Chapter Two
The sun was rising just over the peaks of the blue-green mountains when I began my walk down the hillside. I wanted to get to the market early so I could sell my things before people spent all their money, and then be on my way. The sky was blue, but the cool, early air still held some moisture from the rain that had come late in the night, which put out the last embers of my pyre. I tried to avoid the slops of mud that were speckled in the road, as I walked past banana trees and evergreens, and as I neared town, I passed the first house, white stucco with a tin roof that was fenced in with wire supported by log posts.
Once I reached town, I started down Montana Calle, the only road in Pas de Nubes that was mostly paved, stones etched into the moist dirt. I passed a lady with a heavy sack draped over her shoulder, and although I knew her, I couldn’t remember her name, so I just smiled and waved.
Montana Calle led to the town plaza where the road turned right, then left, and left again, running in a square around the old church, a small building that was said to have been built by the Spaniards hundreds of years ago. The church needed some repair – the white paint was peeling off the stucco and the cross on the roof was bent – but the town only used it when the priest came a few times a year and for council meetings so there was not much reason to restore it.
The vendors were busy setting up on the sidewalks around the square. I knew most of them because we usually sold our soap here. I smoothed my shirt, making sure it was tucked in good, and waved at the many friends who were setting up fruit stands all around the plaza, where women sat on plastic stools behind boxes of fruit, bananas, big yellow papayas and watermelon. Others had tables laid out with beads, some with hand-sewn scarves and skirts or carvings of saints. I passed a woman who was stirring a pot of stew and my stomach bubbled at the smell of grease and onions. Pablo, who worked for Don Garcia, had a table with slabs of pork ribs that Don Garcia paid him with.
People were filtering in, many from the huts that ran down the mountain to the flat land below. A few old men were sitting on a bench, laughing at each other’s jokes. Little girls were walking with their mamas, girls that looked too much like Mia.
Mia. I closed my eyes for a second. It was so sudden. She had always been there, and I thought she always would be, and then, in a second, she was gone. I swallowed hard and moved on because moving was the best thing to do. And within a few minutes I had sold the pot and mama’s trinkets, pocketing over one-hundred lempira, enough to get away, at least into Guatemala, and once there, I would figure out what to do with this piece of bearer bond paper. I was heading out of the square when someone called my name.
“Raffi.”
The voice sounded stringy. I turned to see Senora Pineda shuffling toward me. “When did you get so tall?” She was craning up at me, her eyes bright under droopy lids. “Esmerelda said you sold your cooking pot. Don’t you need it?”
Was she just making conversation or was she prying? “They have a good crowd this morning,” I said.
“I don’t see your sister. Is she here with you?”
I changed the subject. “How is Senor Pineda?”
“That old goat?” She flicked her hand. “He can’t drink his tequila now. It makes his stomach hurt. Thanks to this, he’s irritable like a man whose penis has shrunk – which is also a problem for him, by the way. It’s always something. ‘Where is my pocket knife, Sophia?’ Like I’m supposed to know. ‘The tortillas are too cold. Now, too hot.’ I had to get out of the house.” She sighed. “My daughters used to help me with him.”
“No more?”
“Oh yes, they still do. They used to, too. In fact, my oldest daughter, Marlany – you know, the oldest is always the responsible one – she walked a whole day to a clinic that some Americans had set up. She got him some pills. And they worked. I was surprised because I was sure the stomach pains were the result of too much hot food. That, or our neighbor, who I think gave him the evil eye.”
“I’m glad to hear the pills help. It was good to see you.” I started to turn.
“Yes, they helped but we’re out of them now.”
I knew that Senora Pineda could chatter on for hours and I needed to end this and start on the road. But I didn’t want to be rude.
“They were mailing the pills to us from a doctor in American Texas. A lady doctor. Can you believe that? But then, for some reason, they stopped coming.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And again, I started to say goodbye, but I suddenly realized that Senora Pineda and her pills might be a help for me. A thin reed of a chance, yes, but where I was going, I would need the help of plenty. “Can you reach this doctor?” I asked. “Maybe a phone number?”
“Why?” Her eyes narrowed.
I did not, in any way, want to tell Senora Pineda that I was going to the United States. If I did that, everyone would know before I got out of the square. All of them with questions. ‘Do you know someone there?’ ‘Can you bring this whatever to my cousin?’ And, of course, ‘Are you taking your sister?’ But the phone number of a doctor in the United States. Who knew where that might lead? I cleared my throat. “I have a friend who is going el norte. Maybe he can call her there, and get you more pills.”
“Who’s going? Someone from town? Who?”
“No one from here. A guy I know from down the mountain.”
“When have you been down the mountain?”
“I’ve run a few errands for Don Garcia.”
“What kind of errands?”
“A few.”
“Not how many. What kind? Anyway, how would you keep contact with anyone from down the mountain?”
This was no use. I might as well go. I started to turn, but she slid in front of me.
“Is it you? Are you going?”
“Would you tell anyone if it was me?”
She looked offended. “Of course not. No one keeps secrets better than me.”
If I knew anything, I knew this was unlikely. I had never seen Senora Pineda stay quiet about anything for long. But an American phone number could be invaluable. “Okay, it’s me. If you give me the phone number, it will help both of us. I can get you medicine.”
She nodded. “Wait here. I’ll rush home and bring it right back to you.”
“I have a better idea,” I said, knowing that, at her age, ‘rushing’ could take some time. I picked her up and carried her to her home, got the phone number, promised to try to get her pills, a promise I meant, and started on my way.
I had reached the long road at the edge of town that would lead down the mountain when I heard another voice. I turned to see Chulo Campos walking toward me, huffing and puffing, his arms swinging side to side. Chulo was fourteen, four years younger than me, but it seemed like more.
“I want to come with you,” he shouted. “To America!”
“How? What?”
“Everyone’s talking about it in the market.”
I slapped my forehead. I knew Senora Pineda couldn’t hold a secret, but I didn’t think she’d spread the story this quick.
“Is it ok? Can I come? I even brought a few bananas for us.”
There was no way we could travel all the way to El Norte without Chulo asking about Mia, and I wasn’t going to talk about her. Not to anyone.
“I’m sorry Chulo, but I’m going alone.”
“Wouldn’t some company be nice? The two of us together would be stronger if there is danger.”
I didn’t see that as likely. Chulo was a nice kid, but still, he was a kid. “You can’t just make such a big decision to leave home for good and go to America the second you hear about it,” I said. “This is something you have to think about for a long time. You make plans, discuss it with your family.”
Chulo’s pudgy shoulders slumped. “I guess I’m not great thinker. You’re smart. You’ve probably been planning this for a while.”
Actually, I hadn’t planned it at all. A few daydreams, here and there, nothing serious, something maybe far off in the future when Mia was old enough. All I knew was that there was a big road at the bottom of the mountain that might lead to the border with Guatemala, maybe.
“Is Mia coming with you? Chulo asked.
I knew it. It hadn’t even been sixty seconds and here he was, asking about her. “She’s with family.” That might have been true. If there was a heaven, and she was there, some of our ancestors must be too. Still, I didn’t want any more Mia questions. “So, your brother. Is he still working at the shoe factory in Santa Rosa de Copan?”
“No. He’s back here. In fact, he said I could go.”
“Go?”
“With you.” Chulo smiled shyly. “He was with me at the plaza. He even gave me a few Lempiras.”
“That’s nice of your brother, but your parents, they are the only ones who can give you permission.”
Chulo looked at his feet for a second. “My papa died last year. He was drunk and fell in the river. Mommy went to Tegucigalpa to find work.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know. Anyway, it’s good your mamma is earning money in Tegucigalpa.”
“We haven’t heard from her.”
My inside grew quiet. Tegucigalpa was overrun by gangs. She might have been raped and killed. Or maybe she was forced to prostitute herself and was ashamed to tell her sons. Now I felt bad for the kid. His older brother was married with a daughter and a baby on the way. He was probably glad to see Chulo go, just one less burden.
“Well,” Chulo said, as he turned, “I hope you have a good trip.”
“You know, Chulo, it’s best that you’re not coming. I hear there are gangs all along the way, and the Mexican policia and la migra will chase you. Plus, it’s 4,000 kilometers. Imagine that.”
Chulo nodded.
“I don’t even know where I’ll get water or food.”
“Yes,” Chulo said. “Thank you for not taking me, I guess.” He started trudging back toward town.
“Chulo,” I almost yelled. “What are you doing?”
He turned, his head cocked sideways. “Huh?”
“Come on,” I said, waving him toward me. “We need to move if we’re going to get down the mountain before sunset.
Chulo’s grin was so wide that I thought it might knock his ears off. With that, we began to walk, taking our first steps into the void. After a minute, I turned and looked back for one last time at the red-tiled rooftops and green mountains of the only home I had ever known.
It took us the rest of the afternoon to make our way down the mountainside. What started as a road, shrunk to a path so narrow that we had to walk single-file, while kicking and slashing through the tangle of vegetation, until the trail widened back to a road near the bottom. As night began to fall, we stumbled off the road into the forest where we settled onto a bed of ferns beneath a canopy of tall trees.
After we ate Chulo’s bananas, I felt better, not full, but at least not empty. I couldn’t see much now in the darkened night, and as I sat, leaning against a stiff tree, my ears sharpened to the rhythm of Chulo’s breathing, mixed with the tsh-tsh-tsh of katydids, punctuated every few beats by a high-pitched trill.
“Rafael?” I could just make out the shape of Chulo. “What kind of work will you do in America?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do anything.”
“Me too.”
There was a faint sound of scratching on the leafy forest floor.
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe a month. Maybe more.”
We didn’t speak for a few minutes.
“I miss my mommy,” he said. “I thought about going to Tegucigalpa to find her.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m glad I came with you.”
I gazed at starlight that trickled onto the oak leaves while I tried to think of something to say. “Would you like to hear a story?”
“That would be nice.”
I told Chulo about a young giant who had been told that all giants lived on a diet of boys. But after he ate his first boy, he felt bloated and he kept burping. So his giant mother chopped up some onions, tomatoes, and chili peppers to make a bowl of Chimole that he could season his next boy with. But this time, it was even worse. He ended up with a bad case of diarrhea, and he realized that he couldn’t stomach eating boys so from then on, he just ate avocadoes, plantains and papayas.
Before I reached the end, I heard Chulo snoring. I wanted to sleep too, but I knew that wouldn’t happen, and as the tree trunk dug into my back, in the shapes of the night, I thought I saw the contour of one that was familiar, and there in the dark, it seemed that I could just make out the image of my sister.
Ghosts
Where is mommy? She was not on her mattress when I woke up. I’m standing in our doorway. She is not out front, cooking. I see brown bits of gunk splattered on the grass. I kneel down and touch it. It’s dried vomit. Where did this come from?
I know why papa is out. He got some work this week building a barn for Don Garcia. But mommy? I walk around back to our patch of corn. She is not there.
“Moee?” The voice from the front of the house is Mia, my baby sister.
I round the house. “Here Mia.”
“Moee there?”
“No.”
Across the road, some birds flutter out of a bushy tree. Mia rubs her eyes. Her little belly sticks out of her t-shirt.
“Come on,” I say. “We should eat.”
Inside our home, there are three mattresses against the wall, one for me, one for Mia and one for mommy and papa. On the other wall, we have a wood stand that papa built. Our water jugs sit inside the stand and a basket of tortillas is on top. I grab two for me and Mia. Mommy would cook beans and rice on our stove outside to roll in our tortillas, but I can’t do that. So we just eat the tortillas.
“Where moee?” Mia asks between bites.
“Maybe she walked down to visit Donna Paola.”
“But Moee never goes.”
This is true. She just stays home now, mostly on her mattress. But I want Mia to be okay. “Well, she used to visit Donna Paola a lot. Maybe she went today.”
“Her alway bring me.”
“You were asleep this morning. She probably didn’t want to wake you.”
“Her alway wake me when go.”
This is true too. I know. Something doesn’t feel good.
“You going for school?” Mia asks. She sounds scared.
“I won’t go until mommy gets back.”
We eat a few more tortillas and mommy still isn’t here. I need to be busy.
“Let’s tend to the corn,” I say.
We walk around back to our corn stalks. I hold a plastic jug and pour water on each plant. I don’t pour too much because we only have a few jugs of water. It’s a long walk to town to get more and I get tired carrying the heavy jugs back.
Then we start pulling weeds. I am wearing shorts and I feel a bug crawling up my leg. When I pull a weed, I shake the dirt off. It feels good, like I’m cleaning up. With our hands full of weeds, we walk to the edge of the hillside. I count to three and then we throw the weeds as high as we can, up in the air. They float for a second. Then the breeze catches them and they sail away down into the mountainside jungle. We laugh. I feel good for a minute. I take a nice breath of the morning air. Then I think of mommy and my breath stops.
It is afternoon now. The morning took forever. We walked down to Donna Paola’s but mommy wasn’t there.
“I haven’t seen her in a month,” Donna Paola said. “She used to come almost every day.”
I didn’t like to hear this. I squeezed my baby sister’s hand tight as we walked back up the road. We are standing outside in front of our home now. Just standing. I don’t know what to do. I guess I should feed Mia again. I decide that I have to cook the beans. Anyway, how hard can it be? I am almost eleven, old enough to do this. There is a bag of dried beans inside on the stand. I go in and grab a handful and then open my fingers, tinkling the beans into mommy’s cooking pot. Then I pour in some water.
I walk back outside to our cooking place. It is a metal wheel from a car that lays on its side over a pit that papa dug. I pull the wheel away and use a match to start a fire in the pit. After the flames have burned down, I push the wheel back over the pit and put the pot on top. It takes a long time for the beans to get soft. It is faster when mommy does it. We fill our plates and sit under a tree to eat. But neither of us is hungry. The beans feel dry in my mouth. They scratch my throat when I swallow. I have to force myself to eat. I can only think of mommy. Something is churning in my stomach. Now I feel a cramp. It is so sharp that for a second, I can’t breathe.
“Raffi?”
I can’t speak.
“Raffi?” Scared now.
“Yes.” I get it out. “What?”
Her eyes are big. “We okay?”
I nod.
I stand behind our house and watch the sky turn red over the valley. It is almost the color of spring mountain flowers. Or of the blood that runs from a slaughtered pig. I shudder.
Papa has been getting home before dark so he will be here soon. I can’t wait for him. I wish he was here now. He will know what happened to mommy. He will tell us. Or he will find her. Hurry papa. I need you now. Where are you?
I thought the afternoon would never end. I tried to get Mia to take a nap but she just fidgeted. I opened one of my books but I couldn’t concentrate. My stomach cramp is a little better, but it still feels twisted.
I walk around to the front of our house. I want to be there when papa comes. Where is he? I am pacing back and forth now, and I end up at the road. I crane my neck, trying to see around the curve. Papa will pop up around this bend any minute. Surely. I look back at the house. Mia is on her knees, picking at the dried vomit.
“Get away from that,” I say. Where did that vomit come from, anyway?
She walks over and stands beside me now. I realize that the light has changed. In the day, the grass, the bushes, the tall trees with wide branches of leaves, banana trees tucked underneath, they all shine bright green in the sun. In the pink light of sunset, the green turns restful, taking the nap I needed for Mia. Now suddenly, the green is dark, the color of the uniforms of the soldiers who came through Pas de Nubes once.
I hear my heart beat in my ears – thump, thump, thump. I am short of breath. But I can’t be afraid. I am big now. Mommy tells me that all the time. I feel a tear. Mia and I go inside. It is almost dark and fear is gripping my throat. We light candles. I am choking.
“Raffi,” Mia says. “I scared about moee.”
I am too. I am very scared. So scared that I want to scream. I want to cry out loud. But I can’t let Mia know that. Somehow, I get my voice. “Papa will find her.” The words jutter out of my mouth.
But I know that papa isn’t coming. He and mommy both. Where have they gone? Why? I hug myself, hiding my shaking hands. Mia is crying. I need to comfort her but I feel so tight, I’m not sure if I can open my arms. Somehow, I manage. I hug her tight. I hold her for a long time. So long.
Somewhere outside, I hear the howl of a wolf. Or a dog.
Chapter Two
2,065 Miles to the Border
The next morning, after I combed my hair and shaved, we set out, the mountains towering behind us as we walked across open fields, moving north toward Guatemala, using the sun as our guide. By noon, we came across a road that was wide enough for two cars in each direction, and we followed it until a big truck, pulling a long trailer, stopped. The driver let us sit up front with him and we rode to the Guatemalan border where he let us off and we entered with ease, as there were no travel restrictions between our countries. We bought some beans and fruit before boarding a bus that took us west across Guatemala to Tecun Uman, a town that sat by the Suchiate River, the waterway that bordered Guatemala and Mexico. That night, I put the Nicaraguan money and Senora Pineda’s doctor phone number in a plastic bag and we paid to ride a raft across the river where we caught a few hours of sleep in some riverbank bushes on the Mexican side.
As I lay sleeping in the damp grass, I dreamed of a spring meadow where Mia and I were picking yellow wildflowers. I was surprised to see that the pollen didn’t bother her. I looked up and saw the Quetzal, the same red and green bird that had been perched in the avocado tree. I smiled and waved at her. Then I caught myself. Why was the Quetzal a her? How did I know or at least think I knew that?
I woke in a dull sweat, and in the early light, we started walking north toward Tapachula, the first town inside Mexico. The land was flat, cows grazing in open fields, overlooked by a single purple mountain with clouds hovering at its center in the distance to the east. We stopped for a moment and watched a man on horseback herding the cattle.
“Will we get something to eat in Tapachula?” Chulo asked.
“After the bus ticket and paying for the raft, I have 35 lempira left. That should get us some pozole. Then, we’re broke. But I have something that looks like Nicaraguan money. If I can figure out how to spend it, we will be fine, maybe all the way to El Norte.”
When we neared Tapachula, the road widened. Soon, we were in the city, walking along what must have been one of the main avenues. A strip of palm trees in the center separated northbound and southbound lanes of traffic, and woman with a jiggling belly scooted between the crawling cars and buses, waving her basket of tamales at the drivers until one would roll down his window and hand her some pesos. Chulo cupped his ears at the noise: the rumble of revving engines; music that was loud even with windows rolled up; and honking horns. I coughed as we walked past an idling bus that was spewing smoke.
We didn’t really know where we were going. It seemed like we should start by doing something with this Nicaraguan bond. I was pretty sure this wasn’t exactly money, and even if it was, how would I buy a corn cake or a taco with fifteen thousand Cordoba? Who would have change for that? But how could I trade it for money that would spend? No one on the street would have this much cash and if I approached someone with it, they would probably try to take it from me.
I was chewing on my lip, thinking, when I was startled by a loud voice that echoed above the traffic noise. A man in a cowboy hat and sunglasses was standing in the bed of an idling pickup truck, yelling into a bullhorn. A crowd was walking behind him, swarming around the cars that crept along in the bumper to tailpipe traffic.
“Justice. Justice. Justice.” His voice boomed with his followers chanting along.
“What is this?” I said to myself.
An old woman standing next to me answered. “They’re protesting. Four police raped a woman.”
“That’s terrible,” Chulo said.
The woman shrugged. “She was probably a Central American whore. Tapachula is full of them.”
I glanced at her. “No one deserves to be raped.”
“Oh, you’re one of them, aren’t you?” She spit on me. “Filthy migrant.”
Just then, a man in a panama hat bumped me. He quick-dug his hand into my jeans pocket, and then he ran into the street, weaving his way through the cars and the protesting crowd. My heart thumped. If he took the bond, we were left with next to nothing. I shot forward into the street. Up ahead, panama-hat-man dipped and shouldered a woman, sending her tumbling as he angled past. He crossed the palm tree median and dashed across the southbound lanes where traffic was moving faster. I was still in the northbound lanes, trying to squeeze my way through the crowd, the chants of “justice” ringing in my ears. Someone kicked me in the shin and I felt an elbow in my stomach. In seconds, I popped out, free of the mash of people. I rushed across the median and the southbound lanes. Horns honked and, as car swerved to miss me, the driver shook his fist and cursed.
Now on the sidewalk, running after panama-hat, I saw him turn onto a side street. I sped up, my legs churning, and I turned after him. He glanced over his shoulder as he darted around people. I sidestepped a boy, then collided into a woman who fell backward and dropped her bag with apples scattering the street. No time to stop, I leaped the rolling apples, bounding ahead, locked on the thief. Just past a fruit stand, he hurtled through a doorway.
As the door was swinging shut, I lowered my shoulder and crashed through into a dim-lit room with men sitting at tables. I dove at panama-hat, grabbed his ankles and crashed him to the ground. In seconds, I was on top of him, then suddenly he was on me, back and forth as we rolled across the floor until we flopped into a pair of legs and a chair. Someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me off panama-hat and now, as the two of us sat on the floor facing each other, I saw legs circling around and I looked up to see men standing over us. They were shouting in a foreign language.
The thief, now hatless, nodded toward them “They’re Indians.”
“I don’t care who they are. I want my money back.”
He cocked his head like he didn’t understand.
“You know what I mean. Give me my money. I won’t leave here without it.” I made a fist.
He reached into his pocket and handed me a few lempira notes. I felt a tinge of fear. Where was the bond? Did he drop it while running? “All of it,” I said.
With a sheepish look, he dug out another bill. Was that it? I sat up on my knees and raised my fist.
“Okay, damn, don’t be crazy,” he said with his hands held up. He pulled out the plastic bag with the bond inside and handed it to me.
“What is that, anyway?” he asked.
“Just identification papers.”
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe me. Then he grabbed his hat off the floor and put it on, adjusting it so it tilted just a bit.
I took the bond out of the bag, folded it and put it in my shoe. Then we both rose to our feet, and as I was straightening my shirt, heard Chulo come puffing in. He stopped behind the men who were circled around us and stood on his tiptoes to see over them. “What did I miss?”
“You’re slow,” the thief said. “If it was your money, I’d have already bought a nice bottle of Paranubes and a whore.” Then he looked at the Indians. “Friends, we appreciate your concern, but we have settled our disagreement so if you would be so kind as to give us breathing room, this would be much appreciated.”
Most of them looked confused, turning to each other, speaking in their language. One of them, who seemed to understand Spanish, explained it to the others and several went back to their tables, while the ones who remained backed up. The man who had explained things introduced himself as Akhil. He was a small man who looked to be in his twenties.
“We hope to reach the United States,” he said. “It’s been a long journey so far. With my father’s savings, I was able to fly to Brazil. From there, a coyote led a group of us through Peru. Then we rode a bus to Colombia. We left Colombia in a fishing boat on the way to Panama. But the boat was too small. Or, at least, had too many people. It capsized off the coast of Panama. I was able to swim to shore, but most of the others drowned.” He shook his head, looking at the floor.
“Panama?” I whistled. “You still had a long way to go.”
“Yes. From there, we crossed Central American. We moved through jungles with many people - Africans, Bangladeshis and Haitians. Another coyote led this. You have to have a coyote.”
“How much do they charge?”
“More than you have,” the thief said.
“Yes, and if it was up to you, I’d have nothing.”
The thief smiled and tipped his hat.
“What’s your name anyway?”
“El Fantasma.”
“The Ghost?”
“Because I vanish before I am caught.” He took a bow.
“You didn’t vanish on me.”
“I didn’t say I was perfect.”
“You’re from?”
“Here and there.”
“And like all of us – headed to America?”
“Like you and me. If the Mexicans catch us, they’ll send us back. These Indians get a permit to travel here because their countries don’t have deportation agreements with Mexico.”
“How do you know all this?”
“This isn’t my first time around. I’m the king of the trail. Some people call me that too, by the way.”
“I’ll stick with El Fantasma.”
“I’ve been back and forth to El Norte six times. I know the route better than anyone.”
“Come on then.” I nodded to the door. “You can teach us.”
We stepped outside and started down the busy sidewalk, walking past two-story buildings of white stucco, with El Fantasma leading the way. We passed a mother who was bent down, straightening her son’s shirt collar. A yellow car flicked its brake lights, then it backfire-popped and sped on, while on the opposite sidewalk, people were skirting around two old men who were arguing, one wagging his finger at the other.
“How about a cigarette?” El Fantasma asked.
“No thanks,” I said.
“I’m not offering. I’m asking. You have one for me?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Good. That leaves more for me.”
We walked around a slow-moving street sweeper with a white mustache who was rolling his cart which held two rusty cans and a broom.
“So,” El Fantasma said, “how do you adventurers plan to travel?”
“I’ve heard some people ride the trains,” I said.
“You’ve heard? Where are you from?
“Pas de Nubes.”
“Pas de What?”
“It’s in the mountains of Honduras.”
“So you’re a rube.”
“Yes,” I said. “And aren’t you ashamed that you couldn’t even steal money from a rube.”
El Fantasmo snorted. “I’ve stolen my share.”
El Fantasmo walked with a bit of a swagger. He was stylish for a pickpocket, wearing a slim-cut blue shirt with floral print, tail out over his jeans, topped off by his white panama hat.
“You have no idea what’s ahead, do you?” he said.
“Rafael is smart,” Chulo said. “He’ll get us there.”
I wasn’t as certain about that as Chulo was. Not even as certain as I was yesterday. The reality of our situation was starting to sink in.
“How much money do you have?” El Fantasma asked.
“You’ve seen it.”
He stopped. “Are you kidding? That’s just enough for a handful of beans. How do you plan to eat and drink for the next 4000 kilometers? You must have more money. Where is it? In your shoe?”
I shifted away from him and kept walking. He jumped forward and was back at my side.
“I can help you get there.”
“I think we’ll be okay,” I said.
“I told you, I’ve been back and forth many times. I know the route. Where to jump the train. When to get off. You don’t just get off any time. Did you know that? Do you even know the right train route to take?”
“Rafael knows,” Chulo said.
I didn’t know why Chulo had such faith in me, but I decided it was probably for the best because if he understood how little I really knew about the journey, he might be very afraid.
“Do you know where to hide? You don’t just walk up to the train depot. There are policia and la migra everywhere looking for migrants, poor rubes like you, that they lock up, then send back to Guatemala. You want that? And what about kidnappers? That’s a big money source for narco gangs. You have no idea how to avoid them. And what they’ll do to you. Woo-wee.” He whistled.
Chulo furrowed his brow. “Kidnappers?”
“Yes.” El Fantasmo nodded.
“Where did you live in America?” I asked.
Walking alongside me, he glanced back over his should for a second. “Around.”
“A big city?” Chulo asked.
“Mostly around Los Angeles.”
“What kind of work did you do?” I asked.
He raised his arm and pointed. “That’s where we’re going.”
I didn’t see anything unusual. We were nearing a street crossing. A three-story building stood on the left corner. It was made of concrete that was splattered with brown stains. A woman stood on one of the second-floor balconies, hanging wet clothes over the metal railing. Below, three boys were rolling dice in the shade of a yellow awing with Pollos painted in red. Behind them, there was a wide opening so that everyone who walked past could see the man in the paper hat who was frying chicken on the sizzling stovetop. Chulo stopped and took a loving breath, inhaling the smell of warm grease and chicken.
“Come on,” El Fantasmo said. “You don’t have money for that. We’re going this way.” He nodded toward the right corner, at a concrete wall painted with murals, mostly of naked women with gigantic boobs, along with a man with a snake shooting from his groin. The word tolerancia was painted in purple across the top of the wall.
“The tolerance zone,” El Fantasmo said.
“Tolerance?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We crossed the street and walked on, passing the painted wall on our right just as the pavement ended and the road turned to dirt. Single story concrete buildings ran along the dirt road. The first building was painted purple with a big sign that read Tetas y Culo – Tits and Ass. Four women leaned against the building, arms crossed, stuffed into tight mini-skirts with high-heeled shoes. One woman cocked her head, chin up, like she was daring us to look at her.
Across the street was a screaming-green building with murals of naked men and women wrapped together in various positions. The far side wall of this building opened up into an outdoor area enclosed in a chain link fence. A handful of women were dancing there to loud Mexican pop music, gyrating slowly, their eyes shut.
“Gentleman,” El Fantasmo said, waving his arm. “The tolerance zone. Where Tapachula authorities, in all their wisdom, tolerate fucking for pesos.”
The place smelled of stale beer and something else, maybe vomit.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“You want to eat, don’t you?”
“You said yourself, we only have money for beans,” Chulo said.
“We’ll eat here for free.” El Fatasmo smiled. “We just have to wait until night.”
After dark, the dirt street came to life. Neon signs flickered on and men formed lines outside each bar. They were all ages from teenagers to old men. Some were dressed up in collar shirts with bollo ties and cowboy hats, while others wore stained t-shirts. There were men who looked glum, standing with their arms crossed, and others who laughed and shouted while tipping a Corona. Big bouncers in tight black t-shirts stood at the entrance doors, their bulging arms crossed. Every now and then, a woman in a skin-tight skirt with stiletto heels would strut by and the men would howl.
I stopped for a second and combed my hair, not wanting to look like I was a farm boy, and then I jogged a few steps to catch up, walking alongside Chulo, with El Fantasmo in front of us.
“Do you like those women?” Chulo asked me in a quiet voice. “I mean, you know, like them?”
“Not in that way,” I said.
Loud music screamed from inside each bar. A man in a white suit stood outside one, waving at men while yelling into his megaphone, “hot pussy and big boobs, right here!” We passed a long building lined with numbered doors. A girl with fat legs stood in one open doorway with the light on in the bedroom behind her. She thrust her butt at us, part of the crack peeking out from under her skirt.
“You could fuck her if you weren’t a poor rube,” El Fantasmo said.
“When will we eat?” Chulo asked.
“Relax kid. We wait until the lines die down.”
It took another hour for most of the men to get inside. We were milling around outside a bar called
Paraíso when the biceped bouncer went inside.
“Now,” El Fantasma said.
We rushed through the doorway into a big room. It was dark with high ceilings and tables around the edges while in the center, men were dancing with young girls and the music blared. My eyes watered from the cloud of cigarette smoke. A topless teenage girl was dancing on the bar while a couple of fat men stood below, clapping their hands and staring up her skirt. She wasn’t much older than Mia. I looked away. El Fantasma grabbed my shoulder and the three of us drifted across the room until we neared an open doorway.
El Fantasma came to a stop. “Not here. Let’s turn around.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“The girls’ quarters.”
“They live here?”
He nodded.
“Do they want to?”
El Fantasmo shrugged. “Some probably do.”
“What the hell? They’re slaves?”
“They make money,” El Fantasmo said. “As long as they’re young. Most are finished once they pass twenty-three. But it’s great for Central Americans. They earn the most because the locals like their lighter skin.”
I shook my head.
“It’s for the best,” El Fantasmo said. “Some girls start out toward El Norte, but then they realize how futile it is. Most migrants never make it. And almost all the women get raped on the trip. I think they decide that they might as well stay here and get raped for cash. And some of them, maybe get fooled. You know, a guy recruits them, tells them they will be waitresses earning good money. Then they get here and find out their real job. Too late.”
I tasted vomit. Before I could say anything, El Fantasma pushed me and Chulo in the other direction. We circled the dancing crowd, and moved toward the tables scattered around the edge. I salivated, seeing that most of the rickety tables were topped with plates of half-eaten chicken and shredded beef. We started grabbing the greasy meat and stuffing it in our mouths.
Suddenly, a big man burst out of the crowd stomping toward us. “You little bastards,” he shouted, his neck veins bulging. He pointed at El Fantasma. “Lopez, you punk. I said never come back.”
We started to run and he chased us. Somehow, I ended up bumping through the dancers, a beer spilling on my shirt, and I lost track of the others. I scrambled into a hallway before I realized I was back in the women’s quarters. I passed door after door, until seeing one partly open. I pushed inside. A woman screamed and a naked fat man threw a shoe at me. I stumbled back out and saw the big man marching toward me.
I ran, but hit the dead-end of the hallway. I turned and there he was, stink-breath on me, his fist pulled back, ready to punch. I felt the warm shredded beef squishing between my fingers. His fist blowing forward, big in my face, I shot out both hands mashing the greasy meat into his eyes. He cursed and grabbed at his eyes, stumbling backwards. I pushed past him and ran down the hall, through the big room and out the door.
Outside, the night was hot. The crowds had thinned, as most of the men had either wandered home or found a date for the night, leaving a few drunk stranglers to wobble along the dirt street. I looked around the strip joints but couldn’t find Chulo and El Fantasma anywhere. Some movement or noise caught my attention and I glanced over my shoulder to see three men behind me. They were darkened in shadow, their heads hunched low, hands in pockets.
I turned right onto a side street and they turned after me. My heart quickened. I didn’t want to run, but I sped up my pace, hoping it wasn’t too noticeable. They seemed to be moving faster. Another turn, this to the left, and sure enough, they followed. I broke into a run, reached an alley and climbed into a dumpster.
It smelled of stale beer and was empty, other than a few cans. I sat down and some liquid, I think beer, seeped into my jeans. I heard footsteps somewhere nearby, along with the murmur of voices. It was quiet for a moment and then, again, footsteps, this time sounding like they were moving away, the clap-clap sound fading out. I thought about climbing out of the dumpster, but I didn’t know who or what might be just outside, so I decided to wait. I leaned back against the metal wall and let my thoughts drift.