Читать книгу The Luck of the Maya - Theodore Brazeau - Страница 7

The Desert / El Desierto

CARLOS

In the rear-view mirror, I’d had my eye on a big newish looking car that had been hovering back of us for some time. Lucy was just starting one of her stories, when the big car suddenly accelerated. It rushed along our left side, and without warning there were bullets buzzing and plunking all around us. They tore through the roof of the pickup, carved gouges in the hood, shattered the driver’s side window and, fortunately, just missed the driver. That would be me.

The big car swung half into our lane and its brake lights flashed. It was slowing down to make another pass, or to run us off the road into those rocks. I careened to the right and was able to squeeze past between the car and a solid looking rock formation off to the side of the road. We picked up some more bullet holes as we roared past, but only in the pickup bed with no real damage.

LUCY

A big car zoomed past us and I saw guns! Bullets whizzing all around and I didn’t have a gun to shoot back with!

Our only chance was to get the hell out of here! Carlos had floored the accelerator and the big engine was screaming. A curve in the highway was coming up and I saw a dirt track heading off into the brush.

“There!” I shouted as loud as I could over all the noise. I guess Carlos heard me or saw the track himself. He roared onto the little road, almost rolling the truck. We careened down that mostly invisible path at full speed. I don’t know how Carlos was hanging on to the truck, but I was hanging on to him. He felt kind of good, kind of solid, but I didn’t have time to think about that—I was too busy thinking about dying horribly!

CARLOS

I stood on the gas pedal and picked up some distance with the motor roaring, but I knew they would still catch us. “There,” Lucy shouted and pointed to a barely visible dirt road – more of a path – coming up ahead fast as the highway curved slightly.

I mashed on the brakes, wrenched the wheel, and the truck slammed into the road at a tilt, accompanied by a huge bang as it left the highway. We bounced and banged down the track dangerously fast, but it was even more dangerous to slow down. I hung on to the steering wheel with both hands, wishing I had two more. Jeb gripped the doorframe with white knuckles, and Lucy, in the middle with nothing else to hold on to, held on to me. That was the one happy thing in this whole terrifying experience.

Through the dust we threw up, I could barely see the big car in the mirrors. It was still there, but it was no longer gaining on us.

I slowed down slightly. We could easily roll the truck or tear off the oil pan on this kind of road. So could our pursuers, and I hoped they would. Our truck was a far better vehicle for this terrain than that city car was.

We kept going, slowing more and more as the road worsened and we could no longer see the car behind us. They had either gotten stuck, wrecked their car or just given up. We relaxed a little, and wondered where the hell we were and how to get anywhere from here.

This was desert, or semi-desert. Terrain that Jeb and I were used to working in, more often on horseback than in a pickup truck, but that was no help in telling us where we were. We didn’t think going back would be a good idea, so we continued on. We were in 4-wheel drive mode now, and going very slowly. The road had all but disappeared and had become more of a trail, and a trail should go somewhere, but where?

LUCY

Finally we were able to slow down to a merely terrifying speed. I looked back and could see only dust. If those guys were still back there, they would be driving blind.

We continued on for miles and miles through the dry landscape, going more and more slowly as the road deteriorated. It wasn’t even a road anymore, just a scratch on the ground. But it was the only indication of human activity we could see in any direction. The desert is beautiful in its way, but it seems so lifeless. I’m a tropical person. I like lots of plants and trees and flowers around me, a place full of life and smells and movement, like a jungle.

Now that things were calmer, I began to wonder how this could have happened.

“How did they know?” I asked aloud. “Something is wrong in Houston. Houston knew our route to Veracruz and knew about the truck. It had to come from there.”

“Maybe it was our Matamoros friends,” Jeb guessed. “They shot at me before.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Lucy, stated. “I’ve seen at least one of these guys before, the one hanging out the window doing the shooting. There must be a leak in the Houston Office. I don’t see how else they could have known about us and about this truck. This is not good and, to make matters worse, we are unarmed.”

We came over a slight hill and saw in front of us a little stick house with a garden and animals. Someone must live out here. How can they do that?

We pulled up in front of the fence and honked the horn. Nothing happened so we waited for a while.

CARLOS

As we topped a ridge, we could see where the trail was headed. On the slope of the next rise was a small dwelling. A thatched hut with a lean-to outbuilding, surrounded by a sagging fence. We saw chickens and a burro, a big garden and what looked like a well, so it must be inhabited.

I drove slowly up to the little gate, stopped, and tapped the horn. No response. We waited. We waited some more. And then some more. Finally, Jeb got out and stood by the truck.

“¡Somos amigos!” he called out “We’re friends! We are lost in the desert! ¡Necesitamos ayuda! We need help!”

After a few minutes, a short man wearing a large straw hat emerged from behind a rock pile further up the rise. He was carrying a rifle. The rifle was pointed at us. We didn’t make any sudden moves.

We exchanged formalities and introductions. Esteban was his name, Esteban González y Huerta. He lived out here with his family in the middle of nowhere. We didn’t ask why.

We told him the truth, no reason not to. We explained that we had been attacked on the highway, and pointed out the bullet holes to prove it. We asked for directions to somewhere—anywhere.

Esteban smiled and looked the truck over. “Sí,” he said, “I think you can make it in this truck. I’ll tell you how to go.” He called out, and three people came slowly out from behind the same rock pile. A small woman and two little girls walked shyly toward us.

“My wife, María de los Ángeles, and my daughters María and Lucinda.” The wife curtsied and the little girls stared.

“María and Lucinda!” Lucy exclaimed, her hands on her cheeks. “Those are my names! I am María Lucinda! I am so glad I have the same names as such beautiful children!” The little girls smiled shyly and looked at the ground. Lucy started talking to María de los Ángeles, but got only a blank stare in return.

“My wife does not speak much Spanish,” Esteban explained. “We are from near Papantla, in the Huasteca. Huasteco is what she speaks.”

“B’ix a béel. B’ix a k’àab’a?” Lucy said. This woman never stops with the surprises.

María de los Ángeles’ eyes widened. Her shyness disappeared and she produced a rapid-fire stream of what I presumed was Huasteco.

Lucy raised her hand for her to slow down. She turned and explained to us, “Huasteco is a kind of Mayan, but it’s different than Yucateco. Like Spanish and Italian, maybe more so. We can understand each other, but not when she talks that fast.”

LUCY

A man with a rifle came from behind a rock, and after a few minutes his wife and two darling little girls, very neatly dressed for out here in the wilderness, came out from the same hiding place and joined us. They were so pretty!

Amazing! The little girls were named María and Lucinda! My names exactly! And they were so sweet, wanted to show me everything, especially after I told them about our names. I think they thought that made us related in some way. Maybe it did.

The mother, María de los Ángeles, spoke Huasteco and couldn’t read or write, but the girls had books and could read them, loved to read them. Their father had taught them, way out here in the desert!

I could talk, with difficulty, with María de los Ángeles. She spoke only Huasteco, with a little Spanish, and my language was, of course, Yucateco. It helped I’d had classes comparing the twenty-eight or so Mayan languages, when I was at the university in Mérida. If we spoke slowly and didn’t get too complicated, we could get along. The little girls, naturally, were bilingual, they had to be, so they helped out.

We shared a meal with the family and then got on our way again. We wanted to get somewhere before dark. At least we had a rough idea of where we were going, thanks to Esteban. We found the highway, got up on it, and made it into Matehuala. I was never so thankful to see gas stations and motels and restaurants. Especially gas stations. Carlos hadn’t said anything, but I knew we were almost out.

CARLOS

Lucy and María de los Ángeles moved off companionably with the little girls leading the way. They wanted to show Lucy the chickens and the dog and cats. All of them had names, and they cackled and barked and mewed appropriately. They also introduced her to the burro, who didn’t seem at all impressed.

Meanwhile, Esteban was explaining to Jeb and me just how we would have to go to get to a real road. He drew maps in the dirt with a stick, drawing out landmarks, showing us how we would have to circle around to keep on fairly level ground until we came to a particular dry arroyo. “With this truck, you’ll be just fine,” Esteban told us, “unless it rains, of course. If it rains, you’ll never make it.”

Well, it didn’t look much like rain and rain was not a regular occurrence around here, so we thought our chances were good.

Esteban and his wife insisted we have a meal. We didn’t want to take their food, as we knew they didn’t have much extra, but they would have been terribly insulted if we’d refused. We contributed our stash of car snacks, the like of which the little girls had never seen, judging from their reactions. They nibbled on them, liked some, didn’t like others. I hoped they wouldn’t get sick.

Finally we took our leave. It was getting late and we wouldn’t be able to drive after dark, nor did we want to inconvenience our new friends by staying the night. There would be no extra beds or hammocks, and they would insist on giving theirs to us and themselves sleeping on the dirt floor, if not outside.

Lucy kissed her little namesakes and hugged their mother. We all shook hands with Esteban and thanked him for his help. Without him we could easily have wandered around for days, running out of gas and reduced to drinking radiator water.

We drove off, waving. “What a great little family!” exclaimed Lucy. “What it must be like, living out here in the middle of nowhere. I saw books, and those little girls can read and write! Their Papá reads to them every night before they go to sleep.”

“I hid 200 pesos in the kitchen where they’ll find it someday.” She continued, “That’s not much, about 16 U.S. dollars, but it will be a lot to them. I couldn’t just give it to them, they’d be insulted. Just because I’m mad at Houston, I’ll charge it to the expense account, write it off under bullets.”

We drove on, circling around, following Esteban’s instructions. We found the dry arroyo, a streambed covered with gravel washed down over the years. It was narrow, but mostly flat and we could drive a little faster.

We were not at all sure how far we would have to travel, and I was getting worried about our fuel supply. We hadn’t gone that far in miles since our last fill-up, but much of it was in low gear, and continued to be. This truck, wonderful as it was otherwise, was not a gas saver under the best of circumstances, much less in low gear with the 4-wheel drive engaged. I shifted into 2-wheel drive when I could, when the terrain permitted.

The going was easy, if slow, and finally we came to a paved highway with a bridge over the streambed. Esteban had told us to drive to the right for a few hundred yards to a place where we could climb up onto the pavement. Then we were to drive east for about 40 miles and we would wind up in Matehuala, a big city to him, a small town to us, but one with gas stations, motels, restaurants and all sorts of welcome amenities.

We rolled into town with the fuel gauge showing less than an eighth of a tank. The first thing we did was fill up and, while we were at the garage, we made a deal with the mechanic to change the oil and leave the truck inside overnight.

We didn’t need an oil change, but we did need to get the truck off the street. There was no knowing where the bad guys were. For all we knew they could be cruising around in Matehuala looking for us. We kept our eye out for the big car, and were relieved that it was nowhere in sight. Maybe they’re stuck out in the desert, we thought hopefully, perhaps dying of thirst. We checked into a motel, explaining to the curious clerk that our car was in the garage down the street for repair—almost true.