“What about Miguel Gutierrez?”
“Just a brain-fried hump who couldn’t have the girl he wanted.”
“Claudia de la Alda.”
Galiano nodded.
“It’s all so sad, isn’t it?” I said.
With no forewarning he leaned over and kissed me. His lips felt soft and warm, his crooked nose rough against my skin.
“But I also met you,
31
BY MID-JUNE WE HAD COMPLETED OUR CHUPAN YA WORK.
Twenty-three sets of remains had been returned to their families. The village had interred its dead with great ceremony, much wailing, and an enormous sense of relief. Clyde Snow had flown down from Oklahoma, and the entire FAFG team had attended. There was the feeling of a tough job well done. We had stood up for something, had lit one match in the darkness.
But there was a lot of darkness. I thought of Senora Eduardo and Senora De la Alda, and of their daughters.
I thought of oppression, greed, psychosis. Of decent people gone forever.
Hector Lucas, Maria Zuckerman, and Carlos Vicente were dead. Jorge Serano and Miguel Angel Gutierrez were in jail.
Mateo and Elena were compiling a full report on Chupan Ya.
Maybe there would be some account for that atrocity.
General Effrain Rios Montt was president during 1982 and 1983 when hundreds of villages were destroyed and thousands killed. In June 2001, victims of the massacres brought a genocide case against General Montt, now head of the Guatemala congress. The suit faced considerable obstacles. Hopefully we had removed some.
Ten-fifteen. June twenty-first. The first day of summer in the northern hemisphere.
I threw the last few toiletries into my suitcase and surveyed the room. A small weaving I’d bought at the market in Chichicastenango still hung where I’d tacked it above the bed. I retrieved and studied it once more.
The Kabawil is common in Mayan textiles.
I tucked the Kabawil into my suitcase.
The Kabawil also represents the alliance between men and women.
I’d spent many nights pondering my alliance with men. Two men, to be precise.
Ryan never returned to the topic he’d broached at my bedside. Perhaps my recovery had assuaged his fears. Perhaps I’d hallucinated the whole exchange. But he had suggested a holiday together.
Galiano also wanted to take me away.
I knew I was beginning to resemble my passport photo. I needed a vacation.
I also knew I was pursuing a course in my personal life that had no resolution, or that I was pursuing no course at all.
I’d made a decision.
Experience is a valuable thing. It enables us to recognize mistakes when we repeat them.
Was I making a mistake?
If I didn’t try, I’d never find out. I desperately wanted to rekindle happiness within me and was taking all the steps. But I feared for my success. This time more than ever my work had left me a wounded person, and recovery would not come quickly.
Each time I thought of Senora Ch’i’p, I felt a great emptiness.
The phone rang.
“I’m in the lobby.”
His voice sounded lighter than it had in weeks.
“I’ve just finished packing,” I said.
“Hope you’re focused on sun and sand.”
“I’m bringing everything.”
“Ready?”
Oh, yeah. My hair was shiny enough to cause glare blindness. I was wearing a babe sundress and sandals. And Victoria’s Secret panties and bra.
And mascara and blush.
