“What? That’s out of my way. It’ll take hours to get there.”
“It will take all day with the way you drive.”
“Fine.” I pulled the car sharply to the side of the road. “Take the wheel.”
She got behind the driver’s seat and slammed on the gas. We burned rubber. I put my seat belt on.
I looked at her dark, caramel fingers on the wheel. No ring.
My cell phone beeped. It was Julie — I had forgotten all about calling her. I looked at Itaba, then took the call.
I tried to whisper. “Nothing’s wrong. No one’s here,” I said, but when she complained that she couldn’t hear me I had to speak up. “Yeah. Hey. How are you? What time’s your flight get in?... That’s ridiculous. This is a just a tropical storm... Hey, I know you’re nervous, but we’re going to have a terrific time... C’mon, you’ve always been my good-luck charm... Hey, that’s not going to happen. He’s not going to find out... Call me when you know the new arrival time. Yeah. It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”
Itaba kept her eyes on the road and said nothing. I stared out the window. The sky was dark, the clouds looked ready to explode with rain. The palm trees were bowing in the wind. I watched the dark road and — this is funny — I realized I was keeping an eye out for more dead dogs.
Itaba parked the car on the side of the road. We were somewhere near Utuado.
“What the hell is this?” I said.
“We’re going to the Taino village at Caguana Park.”
All I saw were trees. “This doesn’t look like anything.”
“We’re taking the back way.”
“Is the front way closed?”
“Do you know anything about the Tainos?”
“The Indians? Oops. Sorry. Native Americans.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Tainos were the indigenous people of Boriken, the real name of Puerto Rico. Don’t you know anything about your history?”
“I was born and schooled in the Bronx, lady.”
“The Tainos were the first people that Columbus met. In a few hundred years most of them were wiped out of existence.”
“I heard they all died. Measles and shit. And stuff, I mean. See, I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“Smallpox. But no, some survived. And there are many of us who want to reclaim what is ours. Negrito, I need your help. And for your help I will give you a reward.”
I looked at her lips, tried to imagine what she would look like when she was coming. If she was a screamer.
“No me mires así. I can give you money, so you can show your friend more of a good time in San Juan.”
“How much?”
“A friend was supposed to drive me but he got delayed. I was going to give him a thousand dollars. I will give you two thousand because I have inconvenienced you.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s sweet money for a cab ride. But I want to know what this is about.”
“Look in the bag,” she said.
I took the gift bag from the back. There was something wrapped in plastic and then bubble wrap. I began to unwrap it.
“Be careful!” she snapped, raising her voice.
The stone had three points and was the size of my fist. One point had large eyes and teeth bared like a mad dog.
“You probably don’t recognize it. It’s a stone carving of Yocahú, a Taino deity.”
“Looks like an animal. Check out its fucking teeth.”
“Yocahú was the god of good, with no beginning and no end. This was discovered in an excavation at Jacana, near Ponce. I’ve been working there. I’m an archaeologist. Thank you for asking. The Army Corps of Engineers was clearing land in order to build a dam. They uncovered some of the most important archaeological treasures ever found in Puerto Rico. This one piece is priceless.”
“Okay,” I said. It was still ugly.
“An American buyer is waiting for me in a hotel in San Juan. But he wants to make sure it comes with a certificate of authenticity. That’s why we’re here.”
“So you stole this?” I waved the stone.
“Please be careful with that.”
“It’s a rock.”
“It’s a cemi. It’s sacred. The Neo-Taino movement needs money to buy back land. To take back what is ours. This carving is a great sacrifice but it will be worth it.”
“And what’s a Neo-Taino?”
“According to DNA testing, more than half of Puerto Ricans still have Taino blood in their veins.”
“That doesn’t make them Indians. They’re selling quenepas on the side of the road, not doing rain dances.”
She rolled her beautiful hazel eyes. “Listen, the buyer will pay one million dollars for this cemi.”
“For this?” I whistled. “So, why not just rent a car? Why did you need me? Or was it just an excuse to get to know me better?”
“Ay, negrito. I didn’t want to do this alone. Don’t you understand?” she said and got out of the car.
She led me through the trees. The soil was wet and squished under my feet. We came to a wooden fence. With her boots, she began to kick it down.
“Let me do that,” I said. With a few kicks, I opened a space big enough for an SUV.
“You didn’t have to destroy it.”
“I don’t know my own strength,” I said.
We came out from the trees and into a wide clearing. On one side there were several rectangular spaces of cleared dirt. Around it were stone carvings, one foot to five feet high, with faces and figures in white. Animals, people, and people that looked like animals.
“That is a batey court,” she said, “where the warriors would play in order to settle disputes between different villages. We were wise and peaceful.”
“What did they play? Tennis?”
We circled the courts. Light rain began to fall. “There’s that tropical storm,” I said.
“Have you heard the story of Juracán, who was there at the creation of the world?”
“Nope.”
“He was the brother of Yucahú and the son of Atabey, and he was created from elements in the air and therefore without a father.”
“Like me.”
“Juracán became envious of Yucahú when he saw his brother create the race of humanity, and so he tried to destroy his brother’s creations. He became known as the god of strong winds — we get the word hurricane from his name. And the Tainos came to fear and revere him. When the hurricanes blew, they knew they had displeased Juracán.”
“Then someone must’ve pissed him off today.”
In the distance we could see a few straw huts. Cone roofs, small doorways. She led me toward what looked like an office building, and we soon passed a hut. She seemed to see something and ran toward it.
The way she gasped — I could tell something was wrong. Then I saw it. A man lay on his back on the ground. His face was stuck in a grin of pain. A line of blood led from a small hole in the man’s bright, white guayabera to a black-red pool.
“It’s Dr. Arroyo,” she said. “He was supposed to give me the certificate.”
I was about to bend down to enter the hut when I heard something moving in the grass behind the body. I turned. Somebody hit me.
I was kissing dirt. I heard talking, but it wasn’t English. Some of the words were like Spanish. It was a strange, rhythmic dialect. Like a drumbeat almost.
I tried to move. My hands were tied. I glanced up and saw the flat-headed man from the wedding coming toward me with a big stick. It looked like a giant pilón. In his other hand something was cupped. The man put the hand on my face, covering my nose and mouth. He said something in that strange language. There was a rotten-smelling powder in the man’s hand. I tried to shake loose but I couldn’t help inhaling the powder. I opened my mouth to breathe and more went in. It hit me like another smack to the back of my head. I began to vomit, all the eggs, plátanos, mango slices, and buttered bread. He came at me with a knife in his hands and cut the rope around my wrists. I tried to move, but my body didn’t listen.