The Manuscript (22 page)

“Ernesto, your services won’t be required any longer. Sorry for the lack of notice but I just found out last evening. We’re moving on Friday. The envelope has two week’s pay in it. Good luck finding another position. You’re a good cook.”

Ernesto opened the flap and peered inside at the paltry wad of twenties. Unbelievable. He was now unemployed, even though he’d never missed a day’s work – except when his mother had died – and all he got by way of thanks was one lousy extra week’s pay? Ernesto sat heavily beside the island and read the note again. Stanley hadn’t even bothered to show and personally deliver the news – Ernesto just got a short letter. Why not just text message him on the bus on the way in? What a thoughtless way to reward almost a decade of loyal service. Gringos were all the same. You couldn’t trust them; they viewed anyone foreign as beneath contempt – just cheap little robots for their own convenience, unworthy of the most cursory consideration.

He deserved better than this. Whether Stanley wanted to talk or not, Ernesto intended to have a conversation with him. This wasn’t over – not like this. For the first time after his eight years in the compound he shouldered his backpack and moved through the connecting double doors into the hall that led to the main house. It was buzzing with activity; men hastily carting boxes from the house to the vehicles. Ernesto was invisible to them; just another of the locals hired to move their belongings and clean up after them. He realized he had no idea where to find Stanley – even if he was still in the villa. His indignation rapidly fading, he stopped outside one of the open doorways halfway to the main wing. Glancing inside, he saw several monitors, some audio-visual gear and a case filled with about a dozen late model video cameras.

Ernesto looked up and down the hall. It was temporarily deserted. Overcome by an impulse he didn’t completely understand, he leaned into the room and grabbed the nearest camera, hurriedly stuffing it into his bag before closing the lid on the camera container. He scanned the hall again. Nobody had seen anything.

He stood for a moment in the hall, internally debating his next move, when a man in one of the house ‘uniform’ windbreakers rounded the corner. The Gringo stopped when he saw Ernesto and spoke to him in rapid, clipped Spanish without any hint of an accent.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Ernesto’s righteous indignation buckled, replaced by fear of being caught. “Er, nothing, sir...I was actually looking for Mister Stanley...”

“Stanley? He’s gone. Who are you?”

“Ernesto. The cook. I really need to speak with Mister Stanley...”

“He’s gone, and he’s not coming back…just like you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave the area right now.”

“But I–”

“I’m not going to repeat myself. Get out of here – now – or I’ll have you removed by the guards.”

Ernesto weighed his anger at his abrupt termination against the likelihood of being prosecuted for stealing an expensive piece of electronics.

Discretion won the day.

“All right,” Ernesto protested. “But you tell Mister Stanley the way he treated me isn’t right. It isn’t right.”

The man regarded him with a stony stare and pointed to the kitchen door.

Ernesto got the message. He turned and slunk back down the passageway, through the kitchen and out of the compound.

Eight years, and the fuckers boot him out just like that.

Chinga tu Madres, Putas
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