Читать книгу The Iguana Tree - Michel Stone - Страница 14

HÉCTOR AND MIGUEL shared a hard bench beside a soda machine and waited for Miguel’s cousin to arrive. Outside, the air had smelled of diesel and exhaust fumes from the buses, but here, inside the terminal, Héctor breathed the sterile scent of cleaning fluids and air conditioning, institutional odors he hardly knew.

Miguel picked up a newspaper from the floor beside a trash bin at the end of the bench.

“Can you read any of that?” Héctor asked.

“Not too much, no, but I can look at the photos.”

Héctor waved him off. “You cannot learn news from photos.”

“I see they are playing baseball here,” Miguel said, flicking a picture of an angry first baseman and an umpire, nose to nose. The player pointed at the base while the umpire pointed at a player from the opposing team, a cloud of dust at their feet.

Héctor laughed. “They get just as pissed about bad calls as we do.”

Miguel nodded, flipping pages. “Looks like they had a big storm somewhere beside an ocean.”

Several pictures of a nasty squall filled the page Miguel held: waves crashing under houses along the shore, boarded windows, a sailboat toppled like a toy.

“That doesn’t look like this place,” Héctor said.

“Let’s see,” Miguel said, running a finger along the foreign newsprint a moment before, “Ha! Our new home. This says South Carolina and North Carolina here.”

Héctor stared at Miguel. “And that is where we are heading? That is not so good.”

Miguel laughed, tossing the paper back to the floor at the base of the trashcan. “My cousin Pablo has said nothing about this storm. You know how newspapers do; they make shit up.”

“No, they don’t,” Héctor said, studying Miguel’s face.

Slight lines ran from the corners of Miguel’s eyes to his temples always, giving him a fixed look of mischief, like the faces of wayward boys in church when the priest looked away.

Miguel shrugged and glanced at the clock on the distant wall.

“Your cousin must be a good man to drive this far for us,” Héctor said, following Miguel’s gaze and wondering how much longer they must wait for Pablo to arrive here for them.

“Sure, he is my blood, isn’t he? But I have not seen him in years. He went to America when I was a boy. We have spoken, of course, but he has never returned to Mexico.”

“And his wife?” Héctor asked.

“I know nothing of her except he met her here, and she, too, is from our country.”

He pulled his shirt tight across his chest. “This manufactured air chills me. I am not used to it.”

The coyote had brought them to the bus station hours earlier. The idea appealed to Héctor because so many people milled around this place, coming and going. The station seemed a safe spot to wait for Pablo. The two had spent the day eating crackers from the vending machine, reading the arrivals and departures board, and napping on benches.

“I don’t much like the cold in here either,” Héctor said, standing. “I need to move my legs. Too much stillness the past few days, you know?”

Miguel stretched out on the bench. “Lying down feels good, too,” he said, closing his eyes.

Héctor stepped to the water fountain and then made his way around a corner to the men’s room, nodding a greeting to a withered old man slowly sweeping the floor there. Moments later as Héctor rounded the soda machine, he stopped, unsure whether to proceed or to run. An official wearing a uniform and a gun strapped to his hip, stood over Miguel. The officer reached down, tapped Miguel on the knee.

This was the end; they would be back in Mexico in an instant. Miguel sat up so slowly, too slowly, and Héctor cringed at his friend’s ignorance. Did he not understand the stranger was a lawman? With a weapon? At once Héctor realized his own foolishness, standing motionless like a dead tree in the middle of this place, staring at Miguel and the official. He turned with a cough and revisited the water fountain, pretending to drink as the water splashed off his lips into the bowl. When he had bent over the fountain as long as he could bear the wait, he glanced toward Miguel’s bench. The official had joined Miguel on the bench. Héctor retreated to the men’s room where the withered janitor remained, now bagging trash and humming.

Héctor felt foolish returning so soon to the toilet, but the man nodded at Héctor as if he’d not seen him there only minutes earlier. Héctor went into a stall, locking the door behind him. He would count. When he reached one hundred—no, two hundred—he would emerge and check on Miguel. But what if Miguel needed him now? How could Héctor possibly help Miguel? Héctor must count, wait.

When he reached two hundred, the bathroom was silent, and he knew the old janitor had left. Héctor counted again, this time to fifty, indecisive and desperate for more time, believing the officer surely remained with Miguel.

But a new panic set in. What if the officer had hauled Miguel someplace? Héctor would not be able to find him. And what would he do if he could find Miguel? No, if Miguel were gone, Héctor would have to proceed to South Carolina without him. But Héctor did not know Pablo. How could they identify one another when Pablo arrived? Would he agree to take Héctor after Héctor had let Miguel get caught? But Miguel’s capture was not Héctor’s fault. Sweat rolled down Héctor’s chest despite the cold air; he had to emerge from this stall, go to Miguel.

He stopped at the water fountain again and took a slight sip before turning toward the bench.

To his surprise, Miguel remained, and the officer had vanished. Now Miguel stood laughing and chatting with another man. Héctor stopped and watched as the two nodded, smiling, patting one another on the back.

“Isadore,” Miguel shouted, waving Héctor to them. “Pablo,” he said to the man, “This is the fellow I told you about. Isadore. Isadore, my cousin, Pablo.”

Confused and weak in the belly, Héctor shook Pablo’s hand.

“You men ready to roll?” Pablo said, pumping Héctor’s hand, beaming a wide grin.

He resembled Miguel in features, but his belly was rounder, softer, and Héctor imagined Pablo’s having a wife made the difference there.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Miguel said, a hint of urgency in his voice.

When they were safely in the car, Miguel’s smile faded and he closed his eyes. “Shit, Héctor. You will not believe what happened to me when you went for your little walk. Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.

“Who was that man? A lawman?” Héctor said, leaning toward the front seat from the back where he sat, his belly settling now as the distance between themselves and the bus station grew.

Pablo stared at the road but said, “You boys have got to be careful. Especially in Texas, man. Doubly so near the border. This place is crawling with folks like you: people here without the proper papers. Don’t let your guard down.” Then he began to laugh, a family trait perhaps, laughing when no one else knew the joke.

Miguel began to laugh, too.

“What?” Héctor said.

Miguel turned to face Héctor. “We got lucky when that officer approached the bench where I sat, I smiled at him and motioned for him to sit if he’d like,” Miguel said.

“You are crazy. I have suspected this all along, but now I know. Your cousin is crazy, Pablo.”

“So,” Miguel continued, “He says to me in Spanish, ‘How’s everything going, friend?’ and I say, ‘Life is okay, except for that big storm in my home state. So much damage there.’”

Héctor looked at Pablo. “Are you this smooth under pressure, Pablo?”

Pablo ran a hand through his hair and snorted. “I wish so.”

“Go on,” Héctor said, punching Miguel in the shoulder.

“So, he says to me, ‘Oh yes, you must be from Florida,’ and I say, ‘No, never been to Florida. I am from South Carolina, a beautiful place. I work on a crew for a sailboat, but I left to get away from this storm. Heading back today.’”

Miguel tapped the seat beside Pablo. “That is when Pablo arrived at the bus station. I could see him across the place looking for me. The officer says, ‘Do you have identification and a bus ticket?’ and I say, ‘Oh yes, sure, I have identification, but no ticket. I am meeting my cousin here.’ Then I shout at Pablo, ‘Hey Pablo, it’s me, Juan, over here.’ I say Juan because that is the name on my new identification. Pablo is quick to understand because he has the great intelligence of all the men in my family, hey, Pablo?”

Pablo said nothing, but shook his head, grinning, and slapped Miguel on the back.

“So Pablo walks up, and I embrace him and say, ‘Pablo, this officer and I were talking about the recent storm back home,’ and I fish my identification from my pocket and pass it to the man as we speak.”

Pablo glanced back at Héctor. “I said to the officer, ‘Nasty hurricane. Made a mess of the farm where I work.’ The whole time I’m smiling, but I’m wondering what kind of identification this fool of mine has handed the lawman. Then, just like that, the lawman hands it back to him, and wishes us safe travels back to South Carolina.”

“Oh, man,” Héctor said. “I would have vomited right there on the man’s shoes.”

“I got lucky. But you know I did as the coyote said. I looked the officer in the eye like I had nothing to hide. Plus, my identification is a decent likeness.” Miguel tossed the card across the seat to Héctor.

Héctor studied it, and in an instant noticed the striking resemblance. “You just walk through life as one lucky bastard, don’t you, Miguel?” Héctor pulled his own South Carolina driver’s license from his pocket. “Look at mine.”

“This cat looks some like you,” Miguel said before he jutted the card into Pablo’s field of vision.

“Not bad,” Pablo said, passing the card back to Héctor. “This is passable. If you had not eaten in days.”

“And you grew your hair,” Miguel added.

“And slid your left eye over just the slightest bit toward your right one,” Pablo said, laughing.

“And flattened your nose. Not much, you understand. I could give you a good, quick pop and fix that, no problem.” Miguel laughed now, too.

Pablo lowered his window and pulled on to a wide highway.

Hot breeze blew Héctor’s face. “Thanks,” he shouted over the rushing wind. “You fellows comfort me. Truly you do. I’ll be most confident if an American lawman ever asks to see my identification.”

The highway sliced through a mat of dry, brown grass as far as Héctor could see, and a brief twinge of longing for his lush village struck him.

Miguel turned in his seat, smiling. “I cannot believe we are here, Héctor.”

Héctor reached to his friend, clasping his hand across the seat. “We are here,” he said.

Héctor shoved his identification into his pocket and watched the passing landscape, considering his good fortune to have hooked up with Miguel.

PABLO SAID, “You need to understand the mentality here, not so much among the folks you’ll meet on Edisto Island, but among others. The politicians and the city dwellers. And those who work for the government.”

Pablo had driven all night and much of this day, with only three brief stops, unwilling to let Héctor or Miguel take a shift. They traveled through the states of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, though darkness had cloaked much of their passage through Louisiana and all of their travels through Mississippi and Alabama. Perhaps Héctor could one day return to those pretty-sounding places to view them in daylight.

With his right hand on the wheel and his left elbow propped in the open window, and a gift for easy conversation, Pablo conveyed a confidence and wisdom that comforted Héctor.