Читать книгу The Pinocchio Syndrome - David Zeman - Страница 22

Plainview, Texas

November 28

12:40 P.M.

The Reservoir was controversial.

Its maintenance was paid for by state taxes as well as local fees, but local residents felt the state could not be trusted to maintain it properly. Leaks had been discovered in some of the retaining walls since the last election, and the state had been slow to repair them. Experts hired by the county government determined that the purification equipment was out of date. The state sent in its own experts, who held that the equipment met all federal standards and would not need to be replaced for twenty years.

The reservoir was crucial to the community because rainfall was an irregular thing in these parts, and drought could hit when it was least expected. Farmers joined local homeowners in putting constant pressure on both the county and state to enlarge and modernize the reservoir.

Today three small boys, all fifth-graders, had climbed the fence and were sailing toy boats on the rippled surface of the water. They had observed the maintenance building long enough to determine that the staff was out for lunch.

The boats floated jerkily on the water, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind.

‘I dare you to jump in,’ said the tallest of the boys, whose name was Ethan.

‘You’re crazy,’ said the others. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘If I go first,’ Ethan said, ‘that means you two have to go too.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the boy named George. ‘Does not.’

‘Does too.’

‘Does not.’

The smallest boy seemed impressed by the dare, but not willing to jump into the frigid water.

‘There, look.’ Ethan was pointing at his sailboat, which was floating away toward the deep center of the reservoir. ‘If I jump in, you two have to go too.’

He pulled off his jacket, slipped out of his running shoes, and leaped into the water.

‘Jesus!’ he cried as the coldness enveloped him. But he began to swim toward the drifting boat, his arms flailing.

‘Get out of there!’ the other two shouted. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘You faggots!’ Ethan called. ‘You pussies! I’m gonna sink your boats.’

He had almost reached the boat when he saw the object.

It was transparent, a globe about eight inches in diameter. It was floating a few feet from him. It would have been invisible had he not chanced to come directly upon it. The blue sky was reflected on its upper surface.

‘Hey,’ he said, more to himself than to the others. He trod water, edging closer to the floating globe. The others, on shore, could not see it.

‘Hey, this is cool,’ he called, turning to look at his friends. ‘Hey, I found something.’

George and Andrew shouted in unison, ‘What?’

‘A thing – a globe.’ Ethan stretched out his right hand to touch the object, still treading water. His finger, already chilled by the water, touched the globe’s surface. It felt like plastic.

‘Hey, you guys,’ he called. ‘Wait till you see what I found. If you only had the guts …’

He swam behind the object and gave it a push toward shore, intending to guide it to his friends. To his surprise, the surface of the globe was brittle and seemed to crack at his touch.

‘Hey!’ He patted the globe again to push it toward shore. The outer surface crumbled like a layer of ice. For an instant he saw something inside and reached to touch it. It was a viscous mass, colorless. Even as he felt it on his hand it dissolved. The shards of the globe were nowhere to be found. They also had dissolved.

‘Damn it,’ Ethan said. ‘Fuck.’

‘What is it?’ called George. ‘What’s going on?’

Ethan now remembered his mission and made a show of sinking his friends’ boats. Claiming that he was used to the water, he swam around in front of his friends for a good five minutes, pushing the boats this way and that as he shouted insults at those less brave than he.

Then the chill of the water began to penetrate his young body, and he came in to shore.

‘There’s no towels or anything,’ said George. ‘You’re gonna get sick.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Ethan. ‘I’m not going to get sick.’

A few moments later the boys were gone, their cries echoing over the water.

Cuernavaca, Mexico

6 P.M.

Stray dogs were everywhere.

They clustered around the tourist buses in packs, whimpering for a handout. The tourists, all Anglos, watched with distaste as ragged children kicked and punched at the dogs to get at the bus windows.

‘Señor, Señora, money, money, money!’

‘Amigos, bienvenidos!’

‘Layee, give me money!’

The contrast between the crisp mountain air of the town and the fetid odors of dirty children, pariah dogs, and cooking was bizarre. In the distance the snowcapped peak of Popocatépetl could be seen, pine forests gracing its slopes. The other volcano, Ixtacihuatl, was hidden by clouds.

The tour company had obviously picked one of the most squalid tourist areas to stop at first. One good-humored woman was pointing a video camera at the children, who laughed in delight and cut capers before her. The other tourists, tired from their voyage, sat dully, their eyes half closed.

The tour director made a halfhearted effort to shoo away the dogs and children, then began herding the tourists off the bus and toward the restaurant, which was incongruously named Le Café Américain.

The restaurant’s owner had come out to greet the tourists. A short, heavyset man wearing a white apron, he was the first to see the plane.

It was a small one-engine plane, apparently a crop duster. It was flying back and forth over the valley, the drone of its engine almost drowned out by the clamor of the children and the barking of the dogs.

A couple of the tourists followed the direction of his gaze and looked at the plane. Then, like the others, they were distracted by their own concern to get into the restaurant without being besieged by the children.

The driver, a mustachioed Mexican wearing a faded dungaree jacket despite the intense heat, waved the children away halfheartedly. He stood by the door of the bus, helping the female passengers down onto the dusty street. He kicked savagely at a stray dog, which yelped and limped away.

‘Watch your step, please.’

He noticed the plane, which, crisscrossing the valley, was now emitting a trail of spray that settled languidly onto the fields. He reached into his pocket reflexively for a cigarette, then remembered the passengers and waited until the bus was empty.

The driver and the restaurant owner fought off the dogs and children until the last of the tourists was inside the restaurant. Then the driver offered the other man a cigarette. They used the same match. For a moment they stood side by side in silence, gazing out over the valley.

‘Chingar,’ said the driver. ‘What’s with the plane?’

‘Government bullshit,’ replied the restaurant owner. ‘Trying to impress the gringos, something.’

‘Crop duster,’ the other man shook his head. ‘There are no crops where he is except cactus.’

‘And the arroyo.’

‘The last part of it, sí. Hardly more than a trickle at this time of year.’

‘Another way to waste our money.’ The restaurant owner took a long drag on his cigarette, then unwillingly threw it in the gutter. ‘Hasta luego, amigo. Have to feed the animals,’ referring to the tourists.

The driver watched the children converge noisily on the discarded cigarette. Then he climbed into the overheated tour bus to get out of the sun.

The plane had banked toward the town and now circled above the narrow streets in the thirsty dusk, occasionally trailing threads of mist.