say.
“Corazón.” Bo says.
“Heart?”
“Yes.” Bo says. “That is the word inside the flower
within you.”