A smug smile spread across his lips and I knew I had appealed to his god-complex. “Yes, just like that.”
We headed out of the town and crawled our way through narrow, twisting mountainous passages, the sea temporarily disappearing as the Range Rover plunged deep into the heart of the Los Tuxtlas reserve. The green seemed to enclose around us as lizards ran across the ragged road just in time and the sun poked through the canopies. Waterfalls tumbled out of volcanic remnants, close enough to splash mist on the car. It was nice to see it from an air-conditioned vehicle, especially one that was outfitted in bullet-proof glass. I felt safe for the first time in a while, which was so ridiculous considering who I was in the car with.
Suddenly, the switchbacks seemed to be too much and we nearly went off the road when a bus came careening around the corner, the lush mountains leveling out. Soon, we were pulling the Range Rover onto the Minititlan-Veracruz highway, speeding along the plains and rows of fruit crops.
“I bet when you thought of Mexico before,” Javier began, relaxing at the wheel, “you thought of Cancun and Puerto Vallarta and all the resort towns.”
I swallowed and nodded, watching the immense land, the countless farms and houses flying past. “I did. I never really thought of it having so much space.”
“It’s a big country, you know. It can be surprising and beautiful too. The people. The little pockets of life.”
I looked over at him, feeling like we were the only two people in the car. “Are you happy to be back? Did you miss this?”
He scratched at his sideburn, eyes darkening momentarily. “I miss it sometimes. It seems peaceful and simple in my memories. But I know it’s not true. Behind every house you see, there are secrets. And death.”
“That’s everywhere,” I pointed out.
“Yes, it’s true.” He adjusted his grip at the wheel. “Still, you forget here. You think there are so many people, so many lives, how can there be that many secrets? When I was young, really young, and my mother would drive me and my sisters to Mascota where my aunt lived, I’d watch all the houses go past and I’d play a game with myself. I’d say, ‘What would it be like to be that person? To live there? Or there, or there? What life would I have?’” He trailed off and looked in the rear-view mirror. It was like he just remembered where he was. He suddenly shrugged. “I was young and stupid and I thought the world was good and other lives were better and well, all of us know that’s not true.”
He became silent after that, flicking through the radio until he gave up and put a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds album on. “Do You Love Me?” came out in full bass and creepy organ and I had to wonder how orchestrated this was. It added an ominous quality to our journey and a flurry inside my gut, something that pulled me in all directions.
I did not think about Javier. I did not listen to the lyrics, those terribly fitting lyrics. I did not fall for his guise of music. This was not “On Every Street.”
The tattoo on my arm itched.
We drove on. By the time the album was over, I felt dirty and squirmy and we were in Alvarado, driving down another narrow street that coasted along the shore. The fish shop that would be our headquarters was two stories, set at the start of a concrete pier that jutted out to sea, a few aging fishing boats moored along it.
Javier and his men exited the vehicle with ease and headed right for the shop. They didn’t look around them to see if they were being watched or if anyone was eyeing them suspiciously. They were a bunch of men wanting fish. I sat in the car a few moments longer, enjoying the safety of the glass, before I spotted Javier waving me to come over.
The bell jangled loudly above my head as I entered the shop. He wasn’t kidding about the smell. It was an actual working business, with rows of different colored fish all lying flat on ice. Raul was talking to a small, deeply tanned elderly man behind the counter, the fishmonger.
Javier came over to me and placed his hand at my back, leading me forward. I could feel his warmth through the flimsy fabric of my dress.
“Ellie, this is Pedro,” he said, politely introducing me.
Pedro showed me his hands, full of fish guts, and shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I no speak much English.”
“Eso no es problema,” I told him with a smile and hoped he wouldn’t assume I was fluent. “Hablo un poco de espa?ol.”
“Impressive,” Javier whispered into my ear. “What else have you picked up?”