Maya's Notebook: A Novel (26 page)

He walked back and forth, taking huge steps, kicking the concrete ground angrily, while I waited beside the car,
dripping with sweat, trying to understand the mistakes I’d made that had led me to this dusty hell and these bags of green bills.

“I was wrong about you, Laura. You’re stupider than I thought,” he finally said. “You can go to hell, if that’s what you want, but for the next two weeks you’re going to have to help me. Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Brandon, whatever you say.”

“For the moment, don’t do anything, apart from keeping your mouth shut. When I tell you, call Adam. Remember the instructions I gave you?”

“Yes, I’ll call him and tell him where the two bags are.”

“No! You tell him where the El Paso TX bags are. That and nothing else. Got it?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll tell him the El Paso TX bags are here. Don’t worry.”

“You have to be very discreet, Laura. If you let one word of this slip, you’ll be sorry. Do you want to know exactly what would happen to you? I can give you the details.”

“I swear, Brandon, I won’t tell anyone.”

We returned to Las Vegas
in silence, but I was hearing Brandon Leeman’s thoughts in my head, ringing like bells: he was going to “get rid” of me. I had a physical reaction of nausea and felt faint, just as I’d felt when Fedgewick handcuffed me to the bed in that sordid motel. I could see the green glow of the clock. I could sense the pain, the smell, the terror. I have to think, I have to think, I need a plan. . . .
But how was I going to think, when I was intoxicated by alcohol and whatever pills I’d taken? I couldn’t even remember how many, what kind, or when. We got back to the city at four in the afternoon, tired and thirsty, our clothes drenched in perspiration and dust. Leeman dropped me off at the gym so I could freshen up before my rounds that night, and he went to the apartment. When he said good-bye, he squeezed my hand and told me not to worry, that he had everything under control. That was the last time I saw him.

The gym didn’t have the extravagant luxuries of the hotels on the Strip, with their swanky milk baths in marble tubs and their blind masseuses from Shanghai, but it was the biggest and best-outfitted in the city, had several workout rooms, various instruments of torture to inflate muscles and stretch tendons, a spa with an à la carte menu of health and beauty treatments, a hair salon for people and another one for dogs, and a covered pool big enough to hold a whale. I considered it my headquarters. I had endless credit and could go to the spa, swim, or do yoga whenever I was in the mood, which was less and less often. Most of the time I was stretched out on a reclining easy chair, my mind blank. I kept my valuables in the lockers, as they would have disappeared from the apartment into the hands of unhappy souls like Margaret or even Freddy, if he was in need.

When I got back from Beatty, I washed away the fatigue of the journey in the shower and sweated out the fright in the sauna. My situation seemed less distressing to me, now that I was clean and calm. I had two whole weeks, more than enough time to make up my mind about my fate. Any
imprudent action on my part would precipitate consequences that could be fatal, I thought. I should keep Brandon Leeman happy until I found a way of freeing myself of him. The idea of a Brazilian beach with palm trees in the company of his family gave me the shivers; I had to go home.

When I arrived in Chiloé
I complained that nothing happens here, but I have to retract my words, because something has happened that deserves to be written in gold ink and capital letters: I’
M IN LOVE
! Maybe it’s a bit premature to be talking about this, because it only happened five days ago, but time means nothing in this case, I’m totally sure of my feelings. How am I supposed to keep quiet when I’m floating on air? That’s how capricious love is, as it says in a stupid song that Blanca and Manuel keep crooning at me. They’ve been making fun of me ever since Daniel appeared on the horizon. What am I going to do with so much happiness, with this explosion in my heart?

I’d better start at the beginning. I went to the Isla Grande with Manuel and Blanca to see the
tiradura de una casa
, or “house-pulling,” without dreaming that there, all of a sudden, by chance, something magical was going to happen: I was going to meet the man of my destiny, Daniel Goodrich. A
tiradura
is something unique in the world, I’m sure. It consists of moving a house by sailing it on the sea, pulled by a couple of boats, and then dragging it across land with six teams of oxen to station it in a new spot. If a Chilote
goes to live on another island, or his well runs dry and he needs to go a few miles to get water, he takes his house with him, like a snail. Because of the humidity, homes in Chiloé are made of wood, without cement foundations, which allows them to be tugged and moved floating on top of logs. The task is done by a
minga
in which neighbors, relatives, and friends address themselves to the undertaking; some bring their boats, others their oxen, and the owner of the house supplies food and drink, but in this case the
minga
was a fake one for tourists, because the same little house goes back and forth across land and sea for months, until it falls to pieces. This would be the last
tiradura
until next summer, when there would be another migrating house. The idea is to show the world how crazy Chilotes are and give pleasure to the innocents who come over in the tourism agencies’ buses. Among those tourists was Daniel.

We’d had several dry and warm days, unusual at this time of year, which is always rainy. The landscape was different—I’d never seen the sky so blue, the sea so silvered, so many hares in the pastures, I’d never heard such cheerful uproar of birds in the trees. I like the rain—it inspires seclusion and friendship—but in bright sunshine the beauty of these islands and channels is better appreciated. In good weather I can swim without freezing my bones in the icy water and get a bit of a tan, although very carefully, because the ozone layer is so thin here that lambs are sometimes born blind and toads deformed. That’s what they say, anyhow; I haven’t seen any yet.

On the beach all the preparations for the
tiradura
were ready: oxen, ropes, horses, twenty men for the heavy work
and several women with baskets of empanadas, lots of children, dogs, tourists, locals who didn’t like to miss a shindig, two carabineros to frighten away the pickpockets, and a church
fiscal
to pronounce a blessing. In the 1700s, when traveling was very difficult and there weren’t enough priests to cover the extensive and disconnected territory of Chiloé, the Jesuits established the post of
fiscal
, like an elder or a sacristan, which is held by a person with an honorable reputation. The
fiscal
looks after the church, convenes the congregation, presides at funerals, delivers communion and blessings, and, in cases of real emergency, can even baptize and marry people.

With the tide high, the house advanced rolling on the waves like an ancient caravel, towed by two boats and submerged up to the windows. On the roof waved a Chilean flag tied to a stick, and two boys rode astride the main beam, without any lifejackets. As it approached the beach, the caravel was received with a well-deserved round of applause and the men proceeded to anchor it until the tide went out. They’d calculated carefully, so the wait wouldn’t be too long. The time flew by in a carnival of empanadas, alcohol, guitars, ball games, and an improvised singing contest, the participants defying each other with double entendres in increasingly risqué rhyming verses, as far as I could tell. Humor is the last thing you master in another language, and I’ve still got a long way to go. When the time came they slid some tree trunks under the house, lined up the teams of oxen, harnessed them to the posts of the house with ropes and chains, and began the monumental task, encouraged by shouts and applause from the onlookers and the carabineros’ whistles.

The oxen bent their heads low, tensed every muscle of their magnificent bodies, and, at an order from the men, advanced, bellowing. The first tug was faltering, but by the second the animals had coordinated their strength and began walking much faster than I’d imagined, surrounded by the crowd, some running ahead to clear the way, others at the sides urging them on, others pushing the house from the back. What a riot! So much shared exertion and so much fun! I was running around with the kids, shrieking with pleasure, with Fahkeen in pursuit between the oxen’s legs. Every hundred feet or so the pulling would stop, to get the animals lined up again, circulate bottles of wine among the men, and pose for the cameras.

It was a circus minga
prepared for tourists, but that doesn’t take anything away from the human boldness or the determined spirit of the oxen. Finally, when the house was in its place, facing the sea, the
fiscal
threw holy water over it and the spectators began to disperse.

When the outsiders climbed back onto their buses and the Chilotes took their oxen away, I sat down on the grass to think back over what I’d seen, regretting not having my notebook with me to write down the details. As I was doing that, I felt watched and looked up into the eyes of Daniel Goodrich, big, round, mahogany-color eyes, the eyes of a colt. I felt a spasm of fear in my stomach, as if a fictional character had just materialized, someone I’d known in another reality, in an opera or a Renaissance painting, like the
ones I’d seen in Europe with my grandparents. Anyone would think I’m demented: a stranger stands in front of me and my head fills up with hummingbirds; anyone other than my Nini, that is. She would understand, because that’s how it was when she met my Popo in Canada.

His eyes were the first thing I saw, eyes with dreamy lids, feminine lashes, and thick brows. It took me almost a whole minute to appreciate the rest: tall, strong, long limbed, sensual face, full lips, caramel-colored skin. He was wearing hiking boots, and carrying a video camera and a big dusty backpack with a rolled-up sleeping bag tied on top. He said hello in good Spanish, eased his backpack onto the ground, sat down beside me, and started fanning himself with his hat; he had short black hair, in tight curls. He held out his dark hand, his long fingers, and told me his name. I offered him the rest of my bottle of water, which he drank down in three gulps, not worrying about my germs.

We started talking about the
tiradura
, which he’d filmed from various angles, and I explained that it was a fake one for tourists, but that didn’t deflate his enthusiasm. He was from Seattle and had been traveling around South America without any plans or goals, like a vagabond. That’s what he called himself, a vagabond. He wanted to see as much as possible and practice the Spanish he’d learned from classes and books, so different from the spoken language. His first days in the country he couldn’t understand anything, just as had happened to me, because Chileans use lots of diminutives, speak in a singsong rhythm and at full speed, swallow the last syllable of every word, and inhale their S’s. “It’s better not to understand most of the nonsense people talk,” Auntie Blanca says.

Daniel is traveling around Chile, and before he got to Chiloé he was in the Atacama Desert, with its lunar landscapes of salt and its columns of boiling water, in Santiago and other cities, which didn’t interest him much, in the forest region, with its smoldering volcanoes and emerald-color lakes, and he’s planning to carry on down to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, to see the fjords and glaciers.

Manuel and Blanca, who’d gone shopping in town, came back far too soon and interrupted us, but Daniel made a good impression on them, and to my delight, Blanca invited him to stay at her house for a few days. I told him nobody can pass through Chiloé without tasting a real
curanto
, and on Thursday we’d be having one on our island, the last of the tourist season, the best in Chiloé, and he couldn’t miss it. Daniel didn’t wait for us to beg—he’d had time to get used to Chileans’ impulsive hospitality, always ready to open their doors to any bewildered stranger who chances to cross their path. I think he accepted only because of me, but Manuel told me not to be so vain, Daniel would have to be an idiot to turn down free food and lodging.

We left in the Cahuilla
, crossing the calm sea with a nice stern breeze, and arrived in good time to see the black-necked swans that float in the channel, slender and elegant like Venetian gondolas. “Steadily pass the swans,” said Blanca, who talks like a Chilota. In the evening light the landscape looked more beautiful than ever; I felt proud to
be living in this paradise and to be able to show it to Daniel. I made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire horizon. “Welcome to the island of Maya Vidal, my friend,” said Manuel with a wink I managed to catch. He can tease me all he likes in private, but if he thinks he can get away with it in front of Daniel, he’s going to be sorry. I let him know that as soon as we were alone.

We went up to Blanca’s house, where she and Manuel immediately started cooking. Daniel asked if he could take a shower, which he badly needed, and wash a few clothes, while I jogged to our house to get a couple of bottles of good wine, which the Millalobo had given Manuel. I got there in eleven minutes, a world record, having wings on my heels. I had a quick wash, made up my eyes, put on my only dress for the first time ever, and ran back in my sandals with the bottles in a bag, followed by Fahkeen with his tongue hanging out and dragging his bad leg. I was gone for a total of forty minutes, and in that time Manuel and Blanca had improvised a salad and a pasta dish with seafood, which in California is called
tutti mare
and here noodles with leftovers. Manuel greeted me with a whistle of admiration; he’d only ever seen me in pants and must have thought I have no style. I bought the dress in a secondhand clothing store in Castro, but it’s almost new and not too out of date.

Daniel came out of the shower freshly shaven, his skin shining like polished wood, so handsome that I had to force myself not to stare too much. We put on ponchos to eat on the porch, because it’s already getting chilly. Daniel was very grateful for the hospitality. He said he’d been traveling
for months with a minimal budget and he’d slept in the most uncomfortable places or out in the open. He appreciated the table, the good food, the Chilean wine, and the landscape of water, sky, and swans. The slow dance of swans was so elegant against the violet color of the sea that we sat in silence admiring it. Another flock of swans arrived from the west, darkening the last orange shimmerings of the sky with their huge wings, and kept going. These birds, so dignified in appearance and so fierce in their hearts, are designed for sailing—on land they look like fat ducks—but they never look so splendid as when they’re in flight.