The Second Bat Guano War Part 21

"What happened to you could have happened to anyone."

"But it didn't, did it? It happened to me. And I am dealing with it. And right now," I said, and took his hand by the wrist, removed it from my gla.s.s, "right now I need a favor."

Alex rocked in his chair. It creaked. "Shoot."

"Need a train ticket. Machu Picchu. For tomorrow."

He blinked. "In high season?"

"Know where I can scalp one?"

Alex sipped his pisco, grimaced. "Machu Picchu's not your thing. Never was."

"It's not a tourist visit."

He nodded. "How much you willing to pay?"

"How much I got?"

"From petty cash?" He gnawed his lower lip. "Around five hundred US. Enough."

I put my gla.s.s down empty. "You make it happen?"

"Sure, man. Whatever. I'm always here, you need me."

Why had Alex and I never become friends? We had worked together. Liked each other. He was a good guy. He could have been the friend I needed. Maybe it was Kate. She was jealous of everyone, male and female. Oh well. Too late now.

I stood. "I got a little thing I got to do."

"Sure," he said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." I avoided his gaze. "Just a thing. I got to do." I stopped, bit my lip. "That is-"

"Of course." His open hand: say no more. "Remember how to get there?"

I halted, my hand on the doork.n.o.b. "How could I forget?"

My flip-flops smack-smacked against the worn bottoms of the hallway's ancient flagstones, deep bowls of sorrow and longing, puddles of lost youth: long-dead adventurers now dust. The dark corridor vomited me forth into the modern computerized lobby. I waved to the Saxon princess, shot out into the bright mountain air.

I humped my way down the hill, past the Plaza de Armas, past the touristy restaurants and the street vendors selling c.r.a.p. I walked out of the center into the slums that surround Cuzco, corrugated tin hovels sheltering small brown faces embedded with impossibly bright eyes. The hovels got smaller and filthier the farther I got from the center.

Then I was there.

A rotting wooden fence like a corral served as the cemetery boundary. I found what I was looking for in the corner. Someone had dumped a pile of garbage on the grave: decomposing banana peels, eggsh.e.l.ls, bits of broken gla.s.s, decayed chunks of llama offal.

I sc.r.a.ped it aside with my foot. The gravestone lay flush with the earth. I knelt. Cleaned the crude stone with the palm of my hand. Bits of gla.s.s cut my skin. I relished the pain. The stone read: Liliana Mann Daughter of Horace Mann & Katherine Bittre Forgive Us If You Can I waited. Nothing happened. I had feared this moment for so long. Avoided it at all costs. I hadn't been here since the funeral, and I don't remember that day, I was so drunk, so high...

What did I expect? Her ghost to rise up in a translucent cloud of ectoplasm, and curse me in the incoherent babble of a six-month-old? Or do dead infants develop the capacity for speech in the underworld?

The smell of garbage rose thick in my nostrils. A light breeze ruffled my hair. Still nothing. Was this all there was? A rectangle of fake granite and tiny limbs decomposing six feet beneath me? Or maybe that was it. Nothing more. A bit of sky and sunshine is all we have, I thought, and when we disappear underground it is forever. I wished I was with her. I'd be joining her soon enough. I took the picture from my pocket, put it away again. I wanted to cry. I had tried to cry so many times these last twelve months. And now? Here I was and I couldn't even shed a drop. What kind of sc.u.mbag are you? I wanted to shout.

I looked around. A pack of street dogs swarmed a yellow-backed b.i.t.c.h, yelping and nipping each other to see who would be next. A wrinkled Indian woman across the street swept her front porch. A flash of red caught my eye. Behind a tombstone? Or was it my imagination? I picked a final bit of dog s.h.i.t from Lili's gravestone, and stood up.

Pitt, I thought. Where are you? What do you know? What do you mean by end the guilt? It hung heavy from my shoulders now, heavier than ever before. Maybe he'd found some secret key that lifted the burden, freed you to live again. I doubted it. Or maybe he had, but it was some religious bulls.h.i.t. Like Ambo and his Bible-thumping hypocrisy. I had to take the chance.

I walked back to town, one hand in my pocket, clutching the cash, the other beating away the clamoring young thieves whose inexpert hands darted in and out of my empty pockets. I climbed the hill once more to the hostel. Berta was there. The flaxen-haired Visigoth.

"You known Alex long?" I said.

Her cheeks flushed pink. "Just a few weeks. Here's your key."

"Alex goes through women like I go through socks." I shrugged and took the key. "Guess you know what you're doing, though."

The room was just how I designed it. Simple, durable furniture. Bed that didn't squeak. Floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the evening lights of Cuzco. Big bathroom with a tub. A hideaway for lovers, a hotel room in a hostel. It had been our love nest, Kate and I.

I sat on the bed. She had given birth here. Liliana had taken her first lungful of air in this room. This was where it all began. What I had been avoiding for so long. Now I was here and I felt like a stranger in my own home. I closed my eyes, rubbed the bridge of my nose.

I stank. For the first time in a year I was aware of my own smell. Maybe it was the alt.i.tude. And after the time in jail, the bus ride... I was putrid. I took my clothes off and sniffed them. Not worth saving. I showered, resisting the temptation to soak in the bath. Too many memories lingered in that tub. I got out of the shower, put a towel around my waist and walked out into the hallway. Berta was arguing with Alex.

"So what am I, just another weeklong fling?"

I looked over the banister into the lobby. Alex put his hands on her hips. She pushed him away. The room next to mine was Alex's. I tried the k.n.o.b. Unlocked. I went in, rummaged around in the closet. I stole a couple of T-shirts, a clean white dress shirt, a pair of jeans, a sweater, a leather jacket. I closed the door behind me. From a broom closet I pinched a length of rope. Then I went back to my room, got dressed. The clothes were all three sizes too big. I had to roll the jeans halfway to my knees. The rope I chucked under the bed.

Alex had left a courtesy gram of cocaine for me on the pillow, plus an unopened bottle of pisco and a pack of Hamiltons. What a guy, I thought. d.a.m.n. I should really be nicer to him. I shoveled a pinch of cocaine up my nose and took a big swig from the bottle to wash it down. I began to feel human again. That is to say, another piece of s.h.i.t floating in a sea of filth.

I jumped down the stairs three at a time, turned toward the lobby just in time to see Berta slap Alex across the face.

"Got those tickets, Alex?" I shouted.

"Working on it. Hey-" I kept walking. I was almost to the door. "I need to talk to you," he said.

"Sorry, gotta run."

The evening chill had fallen on Cuzco, a faint orange glow in the western sky. I pimp-rolled down the sidewalk stairs, looking into every open window, checking over my shoulder. On Calle San Blas I joined the promenading gringo throng. I pretended to read restaurant menus, studied the reflection of the crowd behind me.

There he was. A change of clothes, but the red cap remained. Did he want me to spot him? What an idiot. He lingered in front of a cafe on the other side of the street. I strolled along to the next restaurant, looked in the reflection again. He matched my pace.

A Peruvian tout clung to my arm, tried to drag me inside his establishment. I shook myself free, cursed his mother, threatened physical violence to his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, if he had any, the existence of which I declared in a loud voice I doubted, then went into the British-owned restaurant next door. I perched in the window on a high stool. Red Cap stood across the street, peering into the opposite eatery, his back toward me.

The waitress offered me a menu. I had no real appet.i.te but I needed to eat something, keep my strength up. Digesting fatty foods at alt.i.tude was hard, especially if you've just come up from Lima. So I skipped the steak and fries and asked for a big bowl of rice and beans. Healthier than my normal fare, but junk food would probably have me puking all night long. I declined the offer of a beer. I had pisco enough back in my room. When I finished ordering, Red Cap had gone. The food tasted good, better than I expected, and for the first time since La Paz I treated myself to a cappuccino for dessert.

I paid the bill. The sky was black. The slender tropical twilight had come and gone. The Southern Cross and the Big Dipper fought for supremacy at opposite ends of the sky. I walked down the hill to Plaza San Blas. I circled the square, looking over my shoulder. Red Cap trailed along. I gnawed my lip, headed back to the hostel.

Berta wasn't there. A new girl had taken her place, a redhead with a thick Irish accent. She wore a V-neck wool sweater that clung to her body.

I leaned across the counter. "Got something for me?"

She wiggled her eyebrows. "Better believe it, baby."

I laughed, but the muscles were so unused to the activity that it came out a long, hacking cough. My rib cage spasmed in pain. It had been months, but the broken bone still throbbed.

She slid an envelope across the counter, room key on top. Inside I found the train ticket, and a note from Alex.

Dude, This one's insatiable. Wanna spit roast?

-A I put the ticket and note back in the envelope, shoved it into my pocket. I picked up the key. "This isn't mine."

"No," she said, and bent forward. I had a view down her shirt. "It's not."

I slid the key back across the counter. "Just my room key, please."

She grinned, sank her chin into her palm. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

She straightened up, took a key from the wall. She dangled it in the air between us. "Your loss."

"It always is."

I spent the night huddled in bed against the cold, nipping at the cocaine and pisco to stay awake. My scars itched. I kicked the down comforter off me, lifted my shirt. I lit a fresh cigarette and burned a peace sign into my abs. The closest to peace I was ever going to get.

Why did Alex have to give me this room? He couldn't have picked another room, maybe one of the singles on the ground floor, or the rowdy dormitory next to reception? A room without memories.

I stared out the window at the twinkling lights of Cuzco. Five hundred years ago it had been the capital of the savage, continent-spanning Incan Empire. Now these feudal overlords were reduced to groveling to gringos for tourist dollars. What goes around comes around. I wondered if there was a lesson in there for me somewhere.

Against my will I took out Lili's picture, smoothed the corners where they had bent. A blast of the cocaine roared up my nose in a futile quest to silence the memories.

Taste of metal on my tongue. On my lips. s.h.i.t. Not again. I tilted my head back. Too late. Blood splattered on the photo in my hand. s.h.i.t s.h.i.t s.h.i.t. I stumbled across the darkened room, nose in the air, banged my knee against a chair. f.u.c.king power company. Incompetent Peruvian b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. I fumbled for the tissues on the desk, stuffed one into each nostril. Stepped to the window, held the photo to catch the moonlight. Wiped away the drops of blood.

There she was. My baby. Six months old. Never get any older. Never go to school. Wear a pretty dress. Drive me crazy dating the wrong boys. Never let me walk her down the aisle. She was dead. Because of me.

I pulled the chair closer to the window. Slumped down into it. The photo glowed in the moonlight. I couldn't look away. What time was it? Three, four in the morning? How long had it been since I slept? The days and nights blurred together in one long filthy smear. My eyes felt raw and itchy. Without thinking, I rubbed them with my fingers. Saw stars.

I open my eyes. Look down. A crying baby in my arms. Red-faced and small. My Lili. But how-? A miracle. Those eyes that look like mine. Fingers so tiny. I don't understand, I whisper. I thought you were dead. Sunshine streams in the window. Katherine sits up in bed. Kate? Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead. She holds her arms out for the baby. This is our room. Our hostel in Cuzco. The midwife beams at us. How is this possible?

My stomach lurches. We're on a bus. Steep drop outside the window. A hairpin turn. Rear wheel spins in s.p.a.ce. Kate comforts the baby, who's frightened by the noise and the movement. We crest a hill. La Paz spreads out before us. Greg and Luisa meet us at the terminal, sweep us back to their hostel, the Merry Mariner. A shark in a sailor's cap greets us above the door.

They are old friends of ours, eager to catch up. We send them guests, they send us theirs. They toast us with frosty mugs of Bolivian weiss beer. Kate looks at me, eyes wide. I smile. Why not? She went sober when she found out she was pregnant. To make things easier on her, I quit too. After she gave birth, we were too tired to go out. Six months of midnight breastfeeding and p.o.o.py diapers. Can't say I blame her for wanting a break.

She puts Lili to bed, and for the first time in more than a year savors a gla.s.s of Argentinian Malbec. Her favorite. I say nothing. She's earned it. I sip my beer and laugh at Greg's hearty Australian jokes. After so long without a drink, the beer goes straight to my head.

"Let's go out!" someone is shouting.

Laughter. "Go where?"

"Come on, you b.l.o.o.d.y pikers," Greg roars from the front door. He's got one arm in the wrong sleeve of his jacket.

"But what about," a hesitation, and Kate speaks for both of us, "what about the baby?"

"What about her?" Greg wants to know, chasing his other sleeve.

"We can't just leave her."

"I'm sure we could find you a babysitter," Luisa says.

The night guard volunteers his sister. "You can count on Carlos," Greg booms, slaps me on the shoulder. "Works the graveyard shift. Trust him with my life, mate."

Kate looks like a cornered animal defending her young. "But I'll worry."

I bend down and nibble her neck. "Just because we're parents doesn't mean we can't have fun. That what you want? A no fun life?"

I sat up in my chair and screamed. Until my chest squeezed tight and my eyeb.a.l.l.s bulged. Then I screamed again, fists clenched at my side, as loud and as hard as I could. I yanked open the window and screamed through the iron bars at the lightless city. A pa.s.sing taxi swerved, honked. A man on the sidewalk crouched over a p.r.o.ne figure, grasping the other's pockets. A b.l.o.o.d.y knife glinted in his hand. He didn't look up.

Cocaine. I needed more cocaine. I unplugged my nostrils, blasted three huge pinches of c.o.ke up my nose, capped them again with fresh tissues. Thank G.o.d the stuff was cheap down here. Unscrewed the bottle of pisco. Took a long swig to wash down the blood and phlegm. I coughed on the harsh liquor. So much for being fresh tomorrow. Half a pack of cigarettes on the table. I set them all on fire, puffed them hot and held the burning tips to the inside of my elbow. Yes. That's it. Good. The cigarettes went out. I put them back in my mouth, lit them again. Over the stink of the memories and the vile cigarettes, I could smell my own flesh burning.

I deserved it. All of it. More. No one else was going to punish me. The cops refused to do so. Carlos bribed his "sister" out of jail. Not that I blamed her for what happened. It was my fault. I should never have trusted her in the first place. And now everyone thought it was over. Last year's news, right? Except for me. Except for Kate. Wherever she was.

My eyelids felt like concrete slabs. Coffin slabs. The kind they used to cover Liliana's grave. I had to get out of here. Might sleep again. I dragged on the last of my cigarettes. Let them burn out with a hiss against my knuckles.

My hands were empty. Sudden panic. I patted my ribs. Where was it? The photo. Where was the photo?

On the floor I groped in the dust. c.o.c.kroaches scuttled across my fingers, probing the fresh, gooey burns. Would have to have a talk with Alex. Why were the maids neglecting to clean under the bed? Cursed myself. How can you even think about such trivia at a time like this? Found the photo. Wiped off the dust and the roach s.h.i.t. Pressed her against my heart, deep inside my shirt pocket.

In the bathroom I tied a noose with the rope I'd stolen earlier. I hung it from the shower rail and stuck my head in the loop.

When I was done, I ran the cold water in the sink, the mountain water freezing my fingers. I splashed my face until the skin was numb, and dry shaved against the grain. I'd pinched a razor from Alex's stash when I raided his closet. By some miracle I didn't cut myself. Although the red welts it left on my face made me look like a pimply teenager with a raging case of acne.

The brochure I'd picked up from Volcanic Volunteers lay on the desk where I'd left it. I studied the photo. Lake t.i.ticaca. Isla del Sol, home of the Incan G.o.ds. I tore the brochure into tiny pieces, flushed it down the toilet. In case the CIA caught me I didn't want them to know where I was headed.

I counted the money I had left. About four hundred bucks. I rolled up two hundred in small bills, stuffed it into a plastic bag and hid it where the sun don't shine. The train ticket and the remainder of the cash went in a more accessible location. I wore both the sweater and the jacket. It was cold in the unheated room-I'd switched off the heating before going to bed-and it would be even colder on the altiplano. The brisk air nipped at my toes, stiffened my flip-flops. I might get frostbite and lose a few toes. They'd turn black and eventually fall off. That would be cool. No need to bother with boots.

I went down to reception. Reached over the desk, yanked the telephone from the curvy night clerk's hands. Unlike Berta and the Irish la.s.s, this one was dark-haired, Peruvian. She protested in a violent chirping of rapid-fire Spanish.

I put my hand over the receiver. "He loves you, b.i.t.c.h, but I gotta use the phone."

"Horse, that you?" Alex's voice growled in my ear.

"Who else?"

"You off?"

"See you later." I cleared my throat. "Maybe never."

"Dude, listen, when you get back-"

I hung up, dialed a taxi company. When I finished, I handed the phone to the night clerk. She glared at me, put the phone back in its cradle.

"What is love?" I asked her.