The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (88 page)

Tacho did not speak unless spoken to. Menardo waited until they were out of the driveway before he began telling Tacho his dreams. These were good-luck dreams—Menardo was certain because suddenly everything had seemed hopeful: his wife was happily planning business trips; Universal Insurance was about to close a deal with the U.S. government and his friend the general would fill him in on details in a matter of hours. Menardo gazed back over his shoulder at the shining white palace that was his home: how silly his lapses of confidence had been! All was safely protected, securely guarded, and shielded; each detail, each element, each person, in his life was secure. No one and nothing could touch him!

His dream the night before was proof of that. No one could lay a hand on him. Menardo had dreamed he was in a village of stone walls. Inside an abandoned room, a skeleton had been unearthed. “You dug this up?” Tacho asked.

“No!” Menardo answered quickly, shaking his head. “Not me! The skeleton had already been disturbed by someone else. Not me!”

Tacho glanced into the rearview mirror where he caught Menardo’s eyes for an instant. Menardo nodded. “The skeleton wore a necklace of green stone beads. But it wasn’t like a nightmare. I wasn’t afraid of it!”

“Because it had no feet or hands?” Tacho said.

Menardo had felt a chill excitement. “How did you know?”

Tacho had smiled broadly and tilted his head back so Menardo could see him in the rearview mirror. Menardo had forgotten how arrogant Indians could be. “Some say don’t leave the dead feet or hands to chase you and grab you.” Tacho seldom volunteered so much information. Stupid superstitions. Whenever Menardo had observed Tacho or other ignorant Indians from his home village, Menardo found it difficult to believe his own family had ever been connected with such ignorance and superstition. Menardo’s ancestors had adopted European dress—brocades and silks as befit royalty. They had worn the old feather capes on ceremonial occasions, and to satisfy the rabble when they paid their taxes once a year.

Menardo did not see what difference hands or feet made if you were dreaming about a skeleton. In dreams, anything could happen anyway—feet or no feet. He was tired of Tacho’s superstition. “I was not afraid because I was wearing body armor.”

“Armor? In your dream?” Tacho’s eyes were shining in the rearview mirror; Tacho had started laughing as if Menardo had made a joke. Menardo could not endure Tacho’s ignorance. Indians such as Tacho stayed poor because they feared progress and modern technology.

Menardo had not intended to reveal the secret to Tacho, but suddenly it had happened: Menardo realized what he had wanted to do from the beginning, after Sonny Blue had first given him the vest. Menardo had wanted to see a live bullet hit the vest. He wanted to witness the superiority of man-made fibers that stopped bullets and steel and cheated death.

The armed escort cars remained at the main gate to bolster country club security. They feared car bombs crashing through. Universal Security provided armed patrols outside and inside the country club. Leftist rabble were all terrorists, and terrorists might try anything. Last Friday the police chief had killed a stray dog that had wandered too close; they had feared terrorists had strapped explosives to the dog for use with a remote-control security device. They had found nothing on the dead dog except fleas.

The waiters had been putting up the blue-and-white-striped awnings that completed the tent where their shooting club relaxed in the shade with cuba libres and margaritas while bets were made and members took turns firing. Menardo glanced at his wristwatch. There was enough time before the other shooting-club members would arrive. Menardo directed Tacho to park the Mercedes behind the tent for privacy. Without speaking, Menardo had first removed his coat and tie, laying them carefully on the backseat so they did not wrinkle. Tacho had watched intently in the rearview mirror. Menardo thought he even saw a ripple of amazement cross the Indian’s big face as he had unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the bulletproof vest. Tacho had been embarrassed and reluctant as Menardo removed the vest and handed it to him. “See that? Feel it!” Menardo could hardly contain his excitement. He did not need their brochure of pictures; he would prove it to himself. Tacho was still examining the nylon straps of the vest when Menardo thrust the information brochure into Tacho’s lap. Menardo took the vest and slipped it back on. He leaned over the driver’s seat and looked over Tacho’s shoulder at the color photographs of police and others whose lives had been saved by the vest. Menardo was not sure Tacho could read, so he had read aloud the caption of each of the photographs. Menardo savored Tacho’s amazement that soft, man-made fibers with no steel or metal at all could stop a bullet. Menardo had not felt so happy in years—not since he had
first made love with Alegría. They could not lay a hand on him, that was the meaning of his dream. He did not need an Indian such as Tacho to tell him that. What a lovely spring day it was! The breeze was dry and cool, and Menardo felt as if suddenly a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The general might have secret meetings in Honduras or Costa Rica, and the police chief might get video cameras from mysterious U.S. agents, but Menardo has his connections too: with Sonny Blue, who represented certain U.S. businessmen with trade proposals.

All his nightmares, his premonitions, about assassins’ ambushes—gunmen on motorcycles and exploding bombs—had meant nothing more than too much rich food before bed. Menardo felt lighthearted. The general would never deceive or betray him. They were closer than brothers—he and the general. The general did not know how to talk to those rural merchants. Certain rivalries between rural families and clans had made security policies easy for Menardo to sell. Menardo sighed with satisfaction. Changes all around only made the insurance and security business better. The sky was the limit, even the general knew that. Menardo opened his pistol case on the backseat and laid out the Ruger, Colt, and Smith & Wesson—all of them bought from Greenlee in Tucson. “You want to see how the body armor works?” Menardo had to repeat himself twice because Tacho did not seem to understand Menardo’s plan. Tacho was still staring down at the color brochure of huge purple bruises on hairy white chests where wonder fiber had stopped the bullets before penetration.

Menardo felt the breeze cool his arms and shoulders as he got out of the car. He knew he looked ridiculous wearing only the vest and trousers and shoes, but he saw no reason to spoil a shirt and sport coat. The color brochure had not done any good with Tacho, who seemed stupefied and unable to understand Menardo’s most simple commands. “I will stand here. You will stand over there. . . . Yes, there. Right on that spot. Whatever you do, don’t step over that line. . . . No.” Tacho’s smile wasn’t so arrogant now. He had Tacho scared. “I want you to see this, Tacho, so you understand.” Menardo had brought the 9mm Smith & Wesson to Tacho, who seemed rooted to the ground where Menardo had ordered him to stand.

Menardo’s heart was pounding with excitement. He could hardly believe what fun he was having with the bulletproof vest. Later, after the others had arrived, Menardo would ask one of the waiters for a carving knife, and they would witness still another amazing escape from death. He glanced down at his watch and realized he was impatient for
the others to arrive. Because he wanted to stun and dazzle them. He imagined how dramatic it would be for the others—the governor, former ambassador, the judge and the doctor. Because the general and the police chief would surely guess the vest’s secret, but to the others it would appear as if Menardo faced certain death.

TACHO HAD KNOWN all along about the vest. What Tacho did not see or overhear was reported to him by the maid and the cook’s helper. The household staff felt betrayed by the loss of their prestigious lady, Iliana. She alone had been respectable. Tacho had mentioned the vest to El Feo and the woman called Angelita La Escapía. The wild woman had known immediately about this “body armor,” a miracle fiber that stopped bullets. Angelita talked too much, but she knew interesting facts. Politicians and the rich. Police, politicians, and the very rich wore body armor under their clothes whenever they went out in public. Bulletproof wigs for men and women were available to prime ministers and presidents, who wore bulletproof glasses with the wigs for optimum protection. “Nothing is foolproof,” Angelita said. “Professionals aim for the mouth or the ear.”

The fetish suffered night sweats, and one morning Tacho had found a puddle of urine at the foot of the bedroll. Tacho had been afraid to disturb the bundle since then. He was not sure if the opal or the coca leaves had been responsible for the night sweat and urine. Tacho worried the police had killed the bundle’s Peruvian caretakers and the bundle had been angered and desired revenge. The twelve coca leaves belonged to a powerful spirit.

In the South, there were thousands who worshiped Mama Coca, because she had loved and cared for the people for thousands of years. Mama Coca had taken away the pain, she had numbed the hunger, and she had given tired travelers a last push over the mountain. Mama Coca had sustained them all along, and now Mama Coca was going to help them take back the lands that were theirs. That was why the white men feared the coca bushes and poisoned and firebombed them. Coca leaves
gave the Indians too much power, dangerous power; not just the power money buys, but spiritual power to destroy all but the strong. All things weak, all things European, would shrivel, then blow away. Nothing would stop their passing; all their apprentices and toadies whatever their ancestry, would disappear too.

Tacho tried to pretend he did not understand what Menardo wanted done with the pistol. The upstairs maid had told Tacho about Menardo’s wearing the vest to bed; she often found the color brochure about the vest in the bedcovers, evidence Menardo fell asleep reading about the vest. But Menardo was crazier than Tacho had thought. Menardo was babbling about playing a joke on the others. He would make fools of them!

Still, nothing had prepared Tacho for Menardo’s request to shoot him in the chest with the 9mm Smith & Wesson. Tacho’s hesitation had only excited Menardo more. At the end of the country club driveway limousines and escort cars could be seen passing the main-gate guardhouse as if traveling in a convoy.

Menardo wanted perfect timing—he wanted Tacho to wait until the cars had pulled up, then he would greet his fellow shooting-club members, then Tacho must shoot. Snap! Snap! Snap! One two three! Before the others could even open their mouths! What an exhibition they would see! Here was a man to be reckoned with—a man invincible with the magic of high technology.

As the convoy of Mercedeses and escorting Blazers slowed to a halt, Menardo had gestured extravagantly with both arms like a windmill above his head; then he had pointed at both front panels of the vest, then at Tacho, who was holding the pistol at his side. The heads inside the cars stared dumbly at Menardo until he yelled at Tacho to point the gun; as soon as Tacho had raised the automatic, all eyes had been on Tacho. Menardo shouted at his fellow club members, “Watch this! Watch this!” Tacho looked at the stupefied faces of the general and the police chief; he wanted to be sure they did not order their bodyguards to shoot. They seemed to realize Menardo was giving the orders. “Go on! Now! Do it! Fire!” Menardo’s voice had been shrill with frenzy as he slapped the left panel of the vest; right over his heart. “Here! Here!” he urged Tacho. Before General J. or the police chief or any of the others could leap from their cars, Tacho had fired the 9mm automatic once, striking Menardo in the chest.

The fall surprised Menardo, and somehow he had no air in his lungs to speak to the general and the others who knelt over him. Tacho had
stood looking down at him, still holding the 9mm in his hand. The police chief and General J. fumbled with the nylon webbing and zipper of the vest, and Menardo could feel himself sinking into their arms. What was the general saying? Had Tacho fired the pistol? Why had he fallen? Menardo could not remember. He felt a warm puddle under himself. Why had the waiters poured soup over him? What were they looking at? They could examine the vest later for damage, but right now he needed help to stand up. He was getting too wet and cold lying there.

ALEGRÍA HAD BEGUN to feel uneasy when Bartolomeo showed up in Tuxtla. She did not like how easily Bartolomeo had located her at the shop. He claimed he was working with Indians in the mountains; some “internal committee” in Havana wanted him to investigate the Indians. They could not be certain any longer which groups of Indians were true Marxists, and which tribes were puppets for the U.S. military, or worse, tribes which were corrupted by nationalism and tribal superstition.