“When was this?” Carlos asked.
The man swiveled in his chair again, looked at the wall, then out the window. Then he swiveled back.
“Well, you know,” he said. “I can’t say nothing about that. Who, and when it was. But it was recently. It was no damn good at all.”
“And Sánchez?”
“Of course,” the man said. “That’s how I searched out these papers. He’d filed all the proper references. In the files, you know? Even through the Revolution and after, the files are good, if you knew how to file things.”
“And Sánchez did.”
“That’s right. He was a gentleman of connections and influence back then. There were few like him. His name is on papers here frequently from those times. I’ve come across it. Very lawyerly. Though he was not a lawyer I don’t think. Ironclad, do you say?” He waved the letter between them. “This is very good stuff.”
“What does it say?”
“Says you are the owner of a house once owned by Roberto Menéndez, also known by Calaca in other papers, transferred to him in 1920, the deed then transferred to you in 1961. The house and whatever objects are within the house that remain, and the land, once surveyed and the survey officially recorded here in this office. And I rise now and offer my hand in congratulations.”
The land seemed to amount to a good number of acres, four at least to the front and sides, maybe even five, and Carlos wasn’t sure of the rear of the house yet and the foothills, how far the land might extend up into them. He’d hired surveyors who worked for the government and would handle the recording of their results officially, and when he turned from the veranda railing and looked out over the baked clay again to find them, they were gone, most probably working in the back now, he thought, and their truck was gone, a dull green Range Rover he’d ridden out in with them. He’d brought a sleeping bag, a canteen of water and a bag of food. He’d spend a night at the place, at least that, when they were gone. He didn’t know what he’d be doing after that.
It was late afternoon now, and the sun was sinking, and the breeze came up and stirred his sleeves, then receded and fell away and the air was still, and he saw the sand dust settling over the ruined causeway that had once been a crude landing strip, and the rougher ground and low brush beyond it, until the earth took on a clear solidity and ceased its shimmering, and the cloudless sky hardened into a deep blue, and he saw a few stars in the sky, though it was still day and bright under a milder sun. A man of property, he thought, his fingers stroking the weathered wood of the railing. Then he heard something. He thought it might be the surveyors, their voices and the sharp clack of their instruments in the clear air, the closing of the truck’s door, but it was not coming from the rear of the house, but from the side, and he turned back toward the fence and looked out beyond the gate and down the pathway toward the road.
He thought at first he was some aged peasant or an injured one, the shuffling of his feet in dusty huaraches, though they were not that, but boots, and his loose pants were conventional khakis, his brief-brimmed straw hat new and domed like a derby, a short, colorful feather in the decorative ribbon at the crown’s side. The hat hid his face, his fingers gathered in the vines and tendrils at the archway’s side, and the flowers shook and petals rained down over him as he shuffled through, and another man, even shorter than he was and wearing a large sombrero that looked ludicrous atop his small frame, came up from behind him and into the archway at his side, gripping his biceps, helping him and shuffling too, and the first shook free of his grip and said something, sharply, and a third man, heavier and lumbering, wearing a new Stetson and a white Mexican shirt, came into the space beside them, and the three were caught there for a moment, as men in a doorway in some old comic movie, their shoulders shifting, hands flailing at the bushes. Then they were through and standing side by side in the dirt road, brushing the petals from their clothing, reaching up to adjust their headgear, and Carlos saw a sort of cart come up to the side of the heavy man, someone behind it, holding handles. He thought it might be a wheelchair, but it was hard to see, so loaded as it was with objects: sleeping bags and a plastic cooler pressed together on the seat, pots and pans, canteens, coats and blankets, woven satchels, small leather purses, cases, all piled on top, or strapped or hanging loosely from the chair’s metal arms, some bouncing against the wheels. The man pushing it was dressed in garments that looked Japanese, some loose linen nightwear, tan, as were his tennis shoes. He had a thin mustache and wore a beaded skullcap covering what looked like a bald head. He, like the others, was squinting in the sun.
Carlos was under the eaves in darkness of shade, and they couldn’t see him, and he stood still and watched them. The man in the straw hat was pointing at the house, his fingers wiggling and gesturing toward the ruined causeway. He held his other hand at the edge of his hat brim, fighting the sinking sun. Then he was pointing toward the rear of the house, then turning toward the smaller man at his side, his hands striking the large sombrero brim as he was forming shapes in the air, and the small man pushed his hat away. It fell down over his shoulders to his back, the cord at his throat, and Carlos could see his face then, the features of someone historical. Then the four men were moving, jostling for position as the road narrowed and became the path, until they were two abreast, the heavy man helping the one in the beaded skullcap with the chair, the two smaller ones in front. They had almost reached the gate when they entered the house shadow and the sun left their eyes. The two paused when they saw him, and the chair banged into the legs of the one who had gestured and he fell back to sit upon the sleeping bags and cooler, swearing through a groan. The one beside him had screwed his sombrero back on his head, and Carlos couldn’t see his face anymore, but he could hear the words as they flew out under the brim. “Christ save us all! It’s the little guy!”
He had never seen them, but he had heard them, and though it had been in delirium, that occasional waking to metallic voices in which dreams were part of coma and sentient awareness indistinguishable from dreams, he’d had a picture of them, in stories and the muffled talk that proceeded from them and was joined to the sounds of motion, the creak of furniture and that shuffling of slippered feet through doorways, all of it like an audio shadow play, heard from behind a screen. And he may have somehow counted them, for he was not surprised that they were four. Harry Truman, he thought, World War II and The Bomb, as he lay in the crease where the veranda joined the railing in his sleeping bag. He could see stars between the worn, wooden uprights, and the air was cool and fresh. He’d given them the house, the bed for John and Larry, the other two on the floor in corners, and he could hear their voices, almost as before, that metal quality no longer part of a dream image, understood now as infirmity, their tracheotomies and the effort and the whistles in their breathing. Larry in his skullcap and linen and trimmed mustache, stylish even in chemotherapy; Frank, heavy and disheveled, that slightly protruding upper lip he’d pictured, receded now, replaced by the jutting of his lower jaw, slightly bulldogish, skin veined and stretched tight at his sinking cheeks, jowls hanging down below his chin. He wondered if anyone would recognize them in youthful photographs. And at this different desert, though it was not really that, but scrub and ground where crops had been traded in for oil near the sea, he thought of T. E. Lawrence: “The living knew themselves just sentient puppets on God’s stage.” It was the way he’d imagined them, the textures of their lives only in their told stories, voices flat like silhouettes behind them. But what he saw in them was faces animated in the present, for they were in a story now and not telling one.