T. Parker - The Jaguar

“Where?”

“I want you to see my accomplishments. The third floor.”

“That’s where the lepers live.”

“They appreciate my accomplishments. That is why they live there.”

“Accomplishments? I don’t understand.”

“What I have achieved.”

“They must be special if the elevator doesn’t even stop there. And if there’s no landing on the inside stairway.”

His look contained small amounts of joy and conspiracy. “So we take the elevator to the ground floor and we use the outside stairs, yes okay?”

The outside air was weighted and cool but the breeze felt good against her skin. She hadn’t been outside since the attack, nearly three days ago. She saw no remnants of the Thursday night party, nothing of the stage or canopy, not a beer can or a roach or a cigarette butt. Small songbirds splashed in a pool of rainwater and a pig lay on its side in a wallow of hurricane mud. She glanced off toward the clearing where the vehicles had been parked that night and where no policeman or politician or reporter would help her. She saw Saturnino’s face on the rising glass of the SUV and felt a cold front shudder down her body.

The stairway to the third story began in a small walled-off patio. The entrance to the patio was through a white plaster archway featuring an elaborate gate made of stainless steel. In the middle of the gate a steel sun either rose or set, the slats of its light fanning up and out to the edges of the frame.

“At first the gate, it was made of black iron. They did not like it. They wanted the hope of light, not the darkness they live in. So I had this made. It reflects sunlight even on a day of clouds. It turns moonlight into sunlight.”

“Are they contagious?”

“They are treated by a very good doctor. He is here once a week. They are not contagious. But do not go close to them.”

“Why?”

“It is offensive to them. They are proud. They do not want to be near us. It is not true that pieces of their bodies fall off. That is a popular myth. But sometimes there are amputations.”

Armenta opened the gate with a conventional key, not a plastic card. He slowly pulled it open, the hinges creaking and the stainless steel sun flashing dully in the low light of evening. He waited.

She entered the patio and stood on the cobalt blue tiles and looked at the clean white plaster of the archway, and at the steps leading up to the third floor. The steps were limestone, thick and wide, the slabs fitting together so tightly that the entire stairway appeared to have been chiseled from one piece of stone. They looked like they had been worn smooth by the centuries and would be worn smoother by many more.

“The stairway once was part of a Mayan ruin near Kohunlich,” said Armenta. “It is believed to have been an observatory. The man who built this castle discovered it buried in the jungle. He had the stairway collected and reassembled here. It was built in approximately twelve hundred, A.D.”

“Interesting history,” she said.

“We are interesting history also. That is why I want you to put us in music. So we will be remembered.”

“I will not write music about you.”

“Would you write music about hating me?”

“Hate can’t write music.”

“Fearing me?”

“Fear can’t write music either.”

“You are wrong. Music is our protest against hate and fear. You must protest. You must write music about the horrors you have endured here in what you call hell. How else will the world know?”

“Your words only make sense on the outside.”

“Will you write music about Felix and the leopards? Who will remember him if you don’t?”

“Stop. You’re just adding confusion to savagery.”

He looked at her evenly, nodding. He shut the gate and the lock clicked into place. He pointed to the west-facing wall and Erin saw the scores of small dark geckos. They looked like commas but they moved every few seconds as they took the mosquitoes.

Erin climbed the steps behind Armenta. They stood at an arched wooden door with wrought-iron straps and a speakeasy with its bars festooned with fanciful copper butterflies. “They will only open the door for the doctors, nurses, one teacher, and for me. No one else.”

“Can they go to other floors?”

“They do not use other floors.”

“Are they allowed?”

“Have you seen them on other floors?”

Armenta knocked. A long moment later the panel behind the butterflies slid open and Erin could see the twinkle of eyes watching them from the darkness inside.

— Benjamin. Give us a few moments.

— You have all the time you need. We will wait.

The panel slid shut.

“They need to prepare for us. The temperature will be cold for you. Because they wear the long clothes. They do not like having their faces and bodies visible to themselves or other people.”

“Why do they wear only white?”

“Black made them look like demons.”

A long minute later a latch bolt slid from its strike plate, then a deadbolt, and another. The door opened and Erin was standing face-to-face with a woman wearing a loose white dress, her face hidden beneath a gauzy white rebozo. Recessed in the folds was a healthy looking young face but the hand that held open the door had only a gnarled foreshortened stump of thumb.

Armenta spoke in rapid Spanish.

— Good evening, Nestra. This woman is my guest. I want to show her some of my accomplishments.

— We’re always happy to see you, Benjamin. We heard that Erin McKenna would be coming and now, look, it is true.

She smiled and told Erin how much she had enjoyed her songs with Los Jaguars and of course the ones she performed solo also.

Erin thanked her in Spanish and the woman held open the door and stepped back to let them in.

The foyer was cool and penumbral, with the late evening light slanting in from a high casement window. The floor was of ceramic tile, white-blossomed roses on blue backgrounds. The woman shut the door behind them, turned the latch bolt and slid the two deadbolts back into place.

Erin could smell faint bleach and lemons. The acoustics eddied sharply here, suggesting high ceilings and open rooms beyond. They went down a hallway lit by electric sconces. Nestra walked ahead of them, then turned to Armenta and nodded and pushed through a wooden door. Erin could see past her to a short hall that opened to a spacious room with walls made of dull green bricks. The door closed and Nestra was gone.

“Thirteen adults and eight children live here,” said Armenta. “A teacher for the children comes. The doctors and nurses. When I was hidden by the lepers they kept me for one week. The only safe way for me to leave was by the ocean. I was placed on a banana boat returning to Salvador with a load of corn and oranges. I slept on deck and was bitten by a bat, but I did not get sick. An eyelash viper hidden in the bananas bit me on the finger, but I did not die. I had pain. The water made me sick. I stayed in Salvador for almost a year. Eleven months, thirteen days. You never forget such things. Anya. I thought only of her, but I did what I had to do to survive. I had no children then. I made friends there and these friends had hundreds of American guns left over from their civil war. The military was disbanded out of fear they would try to rule the country. Thousands of guns. And these, of course, were badly needed in Mexico. In those days there was no Gulf Cartel. We were young and we had very little money. But I was able to buy the guns on credit from my friends. Because of trust. I repaid them very generously.”

“Rags to riches.”

“Rags? I don’t understand.”

“From poverty to riches.”

“That should be part of what you write about me.”