Mexico - 15. Chapter 15 of 16

We drove some distance. Even if we’d had a map, we wouldn’t have been able to follow it easily. These weren’t even blue highways -- they were lines drawn in the dust.
Arkin told us where and when to turn. When Mark or I asked where we were going, he merely grinned, saying, “You be surprised.”
That wasn’t entirely comforting. But what could we do?
We lurched down one ominous road after another. At one point Mark asked, “Why the devil did he go on board that boat?”
“What?”
He waved me away. “Something a dead aunt of mine used to quote.”
I hoped we weren’t going to meet her.
And suddenly, a small town appeared. Very small, but slightly larger than the one this morning. And less empty.
“Go to very end,” Arkin instructed.
I did. It didn’t take long.
The streets were narrow, barely permitting my car. The walls were worn but warm adobe. The sun was harsh.
“Here!” Arkin barked.
I parked. Our group solemnly got out.
We stopped in front of a heavy door.
Arkin tried the handle.
It was locked.
He knocked.
There was no answer.
He pounded.
Nothing.
He nodded to the Aztec. Who put his huge shoulder against the door and leaned. He didn’t have to force it. In front of his bulk, it simply obeyed. Then he politely held the door for Arkin, the round detective, and Mark and me.
We entered a narrow, dimly-lit room with a high, angled ceiling. There was a single dark wood desk and chair in a corner. Almost instantly, the two younger detectives vanished through a barely visible door. They’d clearly been here before.
“Where are we?” Mark asked. “¿Donde está?”
Gazing around, Arkin answered, “La policía.”
The round detective abruptly returned, shaking his head.
Arkin faced us. “Stay,” he instructed. Then he left, taking the detective.
Mark and I looked at each other.
We looked around.
At the dark, shuttered windows.
At the shadowed ceiling, with its bare, dangling bulb.
But mostly at the long stucco wall. Papered from floor-to-very-high ceiling with pin-ups of naked, dark-haired girls. In photos that seemed to stretch back to the nineteen twenties.
“Somewhere tourists never go,” I offered.
“Not more than once,” Mark replied.
We stared a bit longer.
“They’re hot,” he acknowledged.
They were. Even though many of them were probably dead. And their pictures slightly moldy.
“We could run for it,” Mark went on.
I was surprised. “Why?”
“We don’t know where we are. No one does. These guys could steal your car as easily as those kids. You know how corrupt these police are supposed to be.”
I’d thought about that. A little, but not seriously. When the kids broke into my car, for a moment I thought, I could die here. Then I thought, Nah.
I was twenty-five. Immortal. And Mark was simply too good-looking.
“I think we’re okay,” I told him. Surprised to find I was more trusting than he was. But he was a lawyer.
He seemed reassured.
I peered curiously out the barely visible door. In this desert, it opened -- astonishingly -- on an oasis. An enchanted garden, surrounded by walls. The Aztec stood shirtless at what looked like a moss covered well. It was grey stone, knee-high. Filled with water. He was filling his police cap with it, then pouring the water over his head. It surged down his body.
I edged in. Mark was close behind. The Aztec saw us. Smiled. Offered me his hat. I hesitated.
“Don’t be rude,” Mark urged.
I took the hat. Pulled off my T-shirt. As I did, the Aztec fished a bobbing watermelon out of the well. Poked his strong thumbs into its rind. Circling its diameter. He split the melon to its core, then scooped handfuls of the fruit for Mark and me.
As Mark hesitated, I dumped nearly frigid water over my head. I shivered, grinned, then joked to Mark, “Don’t be rude.”
He ate. Then pulled off his own shirt and took the hat.
The officer ate. We shared the fruit. Mark poured water over his head.
After we’d nearly finished the melon, the officer wandered back into the office. Leaving Mark and me alone.
“At least we’ll die clean and well-fed,” Mark said, laughing.
I thought about that for a moment. I studied Mark. Then said, as lightly as I could, “If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna kiss you first.”
He simply looked at me. Slowly began to smile. “That would be nice.”
I touched him. We were still maybe three feet apart. I put my hand on his waist. Looked into his eyes. Then I moved in and kissed him.
And he kissed me. It wasn’t tentative or awkward. We both knew what we were doing. And we only stopped when we heard Arkin’s voice.
One minute? Two? Five? I doubt either of us could have said.
Arkin came into the garden, followed by both his officers and a new one. I offered Arkin the hat. Mark offered him watermelon. He shook his head.
“I wait for chile.”
He rubbed his stomach.
In the heat, my hair was almost dry. Mark’s seemed the same. Following the Aztec’s lead, we pulled back on our shirts and followed Arkin out of the station.
Outside, the new officer inspected my car, particularly the driver’s side window. He seemed to needed to touch each section of the frame separately, as if to confirm the window had recently been replaced. Then he took pictures.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have washed the van,” I whispered to Mark.
“They’re not gonna dust for prints,” he said. Then he turned to Arkin. “Are you?”
Arkin looked puzzled.
“Fingerprints?” Mark asked.
“Manos,” I added and held up my thumb.
When Arkin shook his head, Mark looked relieved.
Meanwhile, the new officer was opening all my car doors, taking more pictures. He shot the glove compartment. Raised the hood and shot the engine. He took a picture of the place where my spare tire should have been.
I’d forgotten to get another one.
“What’s he looking for?” Mark asked Arkin
“Nada,” Arkin advised. “He just have to look.”
Finally, the detective stood back from the car. He nodded to Arkin.
Arkin -- formally -- nodded back. The officer took one final picture -- of Mark and me standing beside the car.
“Ready?” Arkin asked us.
“Sí.”
The six of us walked down the street, following Arkin. We stopped at a patio, open to the street. There were adobe walls on three sides. A beamed ceiling. A curtained doorway, leading inside. The only indication that the place could have been a restaurant was a long wooden table on the cracked concrete floor, edged with benches. There were no signs and no other customers. Though it was the middle of the afternoon.
We sat, Arkin next to Mark, me across from them. The three officers filled in our table. Immediately, a huge woman, obese, of indeterminate age, appeared through the curtained doorway.
She studied us, as if surveying.
“Chile!” ordered Arkin, smiling.
“Chile!” ordered the other officers.
“I’d like a small filet mignon,” I joked.
Everyone was quiet.
“Chile!” I growled, in my deepest voice. And everyone laughed.
Mark also ordered chile -- without shtick -- and the woman left.
“Chile is best!” Arkin assured us.
And I wondered, “Was there an alternative?”
As if in answer, a filthy-handed urchin girl burst through the faded curtain, dropped a stack of tortillas on the splintery table top, then vanished.
The officers all grabbed tortillas. Arkin offered Mark and me some. Of course, we couldn’t decline.
The urchin reappeared. With plates. She crashed them on the table. One for each of us. Then she skittered back out the door.
Each plate was hand-painted.
Each held the face of a different saint.
A different tortured saint.
Mark picked up his plate. Delicately examined it, as if it were Limoges. Set it back down.
The urchin teetered in, loaded with food. She set down the tray, then passed out overflowing bowls to each of us. She pulled spoons from her belt. Slightly rusted spoons, but what the hell? She disappeared.
Each bowl seemed to have a baby brain in it. In a pool of blood.
“Chile!”Arkin grinned. And chowed down.
The officers ate hungrily.
I examined my spoon.
“Maybe the rust will protect us,” Mark suggested.
We tasted the chile.
Cautiously.
Tasted again.
It was good.
It was great.
We ate.
The Big Woman reappeared. A huge bowl under her arm. As she stirred the bowl’s contents with an aged wooden spoon, one of her enormous breasts threatened to flop out of her dress. To flavor our food.
She approached Mark.
WHOMP!
Refried beans spread across Mark’s saint’s face though the wooden spoon never seemed to leave the woman’s bowl.
Mark grinned. I covered my smirk with my hand.
WHOMP!
Beans covered my saint. The woman’s breast nearly emerged.
I tried not to laugh. Mark wasn’t helping. He was starting to giggle
“Good chile,” Arkin said. Misunderstanding.
WHOMP!
Beans for Arkin.
WHOMP!
Beans for the round detective.
WHOMP!
Beans for the Aztec.
WHOMP!
Beans for the local fuzz.
The Woman surveyed again. Smiled. Contented.
The urchin slopped warm beer into spotty glasses, then gave us each one. She left the pitcher, filched a tortilla, and slunk away.
La Policía gorged.
And Mark and I were losing it.
I said, “Excuse,” and stood politely.
Mark also stood.
“Por favor,” he managed.
Then he trailed me to a nearby alley. And we got improperly hysterical.
Howling.
Pounding walls.
Flinging twigs at passing cats.
Finally, Mark gasped, “We’re gonna die!”
“No way!” I got out. “Too much penicillin on the spoons!”
“You don’t understand,” he struggled. “It’s gonna kill us!”
“It can’t,” I insisted.
“Why?”
But he was grinning like a frat boy who’d eaten worse.
We took a moment to bring ourselves down.
We had to go back.
There was more to eat.
Actually, I liked it.
We returned, as if zipping our flies. Swaggering. No one commented on our misusing their streets.
We ate.
The urchin served us endlessly.
Arkin seemed concerned with our welfare.
“Killer chile,” Mark assured him.
Arkin beamed.
When we finally finished, everyone was stuffed.
The imp peered through the curtain.
The Huge Woman passed out cigars.
I tried to say No.
Mark kicked me under the table.
The urchin gave Arkin Take-Home Chile in an canning jar.
Arkin was thrilled.
We all blew smoke in each other’s eyes.
Finally, we had to leave.
At least, we tried to.
Los detectivos could barely walk.
Mark and I had been slightly more careful.
Arkin paid the woman.
I protested.
Willing to fund my own death.
Dinner for seis cost less than to protect my van.
“What do we owe you?” Mark insisted.
Arkin took this as an insult.
“We have to give you something,” I pushed.
Arkin pulled Sacagewea out of his pocket.
He tossed it to the urchin. With surprising grace.
She snatched it from the air, squirreled it away, then slithered off.
On the street, the officers staggered towards my car.
Arkin wobbled as unsteadily.
Mark and I did better than we had drunk.
Crammed into the car, the two detectives went instantly to sleep.
Arkin slipped into the back seat with them.
He teetered for a moment, then asked -- hopefully -- “You know the way back?”
“Not really,” I said, Mark beside me.
“We can figure it out,” he insisted.
“Follow el sol,” Arkin advised. And he groggily signaled us off.
The local officer waved from in front of his station. His eyes were mostly closed.
“Now we know why they invented the siesta,” Mark joked. And we could have used one ourselves.
For the next half hour, we carefully picked our way to the highway. It took all our concentration, trying to remember how we’d come. We made more than a dozen wrong turns, but when the road seemed improbable, or the sun shifted directly from our view, we turned back.
When we finally hit the main road and were comfortably heading south, Mark waited a minute, to make sure all the guys were asleep. Then he quietly asked, “When did you figure me out?”
I laughed, also trying to keep quiet. “I’m slow,” I had to admit. “I needed that hug.”
Mark laughed. “I should have done it sooner. I guess we have those kids to thank.”
I hesitated. “When did you figure me out?”
He grinned. “I didn’t need to. From the moment I saw you, I knew how much I couldn’t marry Anne. It wouldn’t have been fair.”
“Then I could’ve been straight?”
“You could’ve been. It wouldn’t have mattered. I knew how interested I was.”
I’d guessed kind of right. But I told Mark, “I honestly didn’t know.”
“I try not to drool,” he said, shrugging it off. “If I made it obvious to every guy I found sexy, I’d seem way too easy.”
“Have there been many?”
“A few.” He hesitated, then corrected himself. “Only a few I’ve actually slept with.”
“Did Anne know?”
He shook his head. “They were all before her. Undergrad school. Pennsylvania. Other side of the world.”
I waited. “And since then?”
He said nothing for what seemed a very long time.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” he finally went on. “And I don’t want to seem like I’m denying anything... Trying to fool myself... Still trying... But I really like women... Also... It’s hard, how much I love Anne... But the older I get... the more I let myself look at guys... the more I want to be with one.”
“I hope you haven’t beaten yourself up...”
“Some,” he admitted. “I wish I hadn’t.”
Then for a while, I said nothing.
“There’s still Chris,” I had to say. “If he suddenly appeared at this moment... if he even somehow called... If he turned up in Mexico and said, I’m sorry... I was wrong... You’ve got to come home... Now... I’d be out of here.”
Mark was staring at me. “I know that,” he said.
But he didn’t seem any less interested. And I wasn’t. We didn’t need to explain.
For the rest of the drive, we talked of less important things. We tried not to say anything important. We were stalling.