Russell Blake - Night of the Assassin

Once he turned sixteen and she fifteen the inevitable occurred; the two became inseparable in spite of admonitions from the adults. Jasmine was gorgeous by then, and at an age when many Mexican girls in past generations were married and having their first children, so it was foolish high hope on everyone’s part to expect that the two wouldn’t find each other, living out in the country as they did, and in the same compound. The boy had grown from a gangly colt into a self-possessed young man with looks that made females glance at him twice. Jasmine had noticed the transformation over the past year and her interest in him had moved from sisterly to something considerably warmer. Eventually, they discovered their curiosity and admiration was mutual and their passion quickly stoked to a boiling point they both gladly yielded to.

The couple found time to sneak away even while under near-constant watch, as young lovers usually did, confounding the best intentions of their guardians. They’d spend long hours in each other’s arms, in the barn, or hidden away in one of the recesses of the main house. Once they’d fully discovered each other they were like prisoners who’d crossed a long, dry desert and found themselves at an oasis, with no limitations on how much they pleasured each other. Their coupling soon became a daily event and for the first time in his life, the boy found himself enraptured by another human being. His attraction to Jasmine was magnetic and primal, and before long he was hers, body and soul, willing to go to any lengths to be with her or make her happy.

The boy was even willing to entertain Jasmine’s quirky ideas about the nature of reality, and indulged her penchant for spirituality and the paranormal, which at that point had developed into a borderline obsession. Every other utterance was regarding what fate, or the stars, wanted, which the boy attributed to her exotic nature and bored intellect. But she was deadly serious about her belief that there was more to the universe than what could be proved or seen, and so it was that three months after his sixteenth birthday he found himself agreeing to accompany her to the lair of the old woman who claimed to be a medium, so she could read his future.

That morning, they set off down the road on their bicycles, trailed by a pick-up truck carrying three men wearing cowboy hats and toting assault rifles. Even though Don Miguel was hardly ever in evidence, he insisted that the boy be protected at all times as though an attack on the ranch was imminent. This was just another way in which he was different than his cartel brethren – he was a meticulous planner and left nothing to chance. That had stood him in good stead throughout his life; he was ever-vigilant to possible threats to his family or entourage.

When they reached the clapboard hovel where the woman lived, marked with a battered roadside sign proclaiming Madame Sirena to be a medium extraordinaire, the truck pulled to a stop a discreet distance from the dwelling. The couple leaned their bicycles against the front of the house and, hand-in-hand, the pair ascended the three rickety steps. Jasmine knocked on the door, flakes of sun-bleached paint flaked off under her knuckles. After a considerable pause, the door was opened by an ancient gray-haired woman wearing a red gauze gypsy shawl trimmed in small gold coins. She fixed the couple with a one-eyed stare – the vision in her other eye having been lost long ago. The boy was momentarily repelled by the milky-white pupil, but instantly hid his reaction and braved a tentative smile.

“Ah. So this is the young man! Welcome, Jasmine, mi amor. Welcome. Look at him. He’s a strapping one, yes? Handsome, you were right about that, and strong as a bull, I’d wager. Come in, come in…” Madame Sirena insisted, gesturing at the dank gloomy interior with her claw-like hand. The boy noted in passing that she smelled like hastily applied cheap rose water, and sweat – a thoroughly objectionable combination that would stay with him as a reminder of unpleasantness for the rest of his life.

“Here. Sit at the table. Let’s see what we have here, eh? First I’ll look at your palm, and see what the gods have written for you in terms of love and life…and then I’ll do a reading.” She peered at him in the gloom. “It’s customary to leave a tribute for the spirits’ divine cooperation in producing an accurate reading, young man,” she hissed at him, in what he presumed she imagined to be a sly manner. Jasmine nudged him with her elbow and the boy fumbled in his pocket and fished out a two hundred peso note, placing it in the straw bowl the woman had balanced near the table’s edge. The bowl and the money therein quickly disappeared and the Madame moved around the room, lighting candles and incense. She pushed the button on a portable stereo sitting on a decrepit book shelf; vaguely-Asian music began to drift through the space, low volume, atmospheric dissonance to create a mood, more than anything.

The boy studied the walls and noted with amusement that there were countless photographs of mediums and seances and spooky-looking scenes, interspersed with turn-of-the-century posters depicting supernatural events and expositions. The overall effect was somewhat clumsy, but effective for the local peasantry. What Jasmine found so fascinating about this was beyond him, but if it made her happy, so be it. Seemed a small enough price to pay to find heaven in her embrace.

The crone approached the table and switched on a dusty yellow hanging lamp with an intricate brocade shade that directed most of the light to the center of the table. She gestured at him.

“Give me your hand. The right hand. Palm up. Just relax. This won’t hurt. Much,” she assured him, then cackled. He wondered whether she’d gotten her act out of central casting for a C-level horror film, the kind that were popular at the local cinemas with badly dubbed Spanish or blurry subtitles. Still, he played along, and placed his hand on the table.

The woman took it in hers and made a variety of sounds signaling deep thought.

“Hmmmm. Mmmm…yesssss. Oh. I see your love line is clear. You will only have one real love in your life, and it will be early in your time here. Hmmmm. Your lifeline is different. It’s long, but has many breaks, signaling something unusual. Maybe illness, maybe brushes with death. But it continues, so you will prevail through it all…hmmmm.”

This went on for a while and he pretended polite interest in the ambiguous generalities about his possible future. Of course, with Jasmine sitting there listening, love would be early and intense and genuine, which held an element of truth. When he was with Jasmine, he felt like an eagle soaring above the clouds. The intensity of his feelings for her were almost scary. It gave her power over him, which his training advised him to recoil from. Still, hormones were not to be denied, and he was smitten, no doubt.

The palm reading finished, the old woman trundled over to a cabinet and withdrew an ancient deck of cards, placing it on the table after shuffling them for several minutes.

“This is the tarot. It knows all, and tells all. Nobody can hide the truth from the tarot, and its words possess the wisdom of the ages.”

Sure they do, he thought. Two hundred pesos worth, to be exact. Including the cheesy canned tunes and the gypsy act. He wished she’d get on with it. He could think of a dozen different things he’d rather be doing with Jasmine just now, all of them involving nudity and absent an old crone’s ramblings.

The woman began her reading, and paused at the end after she’d revealed all the cards. The boy was absently studying the photos on the stained wall behind her, his attention caught by a photograph of a raven, or crow, perched on a barbed-wire fence. Something about it chilled his blood, but he didn’t know why. He’d tuned out her prattle in favor of making productive use of his time, thinking thoughts worthy of his energy rather than listening to superstitious mumbo-jumbo.