Free The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant Page B

there was barely a tree. The road here was wide with many holes and little shade and on both sides were tire repair shops with cars and trucks up on jacks or piles of stones with the wheels off. It was only ten in the morning but the wind was hot already and smelled of rubber and garbage and cooking meat. César crossed the road to a taquería and from the lady there he ordered memelitas al pastor, something I wished to eat myself. There were two metal tables with folding chairs around them and this is where César sat and waited in the full sun with no hat. When the lady’s young son brought the memelitas to the table, three of them, I waited until César had eaten one. Then I crossed the road, sat down next to him and thanked him for paying my fare, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Why are you dogging me, man? I have enough trouble as it is.”
    â€œWhat did you expect me to do,” I said, “wait for another taxi?
    César didn’t answer but took a bite of the second memelita. There was sweat on his forehead. On the table was a plate of napkins and two clay dishes of red and green salsa as bright and round as traffic signals. Flies circled, landing on the rims and spoons. When they landed on César’s plate, he didn’t wave them away.
    â€œDo you remember who I am?” I asked.
    César was looking south, toward the city. “You’re the chico who borrowed my copy of
The Savage Detectives
and never gave it back. Tino? Nico?”
    â€œTito. I still have it.”
    â€œNo shit. Slow reader?” He finished the second memelita. They were small and he saw me watching. He looked at the last one and pushed his plate toward me. “And you’re still mooching.”
    â€œIn this moment, yes, but I have some money at home. I have been saving it.”
    â€œFor what? Taxis and memelitas?”
    My mouth was too full to talk so I shook my head. “For university,” I said. “But my father says I should go to el Norte.”
    César waved the serving boy over and ordered two Cokes. I pulled out my ten-peso coin and put it on the table, but César ignored it. The boy brought two bottles, opened them and set them in front of us. César took a long drink, then he leaned forward in his chair and looked me in the eyes. It was the first time I saw fear in there and also how tired he was. “I need to leave the country,” he said. “Immediately.”
    When I heard this, I felt more worried for César than for myself. “What has happened?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s not just the taxi. That’s all I can tell you.”
    â€œI’ll go with you.”
    The words surprised me how quick they came. They surprised César too and he sat back in his chair. “Well,” I said, “they saw both of us, didn’t they? And both of us ran.” César dropped his head, swinging it back and forth like a burro trying to find its way under a fence. “You don’t understand,” I said. “My father has been on my ass for years to do this—to go up there. Most of my friends are gone already. It will make him happy to see me go.”
    César took another sip of his Coke and rubbed his eyes.
    â€œI could help you,” I said.
    He raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œMy father has a connection.”
    â€œEverybody has a connection.”
    â€œTo Don Serafín.”
    César made a snorting sound. “
Your
father knows Don Serafín?”
    â€œHe works for him all the time,” I said.
    César sat up in his chair. “Can Don Serafín get you a good coyote?”
    â€œIf my father asks him, yes.”
    Don Serafín is what we call a cacique, a rich and powerful chingón with a lot of property and influence who can make war if he wants. Caciques were here before the Spanish came, and they’re still here. Don Serafín is