By a strange coincidence, before an important decision or a major event, one suddenly feels pressured. So, shortly before reaching my destination, I simply had to stop and take a leak. I drove to a familiar neighborhood, taking a detour—I didn't want to drive into town, lest anyone notice or recognize me. I also didn't want to pass Victor Mendoza's estate—it would be difficult to maneuver if I drove back the same way too quickly; they'd remember me and might accost me. I couldn't allow that. Of course, I was going straight to that villa outside the city, to remind myself of a few old friends—but other than a plan, I had nothing at the moment. No plan. I knew I couldn't just fly in like a torpedo—they'd kill me, or I'd kill myself if I overdid it. I also had no weapon. I had to get there differently. Smarter. If I managed that, the rest would be a piece of cake.
While pondering this, contemplating and contemplating, I urinated a few liters, zipped up my zipper, and walked back to the car. I walked around the back of the car and headed for the door, on the roadside.
A squeal. The grinding and crunching of gravel.
"How are you doing, you little calf?"
I was surprised, because the scream had snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up, straight ahead, where it was coming from. In front of me—maybe half a meter from my face—was a van, and its driver was yelling at me.
"Get out of the way, you jerk!
" "Sorry, sorry, sorry," I feigned contrition.
The delivery guy, wearing the distinctive blue cap of the local catering company, felt important, overwhelmed with apologies. He wanted to feel even more important—he got out of the car and intended to punch me.
"I'll fucking show you! I'm in a hurry to get to Mendoza, and this one jumps out at me like some retarded rabbit."
He swung at me, but I ducked, then punched him in the kidneys—where it hurts, and where there were no visible marks. I dodged his next blow; his arm whistled over my head. I adjusted his right kidney to the other, and when he didn't even try to return the blow, I hit him in the stomach with my left. As he doubled over, I came up behind him and wrapped my arm around his neck, straightening him. I grabbed his head with both hands, tightened my grip, and with a quick movement, snapped his neck. I grunted with satisfaction as the vertebrae in his neck cracked ominously. Without letting go of the corpse, I dragged him into the shade of the roadside trees. I stripped off his blue company T-shirt and changed into it, then put my own—dirty and threadbare—on him. I put on a baseball cap. I dragged the stiff catering guy to my own car and sat him in the driver's seat. I grabbed him by the hair, tilted his head back, and slammed it against the steering wheel, making the horn honk. I left him there—so that at least at first glance it would look like an accident. I slammed the door and, disguised as a caterer, got into his car and drove away. The van was headed to Casa Mendoza. For me, it was on the way. Hell, that's where I wanted to go, and now I even had an excuse to get there.
As I pulled up to the white walls of the estate, I could barely contain my jaw and the grimace of anger on my face. I passed the road leading to the main gate and stopped a little further down, on a narrower path leading to one of the side entrances. A simple caterer couldn't enter the same way the biggest names in the neighborhood and Mendoza's closest enforcers entered in their expensive vans. I got out and... well, I tried to be a caterer. Do your job, don't look around, don't look the gorillas in the eye. I grabbed the crate from the trailer and, pulling my shoulders forward and bowing my head, walked toward the small gate. I felt the guard's watchful, but only fleeting, gaze on me. He must have been new, because I didn't recognize him, at least not from a distance. He didn't recognize me either. He didn't even look at me. He simply glanced at me as if I were a feature of the landscape and began to look out for potential threats. I didn't look like one to him. Because appearances are enough—downcast eyes, thin shoulders, and an "I'm sorry I'm alive" expression—and to people, you're a tiny insect, trampled more out of boredom than caution.
I walked across the small square inside the walls exactly like a insect. With slow, nervous steps, straight to the kitchen, where I was supposed to put down the crate and go get another. I didn't even look at the guy standing in the small kitchen doorway—and he completely ignored me, too. I was just a caterer—if the guards at the wall let me through, he didn't have to do anything.
I entered and closed the door behind me. The stuffy atmosphere of the kitchen struck me—the bubbling pots and the unbearable stench of whatever was cooking inside. But I was glad I'd found my way here. I had a whole arsenal of knives and cleavers within easy reach—something I could and would put to good use.
I put the box aside and was about to look around when a woman entered the room and disrupted my plans. She entered the kitchen from the adjoining room just as I was facing her. She stopped dead in her tracks. I froze, too. Dolores. The old cook; she'd cooked here for years and knew each of us well. Me too. Would she recognize her or not? I'd changed, after all. I'd been gone for two months, during which I'd first gained a balloon's worth of sausages, then lost weight on Rosalita's meager meals. I was rather thin, and now I was puffy from a hangover and had dark circles under my eyes. My hair was longer, greasy, and I was as bearded as ever. When I saw myself in the car mirror earlier this morning, I barely recognized myself. Besides, I wasn't alive.
"Emilio..." she whispered.
Damn woman! She recognized me! How?
"Emilio, you're so skinny!
" "I don't know who you're talking about," I muttered, backing away. Stupid woman! I was dead, and she knew it, and all she could think about was that I was too skinny!
"Emilio, you're dead!" she screamed. "
Bingo, fuck!"
I lunged at her and covered my filthy mouth. It was too late anyway. She screamed so loudly that the guard at the door would have had to be deaf not to hear.
"What's going on in there?"
The gorilla opened the door and stood on the threshold, gun ready. In the small, stuffy kitchen, he saw a terrified, fat woman and the caterer strangling her. Before he shot, I spun Dolores around and pushed him toward her, so when he opened fire, she collected the bullets intended for me. She crashed into him, hanging around his neck. He didn't fall, but he had to hug her and steady her to keep his balance. I took advantage of that second's lull – I grabbed the knife on the table, and just as he was about to let go of Dolores, I threw it at him. The knife spun around and lodged itself in his stomach. The guard slumped to the ground. I only had time to jump at him and grab the gun. Another guard burst through the kitchen door. He almost tripped over me as I grabbed the gun – but before he could realize what was happening or react, I fell flat on my back, aimed, and punched a hole in his face. As he fell – right on top of me – I pushed him off in disgust, reached for the Beretta he'd dropped, and stood up.
"Dolores, are you okay?" came a voice from the next room. "Dolores?"
When the door opened, the guy stopped dead. His sunglasses reflected three corpses and a blood-splattered caterer, aiming two pistols at him. I only allowed him to reflexively close the door before sending him to hell with a single, well-placed shot. I had two pistols, but only a few bullets in each, so I didn't want to mess with symmetry. I ran up to him, one Beretta still at the ready, and grabbed his glasses, then slipped them on my nose. I took off his sports jacket and put it on. I tossed my blue baseball cap into the corner. I didn't delude myself that no one had heard the whole shooting. A whole gang of thugs was probably circling the house by now, looking for the caterer.
I left the kitchen and went to the next room. I just kept going. I had two Berettas, a few bullets, and nothing to lose.
Three goons burst into the room from the opposite direction. I was a little taken aback—I knew I had no chance against the three armed men coming at me. But they didn't see it from me. My wide eyes covered my glasses.
"We have four bodies in the kitchen!" I shouted desperately, pretending to be barely breathing.
Without a word, all three of them ran single file into the kitchen. They passed me and, one by one, ran out of the room. The last one, however, slowed and turned. He looked over his glasses at me, at my blue T-shirt, and I knew he was about to shoot.
"You...!" he managed to say before I punched a hole in his throat. The giant behind him slowly turned around. I smashed his face and fixed his forehead, and I shot the last one in the back with two bullets. I couldn't wait for him to turn around. I didn't have time. I knew the others would be coming soon. I threw away one Beretta—I could feel its weight, knowing it was empty. I grabbed the gun from one of the three. I also retreated to the kitchen to get his cap. I tucked it into my belt and covered it with my jacket. I needed bait. We were all hunter and hunted in this game. They had the stronger forces. I only had myself—two hands on my guns, and my wits.
I wasn't going to run, hide. No matter how many were against me, I was going to meet them. I went into the next room. It was the main hall. The front door, a passage to three other rooms on the ground floor, and a staircase to the second floor.
When a fat, bulky guy with glasses, his hair in a ponytail, a cigar, and a rifle slung over his shoulder emerged, I was about to pull the trigger when he asked, as calmly as he could,
"Do you have him, Esteban?
" "No, senor," I replied. "He's running wild somewhere back at the house. He's a lunatic!
" "We'll take him down," he smiled, ruffling his eyebrows. "Come with me."
Julio, for that was the name of the guy with the ponytail, was one of Victor Mendoza's closest bodyguards. I had the advantage over him that I knew him and he didn't know me. He couldn't remember me as Emilia, and now he mistook me for one of the dead. Mistake! Big mistake!
As he headed for the main door, I noticed the guards scurrying past the windows, about to burst into the hall. I leaped up to Julio, grabbed his arm, and twisted him backward. The rifle slid to the floor. With my free hand, I pushed the blue cap onto his head and kicked him toward the door just as the guards were opening it. He crashed into them, and as they moved aside, catching his balance, he staggered further and burst into the courtyard. Without a second thought, they fired all their ammunition at him. The blue cap on his head effectively fooled them.
When they paused to reload, consternation reigned.
"Fuck, it was Julio..." one of them muttered. "We took out Julio... We're done for..."
He wasn't mistaken—not this time. As they stood, some reloading, and others stood transfixed, slowly realizing what they had just done and the dangers, I jumped out of the hall and sprayed lead from right to left until everyone—about ten of them—was lying on the ground.
Hearing screams to the right, from the north wall of the house, I retreated inside and crept up to the hall wall. Through the window, I saw them slowly, cautiously creeping toward the entrance. I opened fire and finished them all off through the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, and the gorillas fell, surprised, taking blows to their backs, their guts, and everywhere.
I took a deep breath when for a long moment I heard neither footsteps nor screams. I tucked two Berettas into my belt. I still held the rifle in my hands. I gathered up the magazines that had fallen from the hands of those who had finished Julio and whom I had destroyed while reloading.
I glared at the stairs leading upstairs. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and went to clean up.
The door opened before me. Another gorilla, clearly confused by the silence, stepped out. He impaled himself on the barrel – his momentum propelled him into me, the front sight slamming into his solar plexus. All I had to do was pull the trigger. He staggered back, thrown back by the force of the shot, bounced off the door, lost his balance, fell, and rolled down the wide staircase to the very bottom.
"Pepe?" came a voice from the hallway. "Pepe?"
And then I saw Juan Carlos.
It was one of those moments when time slows down. A second stretches into infinity, the image blurs before your eyes, the sounds are dull and rumbling, and you feel as if you were observing yourself from the outside. You already know everything is decided, and now all you can do is wait. Whoever was going to make a move had already made it; whoever was going to lose—for an endless second—waited for the decisive move.
It was only a second, yet it felt like an eternity. It was as if I'd held the trigger for centuries, and Juan Carlos had frozen forever, his face frozen in unimaginable astonishment. His lips moved, but I couldn't hear him. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, I realized he was saying my name. To me, he looked like a fish gasping for air, aware he was about to die.
When the gunshot rang out and the bullet tore a hole in Juan Carlos's chest, blood gushing out, time returned to normal. A second was only a second. That's all it took for my former friend to fall dead to the ground. I looked at the corpse with contempt and hatred. The dead eyes were frozen, wide, astonished; they stared straight at me.
"Rest in peace, you son of a bitch..." I muttered, tipping the corpse face down with my boot.
I was still standing in the doorway. I listened for footsteps—downstairs, in one of the rooms to the left, right, or straight ahead. There was no movement on the ground floor. Silence on the second floor, too. Only after a moment did I detect a soft, muffled whistle. It came from outside, from somewhere on the opposite side of the house. I cat-walked across the room and into the next, and from that into the large guest room, with its enormous flat-screen TV, large white sofa, and bar. The door leading to the balcony was wide open. Several people were frantically milling about on the spacious terrace. They were all trying, all at once, to clamber onto the helicopter hovering in the air at the railing. I reached them with my machine gun and watched as some recoiled and fell dead, splashing blood onto the balcony, while others fell screaming over the railing. The helicopter rocked and began to retreat. I ran out onto the terrace, still firing. Victor Mendoza managed to drag his fat ass onto the deck. I fired a steady burst across the fuselage.
Then I ran out of ammo.
I dropped my rifle and pulled two Berettas from my belt. I raised them. And then the crooked face of my old boss looked down at me. I heard a rattle, and shots rained down from the rifle he held. The helicopter lurched slightly, so the burst traveled along the wall directly above me. As he reloaded, I somersaulted to the corner of the balcony, so when he lifted his face, he had to search for me for a moment. I aimed both pistols at him, but I tried in vain to shoot. The helicopter rocked, and the shots fell inches too far to the right or left.
"Fuck..." I growled under my breath. "Die, damn it!"
I knew I was running out of ammunition. Any moment now, I'd run out of bullets and be left defenseless in the middle of nowhere, and then Mendoza would blow me away. Too little time to back away—and I didn't want to take a bullet in my back. Without a second thought, I moved forward. Time slowed again. The helicopter hovered almost motionless in the air, its blades turning lazily. Mendoza's plump, slightly bearded face was a frozen mask of anger. I approached it, slogging as if across the ocean floor. I felt every muscle, perfectly controlling every step, every movement—again, as if I were seeing myself from the outside, merely controlling my movements, not being myself.
When I felt a tug on my right shoulder, I released the Beretta in my right hand. I felt no pain. A tearing sensation, and a muffled sucking sensation—nothing more. I didn't stop. I reached the railing—almost bumped into it—and pulled the trigger. Once, twice. The sound of gunfire echoed in my ears like a tinny echo. We—Mendoza and I—locked eyes. Suddenly, he raised his eyebrows. He recognized me—we were no more than four meters apart. He recognized me. He was surprised. He hesitated.
"What?" he asked. I didn't hear it. I only saw his lips twist in question.
After a moment—that infinite second—all expression vanished forever from Mendoza's face. Gone was his bloated face, torn apart, and drenched in blood. Thick blood poured from the hole in his chest, soaking into Victor's yellow shirt. In a final spasm, he tightened his grip on the trigger, but as he fell backward, a long burst of air shot into the roof of the helicopter. Sparks flew from the rotor, and the helicopter lurched and tilted to the right. Victor fell headfirst from the cockpit. The blades slowed until they almost stopped rotating, and the vehicle plummeted to the ground in a wide arc. I stared at the flower of explosion with quiet satisfaction. Then at Mendoza, lying at the bottom of the pool.
I picked up the Beretta and tucked it into my belt.
I stepped off the balcony and sat down in the room on the white couch. The roar of blood in my ears faded. My heart calmed, and my breathing slowed and grew quieter. Then I felt the pain. Only then did I notice blood flowing from the wound in my arm. Just below the tattoo, the bullet had bored into the muscle, then pierced and exited the other side. And although the bullet had passed through, it hadn't lodged in either bloody flesh or bone, the pain was unbearable. I ripped off the sleeve of my blue shirt and, with my left hand, tightened the resulting strip of fabric over the wound. Holding one end between my teeth, I tied it tightly, making me groan with pain.
I collapsed onto the white couch and stared at the turned-off television. I didn't feel like watching television. I was tired. Tired and sated—drunk on the blood of my enemies. I destroyed the power of Victor Mendoza. I forced him to flee in cowardice, and finally, I killed him. I paid death for death. To him and to Juan Carlos—the Judas who stood by and watched me perish.
The rest of my culprits were either long dead, or I'd taken them out myself and hadn't noticed. I didn't feel like going to turn over the bodies and check them for satisfaction. I wanted to rest.
"Hello, handsome."
I jumped up and, spinning backward, quickly drew my Beretta with my left hand.
"Don't shoot! I don't have a gun!" the woman shouted, raising her hands. I looked her up and down. Not to see if she was hiding a weapon somewhere. There was no place under her skimpy bikini where she could hide anything that could kill. Simply put, she was a real beauty. Nice hips, perky breasts, and a shock of black hair.
"So, that leaves just the two of us," she said, raising her eyebrows. "You. And me."
She approached me nonchalantly and looked me in the eye defiantly. She was barely shorter than me. She could have been a model. She probably was. Victor's new acquisition, paid for with expensive gifts—furs, jewelry, cars.
"Fancy a little woo-woo?" she asked, as if she were offering me a ping-pong match.
"But without a condom," I murmured, ruffling my eyebrows.
"Without a condom." She smiled, pleased, as if I'd offered a better option.
She took me by the shoulders and spun me around, then pushed me onto the couch. I sat down, and she straddled me, pressing herself against me. She began to suck on me, ruffling my hair and moaning. She tangled her fingers in my hair and showered me with lascivious kisses.
When she paused for a moment, I glanced up at her, irritated, and saw her briefly staring expectantly at the door in front of her—behind me. I grabbed her hands and, with a quick swipe of my hips, pushed her off me. We spun around, and now she was the one standing with her back to the door.
And it was she who took a bullet to the back of the skull, then three more to the back. Her blood splattered my face. I kissed her one last time. She had wonderful lips—I'll miss her.
I fired two blind shots before I even let the whore fall to the ground.
As her beautiful body crashed gracelessly against the varnished floor, I saw Paco fall to the ground, clutching a bloody hand. I also hit him in the shin. A man with a forbidden face—a bandit from birth. Once my buddy. Then my enforcer. The same Paco who, with Juan Carlos, had taken me out of town and sold me a bullet between the eyes. The one I most longed to punish. Ironically, I came face to face with my greatest, hated enemy at the very end—wow! Just when I thought it was over.
"Hello, old friend..." I said cheerfully.
Paco looked at me through a twisted mask of pain, narrowed eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Don't you recognize me?" I asked with ironic surprise. "Oh, right, I don't have a distinctive hole on my forehead, so I understand you might not have recognized me.
" "Who the fuck are you?" he groaned.
"A friend."
Paco fell to the floor and tried desperately to grab the released gun with his good hand. I shot it; it spun away two meters.
"No stupid ideas.
" "What the fuck are you talking about?!" he whimpered.
"Revenge, brother," I replied, and when I still saw only big question marks in his eyes, I continued. "Revenge for the fact that my childhood friend and another friend took me out of town, and while one stood by and watched, the other put a bullet in my head. Remember? Remember, you pale son of a bitch?
" "Emilio?" he whispered weakly.
"Bingo! Bingo, fuck! Emilio Rodriguez!" "I screamed in his face, leaning over him as he lay there, weakening from blood loss. "But I could also be Luca Ricardo Martinez. Or Ronaldo Ruiz. How about Ramon Estefan? Damn, I think I might change it to Franco Castillo now!
" "But... but... how?!
"How? You know, that's interesting!" I told him, with wild satisfaction, my eyes burning. "Well, after you shot me and left me by the road, I... woke up. I just did. I opened my eyes and stood up. No trace of the bullet.
" "But... I killed you... I checked...
" "Do you remember my tattoo?" I asked, crouching down beside him.
"Nine...
" "Nine. And you know what I had when I woke up, out there in the city? An eight. Then I went to San Sebastian, and there I met a hot girl, and we went to her house." And then she wouldn't fuck me without a condom, and finally she beat me to death with a nightlight. She smashed my face in! And guess what? The next day I wake up like nothing happened. And guess what else? I have a seven tattooed on my arm. What does that mean? It means I have nine lives. Nine lives, man! What fun, huh? Ha! Hahaha! Hahahahahaha!
I laughed so hard that even Paco started laughing nervously.
"And if it weren't for that," I continued, "I would have been gone long ago. Because I lost all eight. Now I only have one left, and I swore I'd come here and kill you all. And here I am. And I shot them all like ducks. All I have left is you."
Paco looked at me with trembling eyes. His hand, with its torn wrist, was bleeding steadily.
"You know, Paco, why don't I shoot you in the heart?"
He shook his head.
"I won't shoot you in the heart because you have a cool shirt. When I kill you, I'll rip it off you and it'll be mine. And I don't want a shirt with holes in it."
He was breathing nervously. I could hear his shallow, rattling breaths.
"You know, I'd love to talk you to death," I said. "But I don't want to. I'm drained. So you'll just get a slap in the face, just like me. You know what they say: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
I slowly placed the barrel against his forehead and moved it millimeters this way and that, trying to aim exactly where I'd been hit. I pulled the trigger, and the boom echoed through the house. Sound travels better where there are no people.
In a blood-stained but still awesome black T-shirt with a white Mickey Mouse, I stepped out of the house into a courtyard full of corpses. I had to get out before the police arrived.
***
I drove down the dusty road in a rotten green clunker. I had a choice between this or the beautiful, luxurious white car parked nearby. And sure, I'd gladly have driven off in the best possible way—but I was a swollen, emaciated, bearded brat, and I'd fit right in with such luxury. If I'd stumbled upon a patrol, they'd have nabbed me—people like me couldn't have cars like that except from smoke. Instead, I climbed into a worn-out, relatively serviceable car, in which I looked more or less natural. Just a young guy in a twenty-year-old car that had been sold ten times. I only rolled down the window because—a broken one—it might look a bit suspicious. I'd go far by putting on a front. I could only maintain the desired image by moving. When you stopped, they'd start looking at you and notice—no papers, no registration. "Paper stolen?" "The car belongs to a friend?" No one would have agreed to that. And even if I had—a broken window and torn wires under the steering wheel, tangled together, I could have driven, leaving no doubt.
I drove slowly. It was getting late, and there was no traffic. Not a single car passed me, and the police were clearly in no hurry to get to Casa Mendoza. The local mafia was nothing but a pain in the ass for justice. Murders, grand larceny, dirty money—everything was the work of Mendoza and his underlings. Only pawns were arrested. The boss went unpunished. Besides, even a lowly bodyguard was released from custody either for a handful of pesos or with a knife to the right throat. The kids stealing candy bars from the store were a piece of cake. I figured the police would probably be happy to have this problem solved, and if they came to inspect the massacre, it would only be to make sure everyone was dead and, if necessary, quietly dispatch the survivors.
There were none. I spared no one.
Under the darkening sky, I didn't immediately notice the man walking along the side of the road. As I approached, I kept a close eye on him. He was walking slowly in the same direction as me. He was thin, and a thicket of gray hair hung down his back.
As I passed him, I glanced to the side to study his face. It was dark, like any of us, but he had sharp, completely un-Hispanic features. Strong cheekbones and a hooked nose. Narrow eyes. And no facial hair.
I slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt.
"Oaxaca?" I asked, surprised.
The Indian stopped and turned to me. He looked at me curiously.
"Who's asking?
" "Emilio Rodriguez.
" "If you know me, you know your names mean nothing to me. They're just strange sounds. Tell me who you are.
" "Number nine," I said, after a moment of wondering what he might remember me from.
"Oh, I remember.
Oaxaca was the one who gave me the tattoo.
" "Need a ride?" I asked.
"Well, it's not far from home, but why not?" he said. "Besides, it's nice to run into an old friend every now and then.
" "Where do you live now?"
"Where he always is."
I dropped him off at a wooden hut—almost right outside Ayauicalo, but not quite. About a hundred meters—not too close to be far from the city life, its bustle, its problems, but not too far—so he wouldn't have to make a real pilgrimage just for the tequila he liked.
"Will you come in?" he asked. As I suspected, he didn't have many visitors. People from the city stayed in the city—they had everything they needed for life right there. You took the dusty yellow road to or from Ayauicalo, with a specific destination—Casa Mendoza, for example, or San Sebastian. Oaxaca was just an old Indian living on the sidelines. He only interested a few curious kids. Just an interesting, strange man. I met him that way myself. As kids, Juan Carlos, Paco, and I would wander around the city, sometimes in the forest beyond, and once we found a wooden hut a hundred meters outside the city. We didn't know if it was inhabited or empty. It was more interesting not to know, just to guess: maybe it was haunted, or maybe it was inhabited by a strange old man who killed and cooked nosy little brats. Then we saw him sitting on a bench in front of his house. We stood across the road, wide-eyed, staring at him as if he were from another planet. Because he didn't look like any of us. He looked human, but his face didn't resemble anyone I knew in the city. And even when we started growing mustaches and shaving—and cutting ourselves—he never shaved, and he didn't have even a hint of stubble. He was a strange Indian with tattoos. He was from Oaxaca, and that's what we called him—simply Oaxaca—though he had a different name. We often visited him as kids—but as time went on, less and less, and then we just passed his hut on the way to Casa Mendoza.
"Sure," I replied, shrugging. "I'm in no hurry anyway. I did what I had to do."
I followed him to the hut. It was a bit rundown, but otherwise, it hadn't changed much since I'd come here as a puppy. Just like Oaxaca—he'd gone completely gray, but he was the same wrinkled, skinny Indian he'd been fifteen years ago.
We sat at a small table and looked at each other in silence for a moment. The room was lit only by an oil lamp hanging on the wall; the sharp shadows of his features played on his face in the flickering flame, which gave off a faint orange glow.
"Would you like some?" he asked, pushing the bottle of tequila towards me.
"No, thanks..." I muttered, shuddering at the thought. "I'm still nursing a hangover..."
So he took the bottle, probably glad I wasn't giving him a sip of his favorite drink, and took a sip.
"How are you?" he asked. "I haven't seen you in ages. You've changed, you've grown.
" "You know how it is." You grow up, you have more and more on your mind.
"I don't know what it's like," he shook his head. "This is your world, which I don't understand. I have mine. But I do, and I'm not angry. I'm glad we're meeting again.
" "Me too," I said, realizing how much; he was the only person I'd gotten to know better, whom I didn't hate.
"What about Evil Face and the Thin Man?" he asked about Paco and Juan Carlos; he noticed immediately that I frowned.
"They're dead.
" "An accident?" he asked, trying to convey some concern; he'd learned some of that from us city folk.
"No," I said. I wasn't going to lie. It was one of the things I, in turn, had learned from him. He didn't lie. He didn't pretend. He spoke directly to my face, even the most brutal truth. "I killed them."
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. He wanted me to continue before he judged me.
"They betrayed me," I continued. "Two friends dragged me into the woods, and one shot me between the eyes, while the other watched.
" "Did you blame them?
" "I did," I admitted bitterly. "But not them. And they killed me. For the money of the man I was guilty of. Damn, we'd been friends since childhood.
" "I understand," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "It's hard to forgive an enemy for a crime, or a friend for becoming an enemy. Who else would condemn you? I wouldn't," he finished, followed by a long silence. Oaxaca stared into the void from under his ruffled brows.
After a moment, he looked at me as if only just realizing what I'd said. He looked into my eyes. Between the eyes.
"You say your friend shot you between the eyes," he half-stated, half-asked. "I don't see a bullet hole.
" "There isn't one.
" "What?" he asked, tilting his head, examining me intently.
"You remember the number nine, right? After all, you tattooed it on me yourself."
- Yes.
"Well, look," I said, then pulled back the black sleeve of my shirt. Oaxaca stared at the reddened number one on it with growing astonishment.
"Where's the number nine?" he asked.
"It disappeared when Paco shot me in the head.
" "How so?
" "I don't know! I woke up the next morning as if he'd never shot me, and I had an eight on my arm.
" "And now you have a number one," he observed lucidly.
"Yes.
" "Did the number eight become a seven, and the number seven a six, every time you were about to die? Is that it?
" "Yes. I died when the girl killed me. I died when the drugs killed me, then the companion of misfortune, and finally the tequila—twice...
" "I think it'll kill me too someday," he said philosophically, taking a drag from his gun.
"Oaxaca, but how is that possible?" I asked. "How is it possible that I have nine lives?"
"Apparently, it's possible," he shrugged. "Why are you asking me that?
" "Because I don't believe in such things.
" "But it happened to you.
" "But you're an Indian. You... you should know about these things!
" "I'm an old drunk. I used to do tattoos. I never was a shaman.
" "But... it's that tattoo! It's probably because of him.
" "It's just a tattoo," Oaxaca said. "Decoration, nothing more.
" "So what could it be? The fact that it was nine?
" "I've never heard of a number giving someone more lives. Did the fact that I tattooed a snake on Evil Face do something to him too?
" "I think so," I said, frowning.
He laughed lightly at my words, as if it were a good joke.
"It has to be because of the tattoo," I pressed. "But if not the number, and not the tattoo itself, then what?"
I thought for a moment, frowning.
"Oaxaca, what did you make the paint out of?"
"Ugh, some weed with blue leaves." It stains so badly that it won't wash off for days, so I thought I'd need it.
Indeed, I remembered that when he tattooed me, his fingers were completely blue.
"And you think that's why?" I asked. I thought the same thing.
"I don't think anything of it. Just blue weed, that's all. Tasty. You can eat it, you can smoke it. It can be used instead of tobacco or marijuana—because it's free—but you know what I prefer," he said, shaking his tequila bottle significantly.
"So where does it come from?"
"I don't know. I'm just an old drunk, not a shaman. Go to the shaman, he'll tell you."
I smiled to myself. A strange man. Modest like no one I've ever known.
"You know, Oaxaca," I began, my tone musing, "when I look at that number one on my arm... I wonder what's next? I'm damn curious!
" "Indeed, it's interesting..." the Indian mused. "We can check. Give me your hand."
I offered him my left hand, palm up, as if for fortune telling—a superstitious reading of life by the lines on the palm. I was going to laugh at the Oaxacans, saying they were no different from the women of Ayauicalo who believed in nonsense.
Then he took out a knife and dragged the blade across the skin of my palm, cutting it open. Before I could scream, protest, withdraw my hand, or do anything, silent, painless darkness fell.
***
"What are you doing to me?" I exclaimed.
"Easy, easy," Oaxaca silenced me.
I looked at him, standing over me. I was lying on his bunk. And I was, to put it mildly, confused.
"What... what happened?" I stammered, trying to sort out the confusion in my head.
"You died," the Indian replied.
"Why?
" "From a wound inflicted by a knife coated in deadly snake venom," he told me with disarming honesty. Only after a moment did I remember how he'd suddenly slashed me.
"Why did you do that?
" "You were very curious about what would happen next.
" "But I thought you were going to read my palm!
" "I told you: I don't practice witchcraft. I'm an old drunk, not a shaman.
" I stared at him, stunned. The guy had killed me—at my own request. I stared at him, mouth agape, wondering if I should strangle him for it.
"You wanted to know. I just helped you." He shrugged. "So what happened?" he asked matter-of-factly.
"I don't know," I said, surprised. "You slashed me, my vision went black, and a moment later I woke up.
" "Oh yeah...
" "What... what about my tattoo?" I asked, since I didn't know that either.
"About number one?" he asked. "It disappeared."
"What do you mean, disappeared?
" "Well, it just disappeared." Oaxaca looked at me as if I'd asked too much of him.
"I expected a zero or something..."
"I'm telling you: the one's gone, there's nothing left.
" "Wait, wait..." I muttered under my breath. A doubt was forming in my mind. "What the hell am I still doing here?
" "I gave you a new tattoo."
The moment his words reached me, I felt a burning sensation on the skin of my arm. This time, however, a searing pain spread up my arm, all the way to my elbow, not just my shoulder. I jerked up from my reclining position and sat up in bed. I looked at my aching shoulder.
"Oh, my..."
There were nines on my arm. Not two, not three. Masses. Rows upon rows of nines, one under the other, stretching the entire length of my arm.
I looked at Oaxaca with wide eyes. I was speechless. My jaw hung limp, and for several minutes I couldn't utter a sound.
"I figured if it worked with one nine, maybe it would work this way too," he spread his hands.
"But... but how...? How did you know I'd live?
" "I didn't. I already told you: I'm not a shaman, to know such things.
" "Uh-huh..." I muttered.
"But I thought those nines might be useful to you. "
I looked at him with the expression of a complete idiot, my eyes wide and my mouth open.
"Thanks..." I choked out.
"I see it's hard for you to talk. Won't you have a drink?" he asked, holding the bottle out to me.
"No... I think I'll go now... I think I need some fresh air...
" "As you wish, as you wish..."
I stood up and staggered toward the door. At the exit, I turned and looked at him.
"Thanks..." I said again. Nothing else came to mind.
"You're welcome," he shrugged. Once I was out, he threw it behind me. "Nice shirt."
~FIN~
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