Mouthful of Birds(16)
“Oliver, let’s go. You’re crazy.”
He picked up a wooden box. It was old and had the word “Habanos” hand-carved on the lid.
“Here we are,” said Oliver.
“Get out of here right now,” we heard a voice say.
The short guy was standing in the middle of the room, and he was holding a double-barreled shotgun aimed right at Oliver’s head. Oliver hid the box behind his back. The guy clicked off the gun’s safety and said:
“One.”
“We’re going,” I said, and I took Oliver by the arm and started to walk. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry about your wife, too, I . . .”
I had to use all my strength to get Oliver to follow me, the way mothers pull on stubborn children.
“Two.”
We passed right by him, the shotgun a couple feet from Oliver’s head.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
We were close to the door. I let Oliver go out first so the guy wouldn’t see that he was carrying the box.
“Three.”
I let go of Oliver and ran to the truck. I don’t know if Oliver was afraid or not, but he didn’t run. I had to wait a few seconds clutching the handle of my door for him to open it. He put the box on the seat, started the engine, and we went out the same way we’d come in. The truck bumped a few times over the curb and then we were finally on the road. Only a while later, without taking his eyes from the highway, did he say: “Open it.”
“We should . . .”
“Open it, you faggot.”
I picked up the box. It was light and too small to contain a fortune. It had a fake lock, like a toy treasure chest. I opened it.
“What’s in it? How much? How much?”
“You just drive,” I said. “I think it’s only papers.”
Oliver turned every once in a while to look at what I’d found. There was a name embossed on the underside of the lid; it said “Irman,” and beneath it was a photo of the short guy when he was very young, sitting on some suitcases in a terminal. He looked happy. I wondered who had taken the photo. There were also letters headed with his name: Dear Irman; Irman, my love; poems he had signed; a mint candy turned to dust; and a plastic medal for the best poet of the year with the logo of a social club.
“Is there money or not?”
“They’re letters,” I said.
Oliver grabbed the box from my hands and tossed it out the window.
“What are you doing?” I turned around a second to see the things scattered over the asphalt, the papers still in the air, the medal bouncing farther away.
“They’re letters,” he said.
And a while later:
“Look . . . We should have stopped here. ‘All-you-can-eat barbecue,’ did you see the sign? How much was it?”
And he shifted restlessly in his seat, as though he really did regret it.
THE TEST
The Mole says, Name, and I answer. I’d waited for him where I’d been told to and he came to pick me up in the Peugeot that I’m driving now. We’ve just met. He doesn’t look at me—they say he never looks anyone in the eyes. Age, he says. Forty-two, I say, and when he says, You’re old, I think that he must be older. He wears a pair of small dark glasses, and that must be why he’s called the Mole. He orders me to drive to the nearest plaza and then settles into his seat, relaxed. The test is easy but it’s very important to pass it, and so I’m nervous. If I don’t do things right, I won’t get in, and if I don’t get in, there’s no money. Money’s the only reason to get in.
Beating a dog to death in the Buenos Aires port is the test they use to see if you’re capable of doing something worse. They say, Something worse, and then look away, dissembling, as if we, those on the outside, didn’t know that worse means killing a person, beating a person to death.
When the avenue splits into two streets, I opt for the quieter one. A line of red lights changes to green, one after another, and lets us speed ahead until a space, dark and green, appears between the buildings. It occurs to me that it’s possible there are no dogs in this plaza, and then the Mole orders me to stop. You didn’t bring a club, he says. No, I say. But you’re not going to beat a dog to death without a weapon. I look at him but don’t answer. I know he’s going to say something, because I know him now; it’s easy to figure him out. But he enjoys the silence, enjoys thinking that every word he says is a strike against me. Then he swallows and seems to think: You won’t be killing anyone. And finally he says: I happen to have a shovel in the trunk, you can use that. And I’m sure that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes are shining with pleasure.
There are several dogs sleeping near the central fountain. The shovel firm in my hands—my chance could come any second—I approach. Some of them start to wake up. They yawn, stand up, look at one another, look at me; they growl, and as I get closer they shrink back. To kill someone in particular, someone already chosen, is easy. But to choose the one who will die requires time and experience. The oldest dog or the prettiest or the one that seems most aggressive. I have to choose. I’m sure the Mole is watching from the car and smiling. He must think anyone who’s not like them is incapable of killing.
The dogs surround and sniff me, and some move farther away and lie back down, forgetting me. To the Mole, behind the dark glass of the car and his darkened glasses, I must be small and ridiculous, clutching the shovel and surrounded by dogs that now drift back to sleep. A white spotted one growls at a black one, and when the black one snaps at it, a third dog comes over, barks, and bares its teeth. Then the first dog bites the black one and the black one, teeth shining in the night, takes it by the neck and shakes it. I raise the shovel and the blow hits the spotted dog’s back; howling, he falls. He lies still. I think it’ll be easy to move him, but when I grab him by the legs he reacts and bites my arm and the blood gushes out. I raise the shovel again and hit him in the head. The dog falls back down and looks up at me from the ground, breathing fast but not moving.