The climb up the mountain is gruelling. We don’t really speak all that much. The heat is oppressive, especially since it’s the rainy season and it’s so damn humid, and so we both remain in our thoughts, planting one foot in front of the other, heads bowed as we slog our way upward. We share an easy silence. It feels strange to think I met her less than a week ago. Despite my surroundings, the threat of death hanging over my head, and the knowledge that Laura is gone, I spend a good deal of my day thinking about her. It seems as though I’ve spent more time with her than I actually have. I recognize her tics now—the way she obsessively tucks her hair back when she’s thinking; the way she taps her index finger against the table whenever she’s sitting down; the way her forehead crinkles when she’s confused. And most of all, how her pupils dilate every time she looks at me, like she wants to jump my bones right out of my body. I’m more than happy for her to be looking at me that way, but it carries a certain risk. One day soon, Fernando’s going to notice, and there won’t be any denying the fact that we’re both attracted to one another.
We climb. Thank god I have good cardio. Natalia’s used to the trek up to the burial site, but even she is out of breath when we reach our destination. The trees are thinner up here, so much closer to the timberline, and the mountain gives way to a broad, rocky clearing. I see the small, wooden crosses almost immediately. There aren’t that many of them, maybe ten, and they’re set out sporadically in between the large rocks and boulders. Red, green and orange streamers snap on the gusts of wind that buffet the mountainside. It reminds me of Nepal, of the reams and reams of prayer flags that travel all the way from Base Camp up to the top of Everest, though these aren’t prayer flags. They’re just pretty decorations to mark the graves.
Turning around, my breath is clear whipped away. The burial site itself is fairly barren and stark, but the view from this vantage point is truly spectacular.
“Beautiful, no?” Natalia asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, it really is.”
“Come. I’ll show you the place.” She takes me by the hand, then. It’s a small, simple gesture, but the connection between us feels all the more strong for it. Every time we touch, no matter how brief the contact, it seems as though we’re cementing ourselves together in yet another way. She leads me toward the furthest cross, at the lowest point of the burial ground; as we pass by the other crosses, it doesn’t escape my notice that none of them are marked. Not even with an initial, or something to indicate who lies there. I ask Natalia why this is, and she looks uncomfortable.
“The name Villalobos is not a popular one around here. Thanks to my father, people are scared of us. My grandfather and my mother are buried here. My aunt, who was killed when she was just a child. If any of the villagers suspected these graves belong to someone from the Villalobos cartel, they would dig them up and desecrate them.”
“Jesus.”
“I don’t really blame them. My grandfather was a sweet man. He farmed in order to make money, but he also sold cocaine, too. He wasn’t a violent man. He never killed anyone in the name of competition or business. Whatever profit he made from the drugs, he used to send my father away to be educated. He wanted him to be a doctor, or a lawyer. Something legal. When my father came back from school, he chose to use his business degree to expand my grandfather’s cocaine production. He became very…cutthroat. Unforgiving. If someone crossed him, they were never heard from again. So now, we are feared.”
Natalia comes to a stop in front of a cross with a red streamer. She dips down, resting on her heels as she runs the streamer through her fingers. “Laura’s favorite color was red,” she says.