I think they were both flirting with me, Juan Diego mused as he was falling asleep--certainly the daughter was. Of course Dorothy reminded Juan Diego of students he'd known over the years; many of them, he knew, had only appeared to be flirting with him. There were young women that age--some solitary, tomboyish writers among them--who'd struck the older writer as knowing only two kinds of social behavior: they knew how to flirt, and they knew how to show irreversible contempt.
Juan Diego was almost asleep when he remembered that he was taking an unplanned break from the beta-blockers; he was already beginning to dream when a mildly troubling thought occurred to him, albeit briefly, before it drifted away. The thought was: I don't really understand what happens when you stop and restart the beta-blockers. But the dream (or memory) was overtaking him, and he let it come.
* 4 *
The Broken Side-view Mirror
There was a gecko. It shrank from the first light of the sunrise, clinging to the mesh on the shack's screen door. In the blink of an eye, in that half-second before the boy could touch the screen, the gecko was gone. Quicker than turning on or off a light, the gecko's disappearance often began Juan Diego's dream--as the disappearing lizard had begun many of the boy's mornings in Guerrero.
Rivera had built the shack for himself, but he'd remodeled the interior for the kids; though he was probably not Juan Diego's father, and definitely not Lupe's, el jefe had made a deal with their mother. Even at fourteen, Juan Diego knew there was not much of a deal between those two now. Esperanza, notwithstanding that she'd been named for hope, had never been a source of hope to her own children, nor did she ever encourage Rivera--as far as Juan Diego had seen. Not that a fourteen-year-old boy would necessarily notice such things, and, at thirteen, Lupe wasn't a reliable witness to what might, or might not, have gone on between her mother and the dump boss.
As for "reliable," Rivera was the one person who could be counted on to look after these two dump kids--to the degree that anyone could protect los ninos de la basura. Rivera had provided the only shelter for these two, and he'd sheltered Juan Diego and Lupe in other ways.
When el jefe went home at night--or wherever Rivera actually went--he left his truck and his dog with Juan Diego. The truck afforded the kids a second shelter, should they need it--unlike the shack, the cab of the truck could be locked--and no one but Juan Diego or Lupe would dare approach Rivera's dog. Even the dump boss was wary of that dog: an underfed-looking male, he was a terrier-hound mix.
According to el jefe, the dog was part pit bull, part bloodhound--hence he was predisposed to fight, and to track down things by their smell.
"Diablo is biologically inclined to be aggressive," Rivera had said.
"I think you mean genetically inclined," Juan Diego had corrected him.
It's hard to appreciate the degree that a dump
kid could acquire such a sophisticated vocabulary; beyond the flattering attention paid to the unschooled boy by Brother Pepe at the Jesuit mission in Oaxaca, Juan Diego didn't have an education--yet the boy had managed to do more than teach himself to read. He also spoke exceedingly well. The dump kid even spoke English, though his only exposure to the spoken language came from the U.S. tourists. In Oaxaca, at that time, the American expatriates amounted to an arts-and-crafts crowd and the usual potheads. Increasingly, as the Vietnam War dragged on--past 1968, when Nixon had been elected on the promise that he would end it--there were those lost souls ("the young men searching for themselves," Brother Pepe called them), who in many cases comprised the draft dodgers.
Juan Diego and Lupe had little luck communicating with the potheads. The mushroom hippies were too busy expanding their consciousness by hallucinogenic means; they didn't waste their time talking to children. The mescal hippies--if only when they were sober--enjoyed their conversations with the dump kids, and occasional readers could be found among them, although the mescal affected what these readers could remember. Quite a few of the draft dodgers were readers; they gave Juan Diego their paperback novels. These were mostly American novels, of course; they inspired Juan Diego to imagine living there.
And only seconds after the early-morning gecko had vanished, and the screen door of the shack slapped shut behind Juan Diego, a crow took flight from the hood of Rivera's truck, and all the dogs in Guerrero began to bark. The boy watched the crow in flight--any excuse to imagine flying captivated him--while Diablo, rousing himself from the flatbed of Rivera's pickup, commenced an ungodly baying that silenced all of the other dogs. Diablo's baying was the bloodhound gene in Rivera's scary dog; the pit-bull part, the fighter gene, was responsible for the missing lid of the dog's bloodshot and permanently open left eye. The pinkish scar, where the eyelid had been, gave Diablo a baleful stare. (A dogfight, perhaps, or a person with a knife; the dump boss hadn't witnessed the altercation, human or beast.)
As for the jagged-edged, triangular piece that had been less than surgically removed from one of the dog's long ears--well, that one was anyone's guess.
"You did it, Lupe," Rivera once said, smiling at the girl. "Diablo would let you do anything to him--even eat his ear."
Lupe had made a perfect triangle with her index fingers and her thumbs. What she said required Juan Diego's translation, as always, or Rivera would not have understood her. "No animal or human has the teeth to bite like that," the girl incontrovertibly said.
Los ninos de la basura never knew when (or from where) Rivera arrived every morning at the basurero, or by what means el jefe had come down the hill from the dump to Guerrero. The dump boss was usually found napping in the cab of his truck; either the pistol-shot slap of the closing screen door or the barking dogs woke him. Or Diablo's baying woke him, a half-second later--or earlier, that gecko, which almost no one saw.
"Buenos dias, jefe," Juan Diego usually said.
"It's a good day to do everything well, amigo," Rivera often answered the boy. The dump boss would add: "And where is the genius princess?"
"I am where I always am," Lupe would answer him, the screen door slapping shut behind her. That second pistol shot reached as far as the hellfires in the basurero. More crows took flight. There was a disharmonious barking; the dump dogs and the dogs in Guerrero barked. Another menacing and all-silencing howl followed from Diablo, whose wet nose now touched the boy's bare knee below his tattered shorts.
The dump fires had long been burning--the smoldering mounds of piled-high garbage and pawed-through trash. Rivera must have lit the fires at first light; then he took a nap in the cab of his truck.
The Oaxaca basurero was a wasteland of burning; whether you were standing there or as far away as Guerrero, the towers of smoke from the fires rose as high into the sky as you could see. Juan Diego's eyes were already tearing when he came out that screen door. There was always a tear oozing from Diablo's lidless eye, even when the dog slept--with his left eye open but not seeing.
That morning, Rivera had found another water pistol in the basurero; he'd tossed the squirt gun into the flatbed of the pickup, where Diablo had briefly licked it before leaving it alone.
"I got one for you!" Rivera called to Lupe, who was eating a cornmeal tortilla with jam on it; there was jam on her chin, and on one cheek, and Lupe had invited Diablo to lick her face. She let Diablo have the rest of her tortilla, too.
There were two vultures hunched over a dead dog in the road, and two more vultures floated overhead; they were making those descending spirals in the sky. In the basurero, there was usually at least one dead dog every morning; their carcasses did not remain intact for long. If the vultures failed to find a dead dog, or if the carrion eaters didn't quickly dispose of it, someone would burn it. There was always a fire.
The dead dogs in Guerrero were treated differently. Those dogs probably had belonged to somebody; you didn't burn someone else's dog--besides, there were rules about starting fires in Guerrero. (There were concerns that the little neighborhood might burn down.) You let a dead dog lie around in Guerrero--it didn't usually lie around for long. If the dead dog had an owner, the owner would get rid of it, or the carrion eaters would eventually do the job.
"I didn't know that dog--did you?" Lupe was saying to Diablo, as she examined the water pistol el jefe had found. Lupe meant the dead dog being attended to by the two vultures in the road, but Diablo didn't let on if he'd known the dog.
The dump kids could tell it was a copper day. El jefe had a load of copper in the flatbed of the pickup. There was a manufacturing plant that worked with copper near the airport; in the same area was another plant, which took aluminum.