‘You look wonderful! Fantastic!’ said Guillermo, pulling back. ‘How do you do it?’
‘You look pretty good yourself,’ said Snow.
‘Me? I’m an absolute disaster! But it doesn’t matter anymore. I have a husband now, I can let myself go to seed.’
He steered Snow to a corner table and told the other barman, Canelo – a young black man with a light, freckly complexion, close-cropped reddish hair, and diamond piercings in his cheeks – to bring a bottle of tequila. Snow realized that he had forgotten to employ gayspeak and began to shade his inflections, subtly (he thought) re-acquiring his verbal disguise. Guillermo laid his hand atop Snow’s and said, ‘Please! There’s no need for that.’
Baffled, Snow asked what he meant.
‘Your act.’ Guillermo poured him a shot of tequila. ‘It never fooled anyone, you know. Some of us were angry – we thought you were mocking us. But when we realized you were using us to get close to the ladies, we understood and we laughed about it. Since you were a nice guy, we played along.’
‘I wasn’t a nice guy,’ said Snow. ‘I was a total asshole.’
‘Well, you looked nice, anyway. And you acted nice. That’s what counted most back then.’
They drank and reminisced for a while and then Snow asked about Yara.
Guillermo lowered his voice. ‘Did you hear about what happened to her?’
‘Only a little. I just read about it last week. I’m hoping to learn more. That’s why I came down.’
‘You must be careful who you talk to about this. Very careful.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The PVO.’ Guillermo refilled their glasses. ‘The Party of Organized Violence.’ He knocked back his shot. ‘They showed up about fifteen years ago, but they didn’t make much of a splash and no one took them seriously until the elections last year when they gained a plurality in Congress. They’re thugs. Scary right-wing thugs. Extremely scary. If they win a majority in the next election, and everyone says they will . . .’ He affected a shudder. ‘They don’t like gays. Joselito, my husband . . . he thinks we should relocate to Costa Rica.’
‘What’s this have to do with Yara?’
‘After she vanished a reporter got into Chajul. You know, the village out near the skull? This one guy got in, but soon the PVO sealed off access to that area of the jungle with their militia.’
‘They have their own soldiers?’
‘Nobody fucks with them. They might as well be running things already. But like I was saying . . .’ Guillermo knocked back a shot – it looked as if it hurt going down. ‘I have a friend who knew the reporter. The guy said most of the villagers had already fled, but he talked to one woman who told him there was a big spill of heat from the jungle. Hot enough to make you cover your face, she said. Then rippling lights appeared over the treetops. All colors. She assumed it was a religious thing, Jesus was coming down on a rainbow carpet, so she went into her house to pray to the Virgin. She heard people in the street and swears they had come out of the jungle, but she didn’t see them – she was afraid and hid. That’s all she had time to say before the PVO turned up and carried her away. The reporter beat it out the back window.’
The ancient keyboard player announced he was taking a break – the sounds of the Casio were replaced by Latin pop.
‘Can I talk to him?’ Snow asked. ‘The reporter.’
‘He disappeared,’ said Guillermo, giving the word ‘disappeared’ a certain emphasis.
Snow covered his glass to prevent Guillermo from pouring him another shot. ‘I guess I don’t get it. Why were the PVO so interested in a screwball cult?’
‘You’d have to ask them . . . but that’s not something I would recommend. You don’t want to attract the attention of those guys.’
Guillermo was called away to settle some issue at the bar and Snow, glancing around the room, caught a thirty-ish brunette at another table checking him out. She wore an orange-and-yellow print frock with a tight bodice that accentuated her cleavage and she permitted herself a half-smile before saying something to her companion, a plump blonde. The blonde cast a quick look in his direction and the women shared a laugh. Snow had an impulse to make a move, to indulge in his old life again, if only for nostalgia’s sake. Guillermo rejoined him and nodded toward the brunette.
‘Stay away from that one, man,’ he said. ‘She’s Juan Mazariegos’ mistress.’
‘He’s a bad guy?’
‘The worst. He’s a bigshot in the PVO. Half the women here are PVO.’
Snow asked him whether it was safe to visit the encampment.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Guillermo said. ‘But there’s no point. You know how quickly the jungle comes back. It’s all overgrown in there. Nobody lives in Chajul nowadays and Yara . . .’ He made a gesture of finality. ‘She’s gone.’
Snow didn’t want to believe that and had nothing to say. With an inquiring look, Guillermo held up the bottle – Snow shook his head.
‘Man!’ said Guillermo. ‘Drink with me. Who knows when you’ll be back again?’
‘I might stick around,’ Snow said. ‘I don’t really have anywhere else to go.’
‘Then we’ll drink to you staying. I’ll fill you in on all the gossip. Ten years’ worth.’
With reluctance, for he was not that much of a tequila drinker anymore, Snow let Guillermo pour him a double.
Guillermo raised his glass. ‘Old times!’
Snow hesitated before touching glasses and said, ‘La Endriaga.’
Guillermo had been right. The site of the camp was overrun with new vegetation and all Snow managed to unearth were a few sections of rusted tin. Despite the witness report of extreme heat, there were no charred tree trunks, no scorched areas. Nothing. He poked around for an hour, but couldn’t even find ashes. What kind of fire could have vaporized the skull and left tin unmarked? The absence of the skull, of any evidence as to the cause of its destruction, started to make him jumpy and he soon returned to his hotel.
Snow had saved his money over the past decade and could have survived for quite some time in Temalagua without a job, but he thought it prudent to find work and secured a position teaching English at a private school in the suburbs. Each morning he would ride the bus from the city center, where he had taken an apartment, and spend the better part of his day preparing the spoiled teenage sons and daughters of the wealthy – who, chauffered by armed bodyguards, arrived in Hummers and town cars and limousines – to deal with their equally spoiled peers in the United States. They were arrogant little monsters, for the most part. Sullen and disrespectful even to one another, they treated Snow with a polished contempt that, if one didn’t examine it too closely, might be mistaken for civility. He entertained fantasies of walking into a classroom with an explosive device strapped to his mid-section. He met regularly with their parents, advising them of learning disabilities and behavioral problems, and it was during such a counseling session that he encountered Luisa Bazan, a zaftig brunette of thirty-five years, mother of Onofrio, a lizard-like youth with a penchant for upskirt photography, a pursuit for which he had been threatened with expulsion (this threat unlikely to be acted upon, since Onofrio’s father was Enrique Bazan, in line to become the PVO’s defense minister after the elections).