Into the Beautiful North(69)

“Duh,” said Atómiko.

Chava pulled off the road and parked against a steel barrier. They got out and each took a bag of groceries. Atómiko held his bag in one arm and his staff over his right shoulder with the other.

Chava said, “This is the richest country in the world.” He looked at each of them. “This is the richest state of that rich country.” They watched him. “And this is probably the richest city of the richest state of the richest country. Let’s go.”

He stepped over the barrier and started downslope, into one of the dry canyons. The friends looked at one another and shrugged. They followed him down. It wasn’t far. At bottom, they found a small creek running with green water. Atómiko was delighted to see tiny fish scattering from under his shadow. They walked upstream, toward a stand of salt cedar and bamboo. They could smell the camp before they saw it: smoke, trash, human waste. Atómiko perked right up: home!

Chava called out, “?Hola! ?Somos amigos!” He made it a habit of letting the paisanos know he was a friend before he trudged into their camp—seeing them flinch or run simply broke his heart. He hated it. So he announced himself. Still, they would be tense until he revealed himself. “?Amigos Mexicanos!” he called.

He pushed through the bamboo, and they followed him. They stopped and stared. A dog ran at them, barking, and Atómiko immediately crouched and growled a few friendly curses at the dog, and it wagged its tail and bumped into him with its chest.

Dark, thin men stood staring at them. Smoke. The ground was muddy, darker than the men. Improvised tents were gathered in a rough U shape. Splintery poles propped up sheets of plastic. The fires in the small clearing held coffeepots on stones, frying pans. The men nodded—a few looked at Nayeli and dropped their eyes shyly. They had managed to hammer together a little wooden shrine. It was lifted off the ground by a stout wooden pole. In it, covered by a shingle roof, standing on a small shelf, was a statue of the Blessed Mother.

Tacho’s shoes and pants were ruined. He didn’t care. He said, “We brought groceries.”

“Are you missionaries?” a man with terrible teeth asked. Tacho and Nayeli blinked—he could have been Don Porfirio at the Tijuana garbage dump. When was that? A year ago?

“No, paisa’,” Chava said. “Just friends. I am a friend of Angel’s.”

“Ah!” The man’s face creased in a deep smile. “I remember you! Don Salvador!” He stepped forward and shook Chava’s hand.

Chava said to the friends, “This is the jefe of the camp. Don Arturo.”

Don Arturo shook all their hands.

“Welcome to Camp Guadalupe,” he said. “Have some coffee.”

Atómiko went right to the nearest pot. One of the paisanos handed him a battered cup. “Orale, carnal,” he said. He poured himself a stout shot and drank it. The paisanos were checking out his staff. “I’ve only killed about twenty cabrones with it,” he noted.

“Angel is washing up,” Don Arturo said. “He will be here in a minute. Sit, sit.”

They squatted on crates around the fire. Chava handed Don Arturo a box of doughnuts.

“?Ah, caray!” the old man said. “Donas.”

He handed doughnuts out to his men. They all said gracias almost silently, nodding their heads and keeping their eyes downcast.

“You live here?” Nayeli said.

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“We pick flowers.”

The boys nodded. Sí, sí, they murmured.

“We pick chiles and tomatoes. When the season changes, we go north and pick strawberries and apples.”

That’s right, the paisanos said.

“Is it hard work?” she asked.

He laughed.

“How does it look to you, se?orita?”

“Hard.”

They all laughed.

“If you were born to be a ten-penny nail,” Don Arturo said, “you cannot curse the hammer.”

The paisanos all nodded.

“Forty brothers camp here and work the farms. We share costs—food, things like that.”

“Beer,” one paisano called out. The men laughed.

“Sometimes,” Don Arturo admitted. “Better poor and happy than rich and miserable.”

Atómiko said, “Better still rich and happy.”

“That’s a fact,” agreed Don Arturo.

Atómiko poured himself some more coffee.

“We boil water from the stream so we can drink,” Don Arturo explained. “Churches donate clothes. Sometimes, it is too hard to wash the pants, and we throw them away.”

Nayeli noted a muddy pile of old clothing strewn in the reeds.

“It’s a shame,” Don Arturo said. “We don’t make enough money to rent motel rooms or houses.”

Then the bamboo parted and a very handsome young man stepped through.

“Angel,” Chava Chavarín said.

And behind him came Sully and Jimbo and four companions.



Sully had a chain hanging from his right fist. Jimbo carried a bat. The other four were unarmed. Sully swung the chain like a pendulum.

“What do we have here?” he asked. “What do we have here?”