Maya's Notebook

  “It had to happen sooner or later,” Brandon Leeman added. “I can’t count on anyone’s loyalty.”

  “You can count on me,” I murmured, with the feeling of slipping on oil.

  “I hope so. Joe and Chino are a couple of imbeciles. They won’t be better off with anyone else. I’ve been very generous with them.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Replace them, before they replace me.”

  We were silent for several miles, but when I was starting to think the confidences had run out, he returned to the charge.

  “One of the cops wants more money. If I give it to him, he’ll just want more. What do you think, Laura?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. . . .”

  We drove for another few miles without speaking. Brandon Leeman, who was starting to get anxious, left the road in search of a private spot, but we found ourselves in a patch of dry earth, rocks, spiny shrubs, and stunted grass. We got out of the car in plain view of the traffic and crouched down behind the open door, and I held the lighter while he heated up the mixture. In less than a second he shot up. Then we shared a pipe of weed to celebrate our daring; if we got pulled over by the highway patrol they’d find an unregistered illegal firearm, cocaine, heroin, marijuana, Demerol, and a few other pills loose in a bag. “Those pigs would find something else that we wouldn’t be able to explain away either,” Brandon Leeman added enigmatically, laughing his head off. He was so high that I had to drive, even though my experience behind the wheel was minimal and the bong had clouded my vision.

  We drove into the town of Beatty, which appeared uninhabited at that hour of the day, and stopped for lunch at a Mexican place, its sign decorated with cowboys with hats and lariats, that inside turned out to be a smoky casino. In the restaurant Leeman ordered a couple of tequila slammers, two random dishes, and the most expensive bottle of red wine on the menu. I made an effort to eat, while he moved the contents of his plate around with his fork, drawing little tracks in his mashed potatoes.

  “Do you know what I’ll do with Joe and Chino? Since I’ll have to give that cop what he wants anyway, I’m going to ask him to pay me back by doing me a little favor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If he wants an increase in his commission, he’ll have to get rid of those two men without involving me in any way.”

  I grasped his meaning and remembered the girls that Leeman had employed before me and had “gotten rid of.” I saw with terrifying clarity the abyss open at my feet and once more thought of fleeing, but was again paralyzed by the sensation of sinking in thick molasses, inert, with no will of my own. I can’t think, my brain feels like it’s full of sawdust, too many pills, too much weed, vodka, I don’t even know what I’ve taken today, I have to get clean, I muttered silently to myself, while I knocked back a second glass of wine, after finishing the tequila.

  Brandon Leeman was leaning back in his chair, with his head on the backrest and his eyes closed. The light was hitting him from one side, accentuating his prominent cheekbones, hollow face, and the green circles under his eyes. He looked like his own skull. “Let’s go back,” I proposed with a spasm of nausea. “I’ve got something to do in this goddamn town first. Order me a coffee,” he replied.

  As always, Leeman paid in cash. We walked out of the air-conditioned restaurant into the merciless heat of Beatty, which according to him was a dump for radioactive waste and only existed because of tourism to Death Valley, ten minutes’ drive away. He drove in a zigzag to a place where they rented storage spaces, low cement structures with a string of turquoise-painted metal doors. He’d been there before; he walked straight up to one of the doors with no hesitation. He ordered me to stay in the car while he clumsily manipulated the heavy industrial combination locks, swearing; he was having trouble focusing his eyes, and his hands had been trembling a lot for quite a while. When he opened the door, he motioned me to come over.

  The sun lit up a small room in which there was nothing but two big wooden crates. From the trunk of the Mustang he took out a black plastic sports bag marked “El Paso TX,” and we went inside the deposit, which was boiling hot. I couldn’t help but think in terror that Leeman might leave me buried alive inside that storage locker. He grabbed my arm firmly and stared straight at me.

  “Remember when I told you that we’d do great things together?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “The moment has arrived. I hope you won’t let me down.”

  I nodded, frightened by his threatening tone and at finding myself alone with him in that oven without another living soul around. Leeman crouched down, opened the bag, and showed me the contents. It took me a moment to realize that those green packages were bundles of hundred-dollar bills.

  “It’s not stolen money, and nobody’s looking for it,” he said. “This is just a sample, soon there’ll be a lot more. You realize I’m giving you a tremendous display of trust, no? You’re the only decent person I know, apart from my brother. Now you and I are associates.”

  “What do I have to do?” I murmured.

  “Nothing, for the moment, but if I give you the word or something happens to me, you should immediately call Adam and tell him where his El Paso TX bag is, got that? Repeat what I just told you.”

  “I should call your brother and tell him where his bag is.”

  “His El Paso TX bag, don’t forget that. Have you got any questions?”

  “How will your brother open the locks?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business!” barked Brandon Leeman with such violence that I shrank back, expecting a blow, but he calmed down, closed the bag, put it on top of one of the crates, and we left.

  Events sped up from the moment I went with Brandon Leeman to drop off the bag in the storage depot in Beatty, and afterward I couldn’t get them straight in my head; some of them happened simultaneously, and others I didn’t witness in person, but found out about later. Two days later, Brandon Leeman ordered me to follow him in a recently recycled Acura from the clandestine garage, while he drove the Mustang he’d bought in Utah for his brother. I followed him on Route 95, three-quarters of an hour in extreme heat through a landscape of shimmering mirages, as far as Boulder City, which was not on Brandon Leeman’s mental map, because it’s one of the only two cities in Nevada where gambling is illegal. We stopped at a gas station and settled down to wait out of reach of the sun’s rays.

  Twenty minutes later a car pulled up with two men in it. Brandon Leeman handed them the keys to the Mustang, received a medium-size travel bag, and got into the Acura beside me. The Mustang and the other car drove off toward the south, and we took the highway back the way we came. However, we didn’t go through Las Vegas, but directly to the storage depot in Beatty, where Brandon Leeman repeated the routine of opening the locks without letting me see the combination. He put the bag beside the other one and closed the door.

  “Half a million dollars, Laura!” And he rubbed his hands together happily.

  “I don’t like this . . . ,” I murmured, backing away.

  “What is it you don’t like, bitch?”

  He went pale and shook me by the arms, but I shoved him away, whimpering. That sick weakling, who I could crush under my heels, terrified me; he was capable of anything.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Think about it, woman,” said Leeman, in a conciliating tone. “Do you want to carry on leading this fucked-up life? My brother and I have it all arranged. We’re leaving this damned country, and you’re coming with us.”

  “Where to?”

  “Brazil. In a couple of weeks we’ll be on a beach with coconut palms. Wouldn’t you like to have a yacht?”

  “A yacht? What do you mean, a yacht? I just want to go back to California!”

  “So the fucking slut wants to go back to California!” he mocked threateningly.

  “Please, Brandon. I won’t tell anybody, I promise. You and your family can go to Brazil, no worrie
s.”

  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 sh
ared 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.