Читать книгу The Jaguar Man - Lara Naughton - Страница 11

FOUR

I sit with my backpack on my lap chatting with the taxi driver. He has a distinct Mestizo look, seems out of place in this Creole village, an artist, I think, on the fringe. He reminds me of friends at home. I like the way he tied his red bandana over his long hair, notice the remains of red fingernail polish on his left thumb, and wonder why he painted his nails and if he has a thing for the color red. Maybe he’s a painter or a musician. Maybe he plays music on the beach—wine flowing, good food, a bonfire. I’ve never seen anything like that in the village, but maybe it’s because I hadn’t met him yet and didn’t know where they gathered. I wonder if the diver knows him though I doubt they’d have much in common.

Underwater there are signs you use to communicate, the diver says. Okay. Up. Down. Slow down. Something’s wrong. Low on air. Out of air. Watch out for that big fucking shark!

He seems like a friendly driver, and I hope for an interesting conversation, but I’m confused that he doesn’t recognize the name of my hotel in this tiny village. It’s one of the most popular places to stay. There are nearly a dozen cabanas on the property, which is located at the very end of the road, any farther I’d be in the bay. Why doesn’t he know? He mentions he was watching the soccer game with the guy who was riding with him, and the local team won. I’m glad because I know this will make the diver happy. I guess that the taxi driver’s been drinking and carefully explain where I’m going, using local references which gives me a slight twinge of pride to be in-the-know.

I ask how much the fare is. He says BZ$20, but he’ll give me the ride for BZ$15 since . . . I can’t hear his reason or maybe he mumbles or maybe he doesn’t finish his sentence. Great, I think, a discount. I ask if he has change for $20 US, and he doesn’t. Again, I find it strange for a taxi driver not to have change, but it’s Sunday and things in this village are relaxed so I’m not concerned. I check my backpack and tell him I can either give him BZ$12 or I need to stop somewhere for change. It’s up to him. He says he’ll stop.

MYTH. When the angry man was still young, his father died and his abuela grieved. After the priest gave the last anointing and said, “Amen,” after Abu covered her dead son’s face with the small blanket she had stitched so many years ago for his baptism, after she cried in private because he had never been a good boy or a good man, she took her grandson’s hand and led him to the trailhead. They walked the easy loop, careful of the sharp sprouts and with an eye out for animal tracks. They stopped to watch a Blue Morpho drink from rich mud and flit around the branches of a rotting log. As the butterfly flapped its wings, it seemed to appear then disappear, blue then brown, blue then brown, here then gone, son then no son, father then no father.

Abu told him be still. He held his breath and froze.

I can feel your papa inside the butterfly, she told him.

Then with the magic of a grandmother, Abu suddenly caught the butterfly in her cupped hands.

I think he’s apologizing, she told him.

To you?

Yes. And you.

She handed him the butterfly. He took it in his little boy fingers, studied its blue side, brown side, body, and legs. Then he plucked off one of the wings. Abu snatched the butterfly, pried open the boy’s mouth, and crushed the butterfly inside. He gagged, spit out mangled pieces, slapped at his tongue with his hands, then sat on the trail, crying.

Get up, she told him.

It took him a long time, but she waited. Then Abu placed an open palm on the top of his head, bent down, and kissed both his eyes.

You’re like your father, she told him.

No I’m not.

I love you, but you are.

FACT. Blue Morphos aren’t really blue. They have tiny scales on their wings that reflect blue light, making them appear to be one thing when they’re really another.