Читать книгу The Iguana Tree - Michel Stone - Страница 11

HÉCTOR TRIED to imagine the words he would use to describe this to Lilia. His chest could explode any moment from the hot air in the cramped compartment, the smell of other men’s sweat, from both oppressive heat and palpable nervousness. When the last couple of men crawled in, Héctor’s chest tightened with panic. The space simply could hold no more. The boots of the men on either side of him brushed against his ears. He tried to remain motionless out of courtesy, to avoid scraping the ears of the heads on either side of his feet. The already dark box in which they lay became seamless as the coyote closed the hole. The unmistakable sound of welding torch hissed beneath them, Héctor’s fate now literally sealed.

At each stage of his journey, Héctor had felt more committed, like he could not turn back, but now, his emotions were different. He imagined screaming, pleading his change of mind. Likely his screams would be ignored if they were even heard at all. And what if, somehow, the coyote were to hear him and open the sealed underbelly, then what? He would undoubtedly take Héctor out back, shoot him, and dump him in the day’s trash. Each man must surely have been thinking the situation through as Héctor did.

The roar deafened Héctor when the idling truck engine shifted into gear. The truck shook and rumbled and began moving, and Héctor was surprised that he could not tell, could not remember, if the front of the truck were to his right or to his left. He tried to breathe deeply, to slow his heartbeat, to relax. Mere centimeters separated the tip of his nose from the ceiling of this compartment, and he wondered what happened if a fat man were to seek a coyote. A fat man could never fit here, but a man of great girth would have no reason to leave Mexico. The poor, lean, hard-working men, however, had reason to head north. Héctor wondered, had he been fat, if the coyote would have accepted him.

Héctor had no way to mark the passing of time, no radio, no sights, nothing save the occasional turn left or right, deceleration or acceleration, the feel of a dirt road compared to pavement compared to gravel. These variations were the only changes in the infinitely black undercarriage of the truck.

No one spoke. Héctor had heard tales of men, wrongly presumed dead, buried alive. He understood how such a man felt. He could scratch at the floor or the ceiling until his nails were gone, his fingers bloody nubs, his voice hoarse, his throat raw, but nothing would help him. His situation would be unchanged from the effort. But I have hope, I have hope, he said over and over to himself. The words became his mantra, his silent lips forming the word hope, hope, hope, for what could have been hours, or minutes: all sense of place and time and reality had been sealed off with the final flames of the welding torch.

Héctor had no way of knowing whose head was just beyond the feet brushing his right ear, but after a while—he could not know how long—he discerned words rising above the rumbling of the truck, prayers uttered in the darkness. The anonymous voice floated soulful, desperate and crying. Soon others joined in until the incessant rumblings of the truck’s engine mixed with the desperate prayers of ten strangers in unison. Men cried, but the rhythm was soothing, somehow, with the repetition of the Hail Marys along with the vibrations of the truck. Maybe the comfort sprung from the act of ten strangers reaching out to their god in the most sincere and desperate way.

Héctor felt trapped somewhere between life and death, suspended among the souls of others, suffering similar fates. Ave Maria. Hail Mary, full of grace, Hail Mary full of grace. Hail Mary full of grace.

Would they be here days or merely hours? Héctor’s thoughts shifted between surreal images of purgatory and the very earthly thoughts of relieving himself. The acrid scent of urine permeated the musty air, mingled with sweat. The first of the men had pissed, maybe from fear. Héctor had heard of men doing so, or maybe he simply had to go and could wait no longer. Why wait? If he were going to be here for a day or more he’d have to go at some point. The smell of the men sickened him, their shared air hot, stagnant. Soon the odor changed to vomit, an unbearable stench, except what choice remained but to bear it? Go some place? Escape? Curse the men who pissed, who vomited? He breathed the smell of desperation. Héctor closed his eyes out of habit, to seal himself off from this place, these smells, the sounds, but doing so changed nothing. His dark surroundings remained the same whether his eyes were open or shut. He hoped he could go a long while before he wet himself. He wondered how long that would be, and he considered that this was a place where a man could die.

The truck slowed, then stopped, but this time was different. The engine cut, and the silence now frightened Héctor as much as had the deafening roar. Instinctively the men fell silent, their prayers ceased to be voiced though surely each prayed his hardest now, in silence. Muffled voices rose just beyond the compartment where they lay. Perhaps daylight shown now, though this was impossible to know. A knocking sound began at Héctor’s head then moved to his feet then under him, and he wondered what could possibly be happening outside. Perhaps this ride was a trick, perhaps they were at the border at a checkpoint. What would that be like? The patrol must be checking this delivery truck. He heard the sound of the doors opening and muted noises as the men rummaged above. He dared not whisper, though he longed to ask his compadres what they thought was happening. He imagined border patrol checking the cargo, looking for drugs in the boxes of dolls and toy maracas.

When the truck’s engine roared, the sound startled Héctor and emotions again welled in him. He knew not if he should be relieved. Had they passed an inspection? Were they now rolling onto American soil? Were the toys packed with cocaine? Was the truck being confiscated, impounded, sent to be demolished with Héctor and the men underneath never to be acknowledged again? Were the coyotes, right this moment, in the back of a police car, keeping silent about the men in the belly of their truck, in hopes of avoiding further punishment? The truck moved fast now, and Héctor knew they were on a highway. For the first time on the journey, someone spoke.

“I think we are across, men.” The voice was faceless, nameless, but it recognized the bond among these strangers who had prayed together in the darkness.

The men, like Héctor, seemed eager to believe the words to be true. Another said, “Then soon we shall drink water, breath fresh air.”

A third said, “Yes, you fellows stink,” and Héctor recognized the voice as Miguel’s.

The few who spoke now seemed optimistic, as if any moment the truck would stop and a coyote would pop open the hole in the bottom, help them out, and say, “Welcome to America.” But that did not happen, and for hours more the truck rolled on. It stopped once again, but only briefly, and when the noise and motion resumed, someone said, “Maybe we had to fill up with fuel.”

Another man vomited after a few hours and the stench permeated the small space, leading to further retching among the men. Héctor’s clothes were soaked through with perspiration. The underside of the truck—the floor on which Héctor and the men lay—had reached an insufferable temperature, assuring Héctor the roads they traveled were hot, and the sun shone outside.

Then a man far away from Héctor, perhaps the first one to have crawled into the box, began ranting, speaking nonsense, begging to get out, banging his fists, his feet, his head on metal. This was the kind of behavior Héctor had feared, either from himself or from another, the behavior of a man seized by panic. The cramped space allowed no room for such movement and the effect was like a wave rolling across the men, each being shoved and forced to move when no place existed to go. The man got louder and the sounds of his own screams incited him into such a frenzy one of the others yelled, “Someone knock him out!”

Someone else shouted, “I cannot. I cannot get a fist to him.”

Héctor knew then they would die. The man screamed for his mother and for a woman, Esperanza, and uttered gibberish Héctor could not understand. Héctor fought the natural reflex to clench his hands into fists, to tighten his body into a mode for fighting, for protection, because there would be no protecting himself in any way other than remaining prone and cramped. He could move nowhere. Finally the shouts stopped as if the man had exhausted himself. Had the coyotes heard the screams? He could not possibly know. So much was impossible to know and all a man could do was realize his fate was in the hands of God. That knowledge was only briefly comforting, because then Héctor would consider that it was not God driving this truck, but the coyote, and maybe God had turned his back on men such as these.

The truck slowed and pulled to a stop. The men collectively held their breaths, and Héctor felt sure their prayers were as his: that the panicked man would not resume his fit.

Someone dared to speak, barely a whisper. “We must remain silent, fellows. We have come far. Keep your faith.”

Héctor recognized the voice as the one who’d recommended punching the ranting man earlier, and he considered this man to be their faceless leader.

There they waited, and waited, and waited. They remained longer here, still in silence, than they had spent riding. Again new doubts filled Héctor’s heart. Had they been abandoned? Were they deep into America now, or had they gone the other direction? Maybe they were back in the warehouse; maybe something had gone terribly wrong. For hours the men lay in their sealed compartment. They could not guess if daylight or darkness were beyond the walls of their metal box. Someone began snoring softly, and Héctor thought what a blessing sleep would be now. Sleep was like sunshine and fresh air, something beautiful and unattainable.