across the walls as faint blotches of shadow. A garrobo the size of a switchblade flicked the brown scaly quiver of its tail back and forth as it pondered how to cross the blurred lines. Remembering Sisco’s parting advice on the best way to finesse the checkpoints that lay ahead-keep smiling-Roque wondered if the wag of a lizard’s tail wasn’t a kind of smile.
Lupe lay on the floor near the workbench, holding a slushy bag of ice to her face. For a pillow she used a plastic bag filled with underwear and a few blouses she’d bought that afternoon at a village market along the road. They’d also bought some ibuprofen and a cream with heparin; trust the local mamacitas, Roque thought, to know how to nurse a black eye.
A few minutes earlier, Rafa, the service-station owner, had explained that in just a short while the coyote would arrive to take Samir and Tio Faustino overland into Guatemala. Lupe, being Salvadoran, could pass through with Roque in the car using just her ID. Central Americans, he explained, can travel freely across borders from Guatemala in the north to Costa Rica in the south. She doesn’t need to walk.
Samir couldn’t believe that was the plan.-Look at the girl’s face! What do you think will happen at the checkpoint? They’ll question her, just because they can, just to fuck with her. Then what? He went on like that, voice rising higher with every phrase, as though pushing the words uphill. He knew his fate was tied to hers now and he hated her for it. But Rafa replied that his instructions were clear.
Ever since, the Palestinian had hammered away at Lupe.
– Let me tell you something: They will find your family if you try to run. You want them to die? Want me to tell you how it will happen?
– You’ve made your point, Roque said, aware he was broadcasting his attraction by taking up her defense. She just lay there, eyes closed, ignoring them both. Tio Faustino wisely had gone outside and was now stretched out beneath the Corolla’s hood, working by flashlight as he tightened the belts.-Let her rest.
Samir, as always, ignored him.-Whatever you’ve done, you must pay the price yourself.
– Who says she did anything?
Samir chuckled.-You’re a child. Maybe the same age as her, but you’re the child.
– Stop, enough, my God. She rose up on one elbow, the bag of ice sliding off her face onto the floor with a damp thud. The battered eye remained dark with bruising, the purple skin glistening from the heparin cream. The swelling had gone down. Her lip looked normal too, except for a scab.-Take it somewhere else, you two. I want to sleep.
Roque studied her face as she fumbled for her ice. He hoped this was the last of Lonely’s abuse, though who knew what damage a freak like that could inflict from a distance.
– You want to sleep? Samir couldn’t help himself, couldn’t hold his tongue.- Let me tell you something. My wife’s brothers tried to save her, like our young friend here dreams of saving you, but what did they accomplish? Refugee camp, it’s a prison. And where can they go from there, back to Iraq? Palestinians have to register with the Ministry of the Interior every month, which is just signing up to be killed. Bodies get left out in the street, some with their facesburned away by acid, some with no hands. Just before I left, the Jaish al Mahdi stormed into this tiny radio station. All ten people who worked there, men and women both, were dragged out into the street and shot. I saw this happen with my own eyes. I watched those poor people, I knew their names, I saw them beg for their lives. So no, my wife, her brothers, they cannot return to Baghdad. And they cannot work in Syria, not legally. They’ve all but exhausted their savings. Fatima has to choose between medicine or food.
He clutched his small cloth bag to his chest, rocking as he spoke.
– Know what Fatima does for money? She fasts. Yes. She has an engineering degree-think about that, an Arab woman with an engineering degree-but she fasts. She does this for rich people, men and women who can’t be bothered to honor the traditions on their own. So they hire a surrogate, they hire my wife. They pay her $60 per month for a sick relative, a son who has strayed with an evil woman, a brother who has lost his business. Some just don’t want to observe the Ramadan fast, so they hire Fatima to do it for them. Sometimes Shatha, my daughter, she does the fasting, because her mother is too weak. Here, I will show you a picture.
He dug into his bag, withdrew a photograph, held it out for her to take, but Lupe didn’t move. Finally, to save the man embarrassment, Roque reached out for it. It was a close-up, just the two of them, mother and child, faces filling the frame, hair unveiled, raven-black and long, both of them smiling, cheek to cheek-same dimples, same eyes, same lips. He couldn’t see much resemblance with the father, thought better of saying so. He tried to hand the picture back but Samir merely clutched his bag tighter.
– There is no school for Shatha. Fatima is sick from the lack of food, the lack of sleep, the despondency. But the only alternative is to become a prostitute.
– And that would kill you, wouldn’t it? Lupe spoke without lifting her head, holding the ice bag in one hand, wagging a knowing finger with the other.-To think your dear wife’s fucking other men, sucking their Arab cocks, so your daughter can eat.
Samir shook his head with an almost boyish violence.-She understands honor.
– She understands hunger.
– And it is the Americans, the contractors, who use the prostitutes.
– You use prostitutes. Admit it, Turco.
His sunken eyes flared.-I have never-
– Don’t worry, your wife understands. She understands her husband is far away and men are men. She’s on her own, like women everywhere.
– I have never used prostitutes. Never. And Fatima is not alone! All of this, this struggle to reach America, it’s for her.
– America? Lupe resettled her weight, nudging herself onto her back with an indulgent moan, as though self-pity was the only pleasure left.-We’re all prostitutes in America.
– You are wrong! You are wrong. I realize these men you fell in with, they have made you a slave. Yes, you will have to degrade yourself, sell yourself to buy your way out of their grip. You will have to endure much and suffer greatly. But you can do it. You are young. You are not the only one facing such things.
– Like your wife?
– Someday you will get to America and there things change. I’m not stupid, I know dreams are for children. Yes, there is little hope in the world. But without America, there is none. Despite everything, you will have a chance.
At last she leaned up a little, meeting his eyes.-What makes you think I’ll live long enough to have a chance?
– You are too young to be so bitter.
– And you’re too old not to realize your wife is fucking strangers to stay alive.
– She’s not! She can’t. You don’t understand how it is. Her brothers would kill her.
– She’ll tell them she’s out cleaning houses. Like Latinas do in the States. Like I said, in America-
Samir refused to hear more. He shot to his feet and turned away.-I pity you. Despite all I and my family have endured, I have not despaired. I am a father, I can’t give up hope. You need to do the same. Otherwise, why not just surrender to death and the devil?
– You don’t want me to die. I die, you don’t make it to America. Like it or not, all the hope in the world won’t save you without me.
This last bit was said to Samir’s back, he’d already fled. She watched the empty doorway for a moment, then resettled herself, easing onto her side with another wincing moan, facing away from Roque.-God, I thought he’d never leave.
It was the first thing he could recall her saying to him, even during their recording session back in La Chacra. He could think of nothing to say in return, preferring instead to study the hollow of her back where her blouse rode up. Wiping the lather of sweat off his face, he glanced up at the clock: half past ten. Tio Faustino and Samir would head off soon. Several feet below the clock, the lizard had yet to budge.
