The trail of blood that led through the front gates of the Policía Internacional was being diligently licked up by a German Shepard when the Investigator arrived that morning. He simply dodged the animal and entered through the glass front doors, never taking notice of the red stains on the ground, nor of those smeared next to the door handle. Inside, he passed the secretary at the front desk with a nod and a curt "buen día", and then proceeded down the hall into the office marked "Policía de Investigaciones de Chile."
Immediately upon entering the room, he was approached by a man dressed in a suit and eating a large piece of bread. He shook the Investigator's hand and spoke to him with a mouthful of food.
--No vas a creer lo que tengo para tí está mañana. You won't believe what I've got for you this morning.
--No? Di me. Tell me.
The man took another bite of his bread and waved for the Investigator to follow him. They passed a series of computer desks where foreigners, mostly Bolivian, where attempting to register their papers with bored officials. The man led the investigator to a corner office with glass walls where two other men in nylon jackets that had PDI in block letters across the back were standing conversing. The Investigator approached them and shook hands. The man in the suit pointed inside the office.
--Adentro. Inside.
One of the other PDI officers chuckled.
--Mira a este huevón. Es uno para los diarios. Look at this idiot. He's one for the papers.
The Investigator leaned past his companions and looked into the office. Sitting in a chair, staring into space, was a Chilean man dressed in a dirty, black leather jacket. His face was bloody and smeared with dark streaks of stained dust. Bulging out of his jacket was a blood soaked T-shirt he had bundled up against a wound on his side. He held it pressed to himself with one hand. Blood was dripping down his leg and pooling up on the tile floor beneath him.
--Él está arruinando mi piso. He's ruining my floor. The Inspector grumbled. His companions laughed.
--Qué quiere? What does he want?
--Dice que fue atacado por un gringo. Además, un profesor. He says that he was attacked by a gringo. Moreover, a teacher.
The Inspector wrinkled up his face in a look of extreme incredulity.
--Qué cosa?
The others exploded into laughter.
--Un gringo profesor po! Con un cuchillo! A gringo teacher! With a knife! The man in the suit managed to spit out through his laughter. Crumbs of bread flew out of his mouth and stuck to the glass of the office wall. The Inspector cringed.
--Está borracho? Is he drunk?
--Por supuesto! Este huevón probablemente lo hizo por sí mismo! Of course! This fool probably did it to himself.
The Investigator crossed him arms and studied the man in the room.
--Él realmente está arruinando mi piso. He really is ruining my floor. He muttered almost to himself.
Suddenly he uncrossed his arms and snapped his his fingers and made a throwing motion.
--Sáquenlo de aquí. Get him out of here.
He then turned to the man in the suit.
--Hay más pan? Is there more bread?
--Sí po. Vamos.
The two men turned on their heels and walked down the hall, disappearing into a back room. Meanwhile, the other two PDI officers grabbed hold of the bleeding man and proceeded to drag him out of the building as he cried and protested wildly.
He was dropped out into the street, where the pedestrian traffic simply passed around him, not even seeming to take notice. He had bled out considerably and his dark skin was noticeably lighter. He managed to haul himself to his feet and stumble away from the Policía Internacional building, turning the corner into a narrow one way street and running smack into a person. He bounced off and fell backwards, landing on his butt.
--Oye!
He cupped his hand over his eyes against the sun and looked up. Before him loomed the shadow of a person, casually swinging a length of pipe in one hand. The person knelt down into the shadow of the building and his face came into focus.
It was the Bolivian.
--No pareces bien. You don't look good. He drawled casually.
The man began to stammer, a look of terror consuming his face. With his free hand, the Bolivian grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and hauled him up onto his feet.
--No entiendes! No les dije de ti! Tengo una hija! You don't understand! I didn't tell them about you! I have a daughter!
The Bolivian shoved the man into a narrow alley where angle of the buildings blocked the sun. He pushed the man up against the wall and held him there. A small, three-legged dog bolt from beneath a pile of garbage and hobbled away.
--Tengo tres. I have three. The Bolivian whispered.
The man opened his mouth to reply, but the pipe crashed into his face. Choking on his own teeth, the man dropped like a stone to the ground. With rhythmic swings, the Bolvian beat in the man's skull until the sound of squishing caused him to stop. He dropped the pipe onto the fresh corpse and wiped his hands off on his pants. Silence filled the alley, and he waited a moment to see if anyone would pass by. When he was sure he was clear, he stepped back out onto the main street and sauntered down the sidewalk and into a small almacen. He emerged a minute later with a bottle of Fanta, which he drank at his leisure as he slowly strolled towards the center of town.
After a while, when the Bolivian had been long gone, the three-legged dog returned to the alley and began to eat of the dead man's remains.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Old Man and His Son
The sound of dull thumping was what eventually woke him. He cracked his eyes painfully and took a minute to focus in the dim light. The image of a large yellow lab swum into view. It was sitting next to the couch with its tail waging furiously, beating a erratic cadence against the tile floor. Charlie sat up and pulled the blanket off of himself. The dog stood in expectation and Charlie obliged by reaching out and scratching it between the ears.
--Good boy.
His mouth was like sandpaper and he was smacking his tongue around loudly as he walked into the kitchen and saw the Old Man sitting there, alone. The dog squeezed passed Charlie and walked over to the Old Man, curling up at his feet beneath the dining table.
--Buen día. Charlie muttered.
The Old Man just nodded and pointed to a seat across from him at the table where a tea mug and a piece of bread were set. There was a second place set as well, though vacant.
--Gracias.
He sat and took up the tea kettle from where it sat in the middle of the table.
--Costanza está trabajando abajo? Costanza is working downstairs?
--Claro.
Charlie nodded and sipped at his tea. He noticed the clock read that it was almost noon and the sun filtering through the skylight above was intense.
--Hay mucho sol. There is a lot of sun.
--Yes. Always here it is like this.
Charlie's eyes went wide with surprise.
--I speak English, did you know? The Old Man said with a slight smile.
Charlie set his mug down and made a conscious effort to close his gaping mouth.
--No sir, I did not.
--Yes, there is a great deal you don't know. Maybe you had thought I had been in Calama my whole life.
--Maybe not. Maybe always in Chile though.
The Old Man nodded and took a sip from his tea.
--You need to speak with my son.
--She told you?
The Old Man lifted his eyes and met Charlie´s own.
--She tells me everything.
Charlie nodded, catching the implications of the Old Man´s statement with visible unease. He stood and pushed his chair in.
--Permiso. Gracias por todo, pero me debería ir. Excuse me. Thank you for everything, but I should go.
At that moment the front door opened and in stepped a man dressed in the full police uniform of a Carabinero. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the table where the other mug and bread were set.
--Buenos.
Pulling out a chair, he indicated for Charlie to sit.
--Siéntate.
Reluctantly, Charlie returned to the table. After sitting, the Carabinero pulled his large revolver from its holster and laid it on the table. Charlie's eyes focused on the pistol as the Carabinero grabbed the kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He then proceeded to butter a piece of bread and tear into it with his teeth. Charlie and the Old Man were silent as the Carabinero munched away at his breakfast. Finally, he finished eating and pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket which he proceeded to use to wipe his mouth and hands.
--Cómo estás Sharlie? How are you ,Charlie?
--Bien, Carlos. Y tú?
He nodded his head.
--Papá me dijo una historia muy intersante está mañana. Dad told me a very interesting story this morning. He jerked a thumb towards the Old Man.
--Sí?
--Sí. Qué piensas? Yes. What do you think?
--Sobre qué? About what?
The Old Man reached out and put a hand on his son's shoulder. Carlos shrugged and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and eyeballing Charlie without emotion.
--My son fears many things. That maybe your friend has killed someone. That maybe someone has killed your friend, for you have not yet heard from him, cierto?
Without taking his eyes off of the Old Man, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. It was almost dead and there were no calls or messages. He shook his head and placed the phone on the table.
--These things concern my son. I am concerned too, but I am concerned about the other thing.
--What thing?
--The explosives you saw.
Carlos leaned forward and dropped his still-crossed arms onto the table.
--La mina es el único lugar aquellos podrían provenir. Sin embargo, nadie ha informado de un robo. The mine is the only place they could be from. Yet, no one has reported a theft.
He leaned back and added,
--Papá lo sabría. Dad would know.
Charlie folded his hand on the table and narrowed his eyes, studying the Old Man.
--Señor, what exactly is it you do? Charlie asked, noticing out of the corner of his eye as he did that Carlos' eyebrows raised slightly. The Old Man waved a hand in the air dismissively.
--Soy el dueño de un cafe, nada más. I own a cafe, nothing more.
Charlie nodded skeptically but did not press the subject. Carlos pushed back away from the table and stood. The commotion caused the yellow lab to spring to his feet and run to the door. Charlie stood as well.
--Muéstrame los explosivos, si aún está ahí. Show me the explosives, if they are still there.
--No sé donde están. No me acuerdo. I don't know where they are. I don't remember.
Without looking at Charlie, Carlos picked up his revolver and popped out the cylinder.
--Buscálos. Look for them.
He checked each bullet with his thumb and then slapped the cylinder back into place with a loud click. He placed the pistol back into its holster, replaced his hat, and stood waiting expectantly. Charlie sighed.
--Ahora? Contigo? Now? With you?
--Claro qué sí. Of course.
Charlie threw up his hands in the air and looked to the ceiling.
--Yeah, sure, I'll do your job. It's not like I'm only a language teacher or anything.
Carlos motioned towards the door and Charlie nodded.
--Yeah, yeah.
As soon as he cracked the door, the lab darted through and clambered awkwardly down the stairs. Charlie bowed his head slightly to the Old Man.
--Nos vemos.
--Nos vemos. Carlos echoed.
The Old Man nodded solemnly.
--Cuídense. Be careful.
Charlie led the way down the stairs and out into the street. He paused in front of the cafe window. He saw her behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and he started to go inside when Carlos put a hand on his shoulder.
--Vamos.
She looked up and caught Charlie's gaze. He eyes were big and apologetic. She mouthed something to him but he couldn't make out what. They got into Carlos' truck and Charlie simply pointed down the street. Without a word, they drove away from the cafe.
--Good boy.
His mouth was like sandpaper and he was smacking his tongue around loudly as he walked into the kitchen and saw the Old Man sitting there, alone. The dog squeezed passed Charlie and walked over to the Old Man, curling up at his feet beneath the dining table.
--Buen día. Charlie muttered.
The Old Man just nodded and pointed to a seat across from him at the table where a tea mug and a piece of bread were set. There was a second place set as well, though vacant.
--Gracias.
He sat and took up the tea kettle from where it sat in the middle of the table.
--Costanza está trabajando abajo? Costanza is working downstairs?
--Claro.
Charlie nodded and sipped at his tea. He noticed the clock read that it was almost noon and the sun filtering through the skylight above was intense.
--Hay mucho sol. There is a lot of sun.
--Yes. Always here it is like this.
Charlie's eyes went wide with surprise.
--I speak English, did you know? The Old Man said with a slight smile.
Charlie set his mug down and made a conscious effort to close his gaping mouth.
--No sir, I did not.
--Yes, there is a great deal you don't know. Maybe you had thought I had been in Calama my whole life.
--Maybe not. Maybe always in Chile though.
The Old Man nodded and took a sip from his tea.
--You need to speak with my son.
--She told you?
The Old Man lifted his eyes and met Charlie´s own.
--She tells me everything.
Charlie nodded, catching the implications of the Old Man´s statement with visible unease. He stood and pushed his chair in.
--Permiso. Gracias por todo, pero me debería ir. Excuse me. Thank you for everything, but I should go.
At that moment the front door opened and in stepped a man dressed in the full police uniform of a Carabinero. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the table where the other mug and bread were set.
--Buenos.
Pulling out a chair, he indicated for Charlie to sit.
--Siéntate.
Reluctantly, Charlie returned to the table. After sitting, the Carabinero pulled his large revolver from its holster and laid it on the table. Charlie's eyes focused on the pistol as the Carabinero grabbed the kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He then proceeded to butter a piece of bread and tear into it with his teeth. Charlie and the Old Man were silent as the Carabinero munched away at his breakfast. Finally, he finished eating and pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket which he proceeded to use to wipe his mouth and hands.
--Cómo estás Sharlie? How are you ,Charlie?
--Bien, Carlos. Y tú?
He nodded his head.
--Papá me dijo una historia muy intersante está mañana. Dad told me a very interesting story this morning. He jerked a thumb towards the Old Man.
--Sí?
--Sí. Qué piensas? Yes. What do you think?
--Sobre qué? About what?
The Old Man reached out and put a hand on his son's shoulder. Carlos shrugged and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and eyeballing Charlie without emotion.
--My son fears many things. That maybe your friend has killed someone. That maybe someone has killed your friend, for you have not yet heard from him, cierto?
Without taking his eyes off of the Old Man, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. It was almost dead and there were no calls or messages. He shook his head and placed the phone on the table.
--These things concern my son. I am concerned too, but I am concerned about the other thing.
--What thing?
--The explosives you saw.
Carlos leaned forward and dropped his still-crossed arms onto the table.
--La mina es el único lugar aquellos podrían provenir. Sin embargo, nadie ha informado de un robo. The mine is the only place they could be from. Yet, no one has reported a theft.
He leaned back and added,
--Papá lo sabría. Dad would know.
Charlie folded his hand on the table and narrowed his eyes, studying the Old Man.
--Señor, what exactly is it you do? Charlie asked, noticing out of the corner of his eye as he did that Carlos' eyebrows raised slightly. The Old Man waved a hand in the air dismissively.
--Soy el dueño de un cafe, nada más. I own a cafe, nothing more.
Charlie nodded skeptically but did not press the subject. Carlos pushed back away from the table and stood. The commotion caused the yellow lab to spring to his feet and run to the door. Charlie stood as well.
--Muéstrame los explosivos, si aún está ahí. Show me the explosives, if they are still there.
--No sé donde están. No me acuerdo. I don't know where they are. I don't remember.
Without looking at Charlie, Carlos picked up his revolver and popped out the cylinder.
--Buscálos. Look for them.
He checked each bullet with his thumb and then slapped the cylinder back into place with a loud click. He placed the pistol back into its holster, replaced his hat, and stood waiting expectantly. Charlie sighed.
--Ahora? Contigo? Now? With you?
--Claro qué sí. Of course.
Charlie threw up his hands in the air and looked to the ceiling.
--Yeah, sure, I'll do your job. It's not like I'm only a language teacher or anything.
Carlos motioned towards the door and Charlie nodded.
--Yeah, yeah.
As soon as he cracked the door, the lab darted through and clambered awkwardly down the stairs. Charlie bowed his head slightly to the Old Man.
--Nos vemos.
--Nos vemos. Carlos echoed.
The Old Man nodded solemnly.
--Cuídense. Be careful.
Charlie led the way down the stairs and out into the street. He paused in front of the cafe window. He saw her behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and he started to go inside when Carlos put a hand on his shoulder.
--Vamos.
She looked up and caught Charlie's gaze. He eyes were big and apologetic. She mouthed something to him but he couldn't make out what. They got into Carlos' truck and Charlie simply pointed down the street. Without a word, they drove away from the cafe.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Dead Woman
There was an empty lot next to the Unimarc supermarket on the south-eastern edge of town where sat a small shanty town of salvaged metal sheeting, cardboard, and plastic tarps. An unattended fire was burning in an empty oil drum in the middle of the lot, casting a weak orange glow that flickered and played in the night. A shaggy mutt was sleeping next to the drum, basking in the ambient heat, when the Teacher emerged from the darkness and spooked it awake. The Teacher's teeth were chattering audibly.
--Sale! Git.
He kicked a rock at the mutt, narrowly missing hitting it. The animal scrambled up and backed away, then dropped to it haunches just outside the firelight. It sat silently, watching as the Teacher pushed over the drum and spilled the fire out onto the ground. He then used his feet to kick the flames into a wide ring shape, which he proceeded to squat down in the center of, waving his hands slowly over the heat. There was a faint glow just over the mountains.
--It ain't going to beat me this easy. He said to the dog, which was still silently observing him.
--Calama won't win.
By the time the sun was up, he had found his way to her house. He stood across the street staring at her bedroom window, but there were curtains pulled-to and he couldn't see inside.
--What are you doing here, you idiot. He mumbled aloud to himself.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and looked inside. There were two left. He frowned and pulled both out, putting one in his lips and the other behind his right ear. He then crumbled the package and tossed it into the street. The sounds of traffic and of the city waking began to fill the air, and as he lit his cigarette, he turned and walked away.
He turned the corner from her house and stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the side of a small truck, nonchalantly drinking out of a glass beer bottle, was an stunning woman dressed in a European style that clashed with the immediate surroundings. The Teacher took a long drag on his cigarette, shaking his head as he exhaled.
--They told me you were dead.
The woman took the last swig from her bottle and then tossed it against the wall in front of her causing it to shatter.
--I know. Proper bummer, right? She spoke with a refined midland English accent.
The Teacher approached her with his arms crossed. He slowly looked her up and down with his eyes; her's were hidden behind a pair sunglasses. She was smiling slightly, clearly enjoying the moment.
--Convinced I'm not the hallucination of a desperate and lonely man?
--A mirage would be more apt.
She grinned broadly.
--Indeed. Convinced I'm no mirage?
--Not yet.
He uncrossed his arms and grabbed her by the waist, drawing her in. She was completely unfazed. He leaned his face close to hers and sniffed. Grimacing, he left go of her and took a step back.
--That smell is real enough.
She shrugged.
--I've been here a while.
She held up a finger, as if to say "one minute", and then turned around, reaching through the open passenger's side window of the truck and pulling out two litre bottles of cheap Chilean beer. She offered one to the Teacher, but he didn't move.
--Come on, you look a bit dehydrated. Not to mention tired, and extremely filthy. What did you do, sleep in the dunes?
His face flushed red and he snatched the bottle from her, flicking off the top with his thumb and taking a long drought. He finished and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. She nodded in approval and casually sipped at her own bottle.
--How did you know to wait for me here?
--Well dear, I went asking around your school for the gringo teacher and nobody could tell me where you were living now. But they all did have a very interesting story to tell. I bet you can't guess what it was.
He said nothing and instead spat onto the concrete. She continued.
--Anyway, knowing you, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine you'd be back around here before too long. It was simply a matter of waiting. I'm not sure how long I've been here, but I will say I'm about out of bottles.
She leaned in close to him and ran a finger across his cheek. He shuttered.
--Tell me, was my death so hard for you that it really drove you into the arms of a schoolgirl?
He slapped her hand away and she laughed.
--You're not dead.
--No, she gasped for breath in between bouts of laughter, no. Not dead. Not yet.
--Why, why would you do that? Why wouldn't you tell me? It's been two months! His voice was climbing.
She held a finger to his lips and whispered shushing sounds.
--All in good time, dear, all in good time.
He was seething but he tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths. With a shaking hand he snatched his last cigarette from behind his ear and lit it up.
--Come, she beckoned with her hand, you look like you need some food, and a shower. I've got a room at the Keny.
She threw her half full bottle against the same place on the wall. This time it simply bounced off, landing a few feet away and emptying its contents into the street.
--Bollocks.
She shrugged and walked around the truck to the driver's side. She paused as she was climbing in and waved at the Teacher again.
--Alright now, get inside.
He sighed heavily and opened the door, climbing inside and dropping like dead weight into the seat. He sat silently, staring straight ahead as she drove towards the center. After a few minutes, he dropped dead asleep.
--Sale! Git.
He kicked a rock at the mutt, narrowly missing hitting it. The animal scrambled up and backed away, then dropped to it haunches just outside the firelight. It sat silently, watching as the Teacher pushed over the drum and spilled the fire out onto the ground. He then used his feet to kick the flames into a wide ring shape, which he proceeded to squat down in the center of, waving his hands slowly over the heat. There was a faint glow just over the mountains.
--It ain't going to beat me this easy. He said to the dog, which was still silently observing him.
--Calama won't win.
By the time the sun was up, he had found his way to her house. He stood across the street staring at her bedroom window, but there were curtains pulled-to and he couldn't see inside.
--What are you doing here, you idiot. He mumbled aloud to himself.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and looked inside. There were two left. He frowned and pulled both out, putting one in his lips and the other behind his right ear. He then crumbled the package and tossed it into the street. The sounds of traffic and of the city waking began to fill the air, and as he lit his cigarette, he turned and walked away.
He turned the corner from her house and stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the side of a small truck, nonchalantly drinking out of a glass beer bottle, was an stunning woman dressed in a European style that clashed with the immediate surroundings. The Teacher took a long drag on his cigarette, shaking his head as he exhaled.
--They told me you were dead.
The woman took the last swig from her bottle and then tossed it against the wall in front of her causing it to shatter.
--I know. Proper bummer, right? She spoke with a refined midland English accent.
The Teacher approached her with his arms crossed. He slowly looked her up and down with his eyes; her's were hidden behind a pair sunglasses. She was smiling slightly, clearly enjoying the moment.
--Convinced I'm not the hallucination of a desperate and lonely man?
--A mirage would be more apt.
She grinned broadly.
--Indeed. Convinced I'm no mirage?
--Not yet.
He uncrossed his arms and grabbed her by the waist, drawing her in. She was completely unfazed. He leaned his face close to hers and sniffed. Grimacing, he left go of her and took a step back.
--That smell is real enough.
She shrugged.
--I've been here a while.
She held up a finger, as if to say "one minute", and then turned around, reaching through the open passenger's side window of the truck and pulling out two litre bottles of cheap Chilean beer. She offered one to the Teacher, but he didn't move.
--Come on, you look a bit dehydrated. Not to mention tired, and extremely filthy. What did you do, sleep in the dunes?
His face flushed red and he snatched the bottle from her, flicking off the top with his thumb and taking a long drought. He finished and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. She nodded in approval and casually sipped at her own bottle.
--How did you know to wait for me here?
--Well dear, I went asking around your school for the gringo teacher and nobody could tell me where you were living now. But they all did have a very interesting story to tell. I bet you can't guess what it was.
He said nothing and instead spat onto the concrete. She continued.
--Anyway, knowing you, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine you'd be back around here before too long. It was simply a matter of waiting. I'm not sure how long I've been here, but I will say I'm about out of bottles.
She leaned in close to him and ran a finger across his cheek. He shuttered.
--Tell me, was my death so hard for you that it really drove you into the arms of a schoolgirl?
He slapped her hand away and she laughed.
--You're not dead.
--No, she gasped for breath in between bouts of laughter, no. Not dead. Not yet.
--Why, why would you do that? Why wouldn't you tell me? It's been two months! His voice was climbing.
She held a finger to his lips and whispered shushing sounds.
--All in good time, dear, all in good time.
He was seething but he tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths. With a shaking hand he snatched his last cigarette from behind his ear and lit it up.
--Come, she beckoned with her hand, you look like you need some food, and a shower. I've got a room at the Keny.
She threw her half full bottle against the same place on the wall. This time it simply bounced off, landing a few feet away and emptying its contents into the street.
--Bollocks.
She shrugged and walked around the truck to the driver's side. She paused as she was climbing in and waved at the Teacher again.
--Alright now, get inside.
He sighed heavily and opened the door, climbing inside and dropping like dead weight into the seat. He sat silently, staring straight ahead as she drove towards the center. After a few minutes, he dropped dead asleep.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Charlie's Girl
The lights were off in the cafe and the metal shutters had been pulled and locked over the storefront. A dog was curled up and shivering violently in front of the door. Charlie approached, out of breath and sweating, and tried to rouse the dog. It wouldn't budge and he finally resorted to kicking it hard in the ribs. The animal jumped up with a yelp and slunk off down the darkened street. Charlie banged his fist on the door as hard a he could for almost a minute. When he stopped, there was utter silence. Then, noiseless, the door cracked open.
--Sí, quien es? Who is it?
--Charlie. Déjame adentro. Let me in.
The door opened wider and he could see her face. He could tell she had been asleep.
--Mis padres estamos dormiendo. My parents are sleeping.
--No me importa, déjame adentro. I don't care. Let me in.
He started to push his way in and she gave way.
--Ya po, pase.
Inside the door led to a staircase, at the top of which was a small apartment over the cafe. Charlie climbed the stairs into the kitchen as she locked the door behind them. The lights were off, but the bright moonlight filtered in through a skylight above the dinning table. Charlie immediately went to the sink, grabbed a glass, and began to chug water. She came up next to him and put a hand on his head.
--Estás transpirando. Qué pasó? You're sweating. What happened?
He brushed her hand off and took a seat at the kitchen table. He dropped his head, resting his chin on his chest and staring down and the table. She stood by the sink looking at him, confused.
--Quieres té? Do you want tea?
--Whiskey.
She frowned and shook her head apologetically.
--No hay. There is none.
--I know. He muttered.
--Qué cosa?
--Té. Just give me té.
She was becoming visibly upset, but she kept silent and went about setting the kettle to boil. She prepared a cup of tea and placed it on the table, and then took a seat next to him. She took his hand in hers.
--Qué paso?
He looked up and met her eyes; dark and pleading. He sighed and, slowly, told her everything that had passed since he met the Teacher at Barcelo earlier that night. Her eyes grew wide and wet as he talked, and by the time he had finished she was crying. She crossed herself and murmured the Lord's prayer under her breath. Charlie sat silently, watching her. He pulled his hand away from hers and reached into his pocket. His face registered surprise and he pulled something out, holding it up to the moonlight to inspect it.
It was the notebook he had been handed in the room with the explosives. He flipped through it quickly and then shoved it back into his pocket. He put his hand into his other pocket and pulled out his cellphone. It showed no new calls.
--Y tú amigo? Donde está? And your friend, where is he? She asked, sniffling and attempting to correct herself.
Charlie shook his head.
--No sé. Corrió hacia otro lado. I don't know. He ran the other way.
She leaned in and kissed him.
--Necesito quedar aquí. I need to stay here. He said.
She drew back and shook her head.
--No puedo. You can't.
His face became stern.
--Me quedo aquí. I am staying here.
She said nothing more. He rose from the table and placed his tea mug in the sink. He then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He flipped on the light and pulled out the notebook from his pocket, turning to the last page that had been written on and examining it closely. The writing looked like scribble, but a few words stood out. He tore the page from the book, folded it carefully, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He then took out his cellphone and dialed the Teacher's number. The phone beeped twice and then ended the call.
--Come on, where are you? He uttered to himself, trying the number again.
The results were the same and he shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped out of the bathroom back into the kitchen. She stood and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pushing her head into his chest. He softened, and ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair.
--Necesito hablar con tu hermano. I need to talk with your brother. He whispered.
--Carlos?
--Sí. Al tiro.
--Ya. Mañana. De acuerdo? Ok. Tomorrow, alright?
He looked up at the clock above the stove; it read just past four in the morning. He kissed her forehead.
--Bueno.
He let go of her and walked into the living room, stretched out on the couch, and fell instantly to sleep. She came in after him with blankets that she gently draped over his fully clothed body. She then sat down next to him and watched as his chest gently heaved. After a while, she fell asleep.
--Sí, quien es? Who is it?
--Charlie. Déjame adentro. Let me in.
The door opened wider and he could see her face. He could tell she had been asleep.
--Mis padres estamos dormiendo. My parents are sleeping.
--No me importa, déjame adentro. I don't care. Let me in.
He started to push his way in and she gave way.
--Ya po, pase.
Inside the door led to a staircase, at the top of which was a small apartment over the cafe. Charlie climbed the stairs into the kitchen as she locked the door behind them. The lights were off, but the bright moonlight filtered in through a skylight above the dinning table. Charlie immediately went to the sink, grabbed a glass, and began to chug water. She came up next to him and put a hand on his head.
--Estás transpirando. Qué pasó? You're sweating. What happened?
He brushed her hand off and took a seat at the kitchen table. He dropped his head, resting his chin on his chest and staring down and the table. She stood by the sink looking at him, confused.
--Quieres té? Do you want tea?
--Whiskey.
She frowned and shook her head apologetically.
--No hay. There is none.
--I know. He muttered.
--Qué cosa?
--Té. Just give me té.
She was becoming visibly upset, but she kept silent and went about setting the kettle to boil. She prepared a cup of tea and placed it on the table, and then took a seat next to him. She took his hand in hers.
--Qué paso?
He looked up and met her eyes; dark and pleading. He sighed and, slowly, told her everything that had passed since he met the Teacher at Barcelo earlier that night. Her eyes grew wide and wet as he talked, and by the time he had finished she was crying. She crossed herself and murmured the Lord's prayer under her breath. Charlie sat silently, watching her. He pulled his hand away from hers and reached into his pocket. His face registered surprise and he pulled something out, holding it up to the moonlight to inspect it.
It was the notebook he had been handed in the room with the explosives. He flipped through it quickly and then shoved it back into his pocket. He put his hand into his other pocket and pulled out his cellphone. It showed no new calls.
--Y tú amigo? Donde está? And your friend, where is he? She asked, sniffling and attempting to correct herself.
Charlie shook his head.
--No sé. Corrió hacia otro lado. I don't know. He ran the other way.
She leaned in and kissed him.
--Necesito quedar aquí. I need to stay here. He said.
She drew back and shook her head.
--No puedo. You can't.
His face became stern.
--Me quedo aquí. I am staying here.
She said nothing more. He rose from the table and placed his tea mug in the sink. He then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He flipped on the light and pulled out the notebook from his pocket, turning to the last page that had been written on and examining it closely. The writing looked like scribble, but a few words stood out. He tore the page from the book, folded it carefully, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He then took out his cellphone and dialed the Teacher's number. The phone beeped twice and then ended the call.
--Come on, where are you? He uttered to himself, trying the number again.
The results were the same and he shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped out of the bathroom back into the kitchen. She stood and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pushing her head into his chest. He softened, and ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair.
--Necesito hablar con tu hermano. I need to talk with your brother. He whispered.
--Carlos?
--Sí. Al tiro.
--Ya. Mañana. De acuerdo? Ok. Tomorrow, alright?
He looked up at the clock above the stove; it read just past four in the morning. He kissed her forehead.
--Bueno.
He let go of her and walked into the living room, stretched out on the couch, and fell instantly to sleep. She came in after him with blankets that she gently draped over his fully clothed body. She then sat down next to him and watched as his chest gently heaved. After a while, she fell asleep.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Bolivian
There was the corpse of a freshly killed dog lying in the middle of the alley behind the bar called Barcelo. The Teacher looked at it without feeling, noticing how the snout was crushed and a piece of the top of its skull was missing. A hand dropped onto the teacher's shoulder, nudging him out of his reverie and urging him forward.
--Adalante.
At the end of the alley, a compact was waiting with the rear door open. The teacher was pushed inside with Charlie right behind him. The men who had led them out of the bar then piled inside. The Teacher's face was mashed up against the window of the car door as six people crammed inside the space meant for five. The lead man took the passengers seat and indicated to the driver to go.
Everyone was silent as the car was driven through the center of town, out towards where the city ended and the desert began. They passed onto a stretch of unpaved road where the streetlights ended and darkness overtook them. The Teacher grimaced as the car bounced wildly over the uneven terrain, causing his head to rhythmically pound the roof of the car. Finally they stopped.
--Listo. The lead man said. The doors were opened and Charlie and the Teacher were helped out of the the car and led by the arm into a low, cinder block building. Inside was darker then out and Charlie banged his knee on an unseen object.
--Gah! Can somebody just turn on some lights, for God's sake?
Instantly, a bare bulb in the center of the room flickered to life.
--I apologize. Please take a sit. The lead man indicated two folding chairs against the wall.
--Seat. The Teacher corrected.
--Qué cosa?
The Teacher just shook his head and dropped heavily into one of the chairs. Charlie sat next to him and looked around. The room was typical of Calama; cement walls, tiles floors. There was a stack of boxes to one side, and other than the the chairs they were sitting in, the room was devoid of furniture. The men arrayed themselves around the room, leaning against the walls or standing with their arms crossed and starring at the at the gringos. The lead man pulled a box into the middle of the room and sat down. He put out his hands, palms up, to show that they were empty.
--We are friends, yes? Amigos?
--What? You just drug us out of the bar and brought us to the middle of nowhere. What do you mean we are friends? Charlie cried with indignation.
--Talking about the middle of nowhere in Calama is being redundant. The Teacher muttered.
The lead man shook his head.
--No, no, quiero decir podemos ser amigos, cierto? I mean, we can be friends.
The Teacher shrugged.
--Whatever you say.
The lead man clapped.
--Good. I no can tell my name, but still we are friends.
The Teacher looked around at the other men, studying their faces, and then turned back to the lead man.
--You're not Chilean, are you?
The lead man raised an eyebrow. A slight smile showed at the corner of his lips.
--Por qué dices eso? Why do you say that?
--Because I can understand your Spanish.
The man burst into hearty laughter. He looked at his companions, wagging his finger.
--Es la verdad. Sí. Yes. Oh, my friend.
He continued to laugh for another moment, and then abruptly stopped.
--I am from Bolivia, this is why.
The Teacher nodded.
--Well, you don't look like a boliviano.
--Gracias. Bueno, miren. Thank you. Okay then, take a look.
He stood and waved the Teacher and Charlie over to look at the boxes. The two men rose slowly and walked over to see. The Bolivian pulled open one of the boxes and pointed at the contents.
--No puedo leer Inglés, por eso he traído ustedes acá. I can't read English, which is why I have brought you here.
The Teacher peered inside the box and frowned. He then stepped aside and let Charlie have a look. Charlie's brow furrowed in confusion.
--What am I looking at here?
--That label says 'semtex'. I think you're looking at plastic explosives.
--Ah hell.
Charlie backed away from the box. He held up his hands.
--No quiero nada que ver con esto! I don't want anything to do with this!
One of the men moved to block the door.
--Calm down, Charlie. The Teacher said. He then turned to face the Bolivian.
--Well, what exactly do you want from us?
The Bolivian reached his hand into the box and pulled out a rectangle of explosive. He pointed to the label that was attached to the cellophane wrapper.
--Traduces esto. Cada una palabra. Translate this. Every word.
The Teacher pointed with with his thumb to Charlie.
--He knows Spanish better.
Charlie shook his head and opened his mouth to protest but the Teacher signaled with eyes and quieted him. Charlie closed his mouth and simply nodded. The Bolivian smiled and motioned to one of the other men, who reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook. He laid opened the notebook and handed it to Charlie. The Bolivian pointed to the chairs.
--Por favor, seat.
--Sit. The Teacher muttered under his breath.
The Bolivian began talking to his companions in rapid Spanish, and it became clear that they were trying to find a pen. While the others were thus busied, the Teacher reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. He slowly pulled them on while starring at the man who was in front of the door.
--Te conozco. I know you.
The man pulled a hand out of his pocket and pointed at his chest.
--Yo?
--Sí. Tu hija fue mi alumna. Your daughter was my student.
The man became visibly upset and moved to speak to the Bolivian. Just then, the Teacher thrust his hand upward and grasped the light bulb above in his hand. He clenched his fist, shattering the bulb with a sharp crack. The room went pitch black.
Someone yelled and there were sounds of a struggle. Then came a blood curdling scream.
Suddenly, pale bluish light swam into the room as the front door was kicked open.
Outside, the Teacher emerged hauling Charlie behind him by the arm.
--What the hell! Charlie gasped.
The Teacher let go of him and ran over to the car. Charlie could now see the knife in the Teacher's hand as he proceeded to slash out the tires.
--What's going on man? What happened?
The Teacher turned to him and pointed towards the lights of town.
--Just run, Charlie.
Without another second's hesitation, Charlie took off at a sprint down the street towards the warm orange glow of the city's edge. The Teacher turned and ran in the opposite direction, further into the darkness, further into the desert.
--Adalante.
At the end of the alley, a compact was waiting with the rear door open. The teacher was pushed inside with Charlie right behind him. The men who had led them out of the bar then piled inside. The Teacher's face was mashed up against the window of the car door as six people crammed inside the space meant for five. The lead man took the passengers seat and indicated to the driver to go.
Everyone was silent as the car was driven through the center of town, out towards where the city ended and the desert began. They passed onto a stretch of unpaved road where the streetlights ended and darkness overtook them. The Teacher grimaced as the car bounced wildly over the uneven terrain, causing his head to rhythmically pound the roof of the car. Finally they stopped.
--Listo. The lead man said. The doors were opened and Charlie and the Teacher were helped out of the the car and led by the arm into a low, cinder block building. Inside was darker then out and Charlie banged his knee on an unseen object.
--Gah! Can somebody just turn on some lights, for God's sake?
Instantly, a bare bulb in the center of the room flickered to life.
--I apologize. Please take a sit. The lead man indicated two folding chairs against the wall.
--Seat. The Teacher corrected.
--Qué cosa?
The Teacher just shook his head and dropped heavily into one of the chairs. Charlie sat next to him and looked around. The room was typical of Calama; cement walls, tiles floors. There was a stack of boxes to one side, and other than the the chairs they were sitting in, the room was devoid of furniture. The men arrayed themselves around the room, leaning against the walls or standing with their arms crossed and starring at the at the gringos. The lead man pulled a box into the middle of the room and sat down. He put out his hands, palms up, to show that they were empty.
--We are friends, yes? Amigos?
--What? You just drug us out of the bar and brought us to the middle of nowhere. What do you mean we are friends? Charlie cried with indignation.
--Talking about the middle of nowhere in Calama is being redundant. The Teacher muttered.
The lead man shook his head.
--No, no, quiero decir podemos ser amigos, cierto? I mean, we can be friends.
The Teacher shrugged.
--Whatever you say.
The lead man clapped.
--Good. I no can tell my name, but still we are friends.
The Teacher looked around at the other men, studying their faces, and then turned back to the lead man.
--You're not Chilean, are you?
The lead man raised an eyebrow. A slight smile showed at the corner of his lips.
--Por qué dices eso? Why do you say that?
--Because I can understand your Spanish.
The man burst into hearty laughter. He looked at his companions, wagging his finger.
--Es la verdad. Sí. Yes. Oh, my friend.
He continued to laugh for another moment, and then abruptly stopped.
--I am from Bolivia, this is why.
The Teacher nodded.
--Well, you don't look like a boliviano.
--Gracias. Bueno, miren. Thank you. Okay then, take a look.
He stood and waved the Teacher and Charlie over to look at the boxes. The two men rose slowly and walked over to see. The Bolivian pulled open one of the boxes and pointed at the contents.
--No puedo leer Inglés, por eso he traído ustedes acá. I can't read English, which is why I have brought you here.
The Teacher peered inside the box and frowned. He then stepped aside and let Charlie have a look. Charlie's brow furrowed in confusion.
--What am I looking at here?
--That label says 'semtex'. I think you're looking at plastic explosives.
--Ah hell.
Charlie backed away from the box. He held up his hands.
--No quiero nada que ver con esto! I don't want anything to do with this!
One of the men moved to block the door.
--Calm down, Charlie. The Teacher said. He then turned to face the Bolivian.
--Well, what exactly do you want from us?
The Bolivian reached his hand into the box and pulled out a rectangle of explosive. He pointed to the label that was attached to the cellophane wrapper.
--Traduces esto. Cada una palabra. Translate this. Every word.
The Teacher pointed with with his thumb to Charlie.
--He knows Spanish better.
Charlie shook his head and opened his mouth to protest but the Teacher signaled with eyes and quieted him. Charlie closed his mouth and simply nodded. The Bolivian smiled and motioned to one of the other men, who reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook. He laid opened the notebook and handed it to Charlie. The Bolivian pointed to the chairs.
--Por favor, seat.
--Sit. The Teacher muttered under his breath.
The Bolivian began talking to his companions in rapid Spanish, and it became clear that they were trying to find a pen. While the others were thus busied, the Teacher reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. He slowly pulled them on while starring at the man who was in front of the door.
--Te conozco. I know you.
The man pulled a hand out of his pocket and pointed at his chest.
--Yo?
--Sí. Tu hija fue mi alumna. Your daughter was my student.
The man became visibly upset and moved to speak to the Bolivian. Just then, the Teacher thrust his hand upward and grasped the light bulb above in his hand. He clenched his fist, shattering the bulb with a sharp crack. The room went pitch black.
Someone yelled and there were sounds of a struggle. Then came a blood curdling scream.
Suddenly, pale bluish light swam into the room as the front door was kicked open.
Outside, the Teacher emerged hauling Charlie behind him by the arm.
--What the hell! Charlie gasped.
The Teacher let go of him and ran over to the car. Charlie could now see the knife in the Teacher's hand as he proceeded to slash out the tires.
--What's going on man? What happened?
The Teacher turned to him and pointed towards the lights of town.
--Just run, Charlie.
Without another second's hesitation, Charlie took off at a sprint down the street towards the warm orange glow of the city's edge. The Teacher turned and ran in the opposite direction, further into the darkness, further into the desert.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Teacher
There was blood on the concrete near his feet. There was always blood somewhere. It was probably from the dogs, but you could never tell. It looked only a day old, but for all he knew, it could have been there for weeks. He looked away to the setting sun as it dropped low behind the distant hills that hemmed in the city. Sighing, he pulled out his last pack of American cigarettes from his jacket pocket and shucked loose a smoke, shoving it into his lips. Just as he was about to light it, that kid showed up.
--Profe! Dame uno de esos. Give me one of those.
The Teacher sighed loudly and shoved the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.
--I ain't your profe any more, kid. Scram.
The kid didn't move from where he stood in the middle of the street, across from where the Teacher sat perched on the curb. After a minute, he spat.
--When you come back to the liceo?
The Teacher ignored him and lit his cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke with as much visible indignation as he could muster.
--Profe, cuándo vas a regresar al liceo? When are you coming back to school?
--I said scram, kid. Vete.
He jumped to his feet and yelled.
--Vete!
The kid waved his hand dismissively and turned to leave.
--Ya po!
The Teacher glared at the kid as he slowly, deliberately walked away. Even after the kid had disappeared around a corner, the Teacher stared after him, puffing away on his cigarette.
The sun wasn't quite gone, but the temperature had already dropped near freezing. Desert cold, the kind that cuts right through you and makes your bones ache. He flicked away the remainder of his cigarette and pulled out a pair of gloves. As he was fumbling them onto this hands, his cellphone rang out from his jacket pocket. He paused in the act of pulling on the glove to his right hand and placed it in his teeth to fish out the phone. The name on the screen said the call was from the language institute. He frowned as he answered.
--Allo? He said around a mouthful of glove.
--Hey, it's Charlie. I don't have any clients tonight. Barcelo?
--Yeah, sure. When?
--Are you walking?
--Of course.
--Okay, half an hour.
The phone beeped indicating that the call had ended. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled on the glove. The thumb was wet with saliva and he made a face.
He headed into town along Latorre, which took him right into the center past all the redundant carnecerias, farmacias, and repuestos selling junk that he could never imagine people actually buying. The evening crowds were out and he had to keep stepping out into the street to avoid pedestrians and the dogs. The wind was strong and by the time he ducked inside the bar called Barcelo, the inside of his nostrils and the corners of his eyes were coated with dust.
The camarero was filling up a pitcher of indistinct lager at the bar's only tap. He nodded to the Teacher and pointed with his lips towards the back. He found Charlie sitting alone in the back room shrouded in a thin cloud of smoke. In the low light, the Teacher could make out five or six other people spread out around the smalls tables. Two ancient, faded big screen TV's were playing music videos on mute. He sat down across from Charlie.
--Got a pitcher coming.
--I saw.
Just then the camarero appeared and set down the pitcher and two glasses.
--Gracias, they said in unison. The man just nodded and moved away. Charlie poured.
--It's been two weeks now, hasn't it? Are you going to go back?
--I don't want to talk about it.
Charlie shrugged as he took a sip of his beer.
--They tell me the girl is already at a different school. Not that it really mattered anyway. It's not as big a deal here.
--I told you I don't want to talk about it.
--Fine. You need to go back though. Get over it. You made a mistake. Anyway, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
--I care. I care a hell of a lot.
Charlie smirked.
--Well, it's a shame you've got those morals now.
The Teacher shook his head and downed his entire glass in one quaff. He set his glass down and proceeded to look past Charlie to the table behind him. Charlie cocked an eyebrow.
--What? Are they there?
--Aren't they always?
Charlie craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Behind him were three well dressed men, each leaning in close over the table obviously engaged in discussion. Each one wore a black leather jacket and cradled a cigarette in his hand.
--Better not stare, the Teacher said. Charlie quickly turned back around.
--You'd think they'd find somewhere less conspicuous to do their business.
--Like you said, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
Charlie nodded and raised his glass to his lips. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder. Charlie started and spit beer all over himself.
--What the...
He looked up from his beer-stained shirt to see the Teacher's eyes riveted on something behind him. He looked up then to see one of the men from the table behind standing over him, smiling.
The man spoke in heavily accented English.
--You speak Inglés, no?
Charlie turned back to look at the Teacher and noticed that the other two men had taken up position behind him, along with a fourth man who had been previously unseen.
--Please, you come with us I think.
Charlie began to protest in Spanish, but the man put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
--You come, now.
The Teacher stood, silent and glaring. The man behind Charlie patted him forcefully on the shoulder and he too finally stood. Hemmed in by the four men, the Teacher and Charlie were shepherded through the room and towards a backdoor. As he walked, the Teacher slowly slid his hand into his jacket, fingering the knife he had hidden there. Charlie shot him an uneasy glance.
The lead man opened the backdoor and Charlie and the Teacher were ushered out into the night.
--Profe! Dame uno de esos. Give me one of those.
The Teacher sighed loudly and shoved the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.
--I ain't your profe any more, kid. Scram.
The kid didn't move from where he stood in the middle of the street, across from where the Teacher sat perched on the curb. After a minute, he spat.
--When you come back to the liceo?
The Teacher ignored him and lit his cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke with as much visible indignation as he could muster.
--Profe, cuándo vas a regresar al liceo? When are you coming back to school?
--I said scram, kid. Vete.
He jumped to his feet and yelled.
--Vete!
The kid waved his hand dismissively and turned to leave.
--Ya po!
The Teacher glared at the kid as he slowly, deliberately walked away. Even after the kid had disappeared around a corner, the Teacher stared after him, puffing away on his cigarette.
The sun wasn't quite gone, but the temperature had already dropped near freezing. Desert cold, the kind that cuts right through you and makes your bones ache. He flicked away the remainder of his cigarette and pulled out a pair of gloves. As he was fumbling them onto this hands, his cellphone rang out from his jacket pocket. He paused in the act of pulling on the glove to his right hand and placed it in his teeth to fish out the phone. The name on the screen said the call was from the language institute. He frowned as he answered.
--Allo? He said around a mouthful of glove.
--Hey, it's Charlie. I don't have any clients tonight. Barcelo?
--Yeah, sure. When?
--Are you walking?
--Of course.
--Okay, half an hour.
The phone beeped indicating that the call had ended. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled on the glove. The thumb was wet with saliva and he made a face.
He headed into town along Latorre, which took him right into the center past all the redundant carnecerias, farmacias, and repuestos selling junk that he could never imagine people actually buying. The evening crowds were out and he had to keep stepping out into the street to avoid pedestrians and the dogs. The wind was strong and by the time he ducked inside the bar called Barcelo, the inside of his nostrils and the corners of his eyes were coated with dust.
The camarero was filling up a pitcher of indistinct lager at the bar's only tap. He nodded to the Teacher and pointed with his lips towards the back. He found Charlie sitting alone in the back room shrouded in a thin cloud of smoke. In the low light, the Teacher could make out five or six other people spread out around the smalls tables. Two ancient, faded big screen TV's were playing music videos on mute. He sat down across from Charlie.
--Got a pitcher coming.
--I saw.
Just then the camarero appeared and set down the pitcher and two glasses.
--Gracias, they said in unison. The man just nodded and moved away. Charlie poured.
--It's been two weeks now, hasn't it? Are you going to go back?
--I don't want to talk about it.
Charlie shrugged as he took a sip of his beer.
--They tell me the girl is already at a different school. Not that it really mattered anyway. It's not as big a deal here.
--I told you I don't want to talk about it.
--Fine. You need to go back though. Get over it. You made a mistake. Anyway, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
--I care. I care a hell of a lot.
Charlie smirked.
--Well, it's a shame you've got those morals now.
The Teacher shook his head and downed his entire glass in one quaff. He set his glass down and proceeded to look past Charlie to the table behind him. Charlie cocked an eyebrow.
--What? Are they there?
--Aren't they always?
Charlie craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Behind him were three well dressed men, each leaning in close over the table obviously engaged in discussion. Each one wore a black leather jacket and cradled a cigarette in his hand.
--Better not stare, the Teacher said. Charlie quickly turned back around.
--You'd think they'd find somewhere less conspicuous to do their business.
--Like you said, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
Charlie nodded and raised his glass to his lips. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder. Charlie started and spit beer all over himself.
--What the...
He looked up from his beer-stained shirt to see the Teacher's eyes riveted on something behind him. He looked up then to see one of the men from the table behind standing over him, smiling.
The man spoke in heavily accented English.
--You speak Inglés, no?
Charlie turned back to look at the Teacher and noticed that the other two men had taken up position behind him, along with a fourth man who had been previously unseen.
--Please, you come with us I think.
Charlie began to protest in Spanish, but the man put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
--You come, now.
The Teacher stood, silent and glaring. The man behind Charlie patted him forcefully on the shoulder and he too finally stood. Hemmed in by the four men, the Teacher and Charlie were shepherded through the room and towards a backdoor. As he walked, the Teacher slowly slid his hand into his jacket, fingering the knife he had hidden there. Charlie shot him an uneasy glance.
The lead man opened the backdoor and Charlie and the Teacher were ushered out into the night.
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