“Do I what?” he replied.
“Know how to shoot.”
“Sure I do.”
“Where’d you learn?”
“Jackie taught me,” he said nonchalantly.
She watched him sit down and put on his jeans. “Why were you arrested? You didn’t shoot anyone, did you?”
She was merely curious, not really concerned about the possibility of spending time with a killer. He zipped up his jeans and looked at her, and then he laughed merrily. “As if!”
“Then?”
“I joined a protest, which is enough to get you labeled as a member of a ‘criminal conspiracy.’ That’s what happened three years ago, in Tlatelolco. That’s what the president said. That all the students protesting were criminals and agitators, subversive elements. Same as always, I guess.”
“Were you there? At Tlatelolco?” she asked. That had been a huge mess. Some political activists escaped the country after that. It was the sort of thing that was so big, no one could keep a lid on it. Even Maite had seen the pictures of the tanks and the soldiers and people screaming. Still, that hadn’t stopped the same thing from happening again.
“No way. If I had, I’d probably be dead now. That wasn’t my scene yet. After that, that’s when I got into this whole activism thing. You couldn’t ignore what was happening and so I went to meetings, printed leaflets. I got thrown in jail for a night for the leaflets and then got caught at a protest another time.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’d been thrown in jail twice, I wouldn’t do anything like that again.”
“That was nothing, a bit of time in a cell. I was lucky. They torture people, Maite. They kill. What happened at Tlatelolco, what happened with the Hawks? That shit is going to keep on happening if we don’t stand up and defend ourselves. That has to end. We need to rise up in arms.”
“I suppose so, but that’s war.”
“It’s already war.”
He stared at her. Maite didn’t know what to say, and he’d gone quiet too, pulling his shoes on and tying the laces.
They drove to a restaurant where he said they made very decent milkshakes and they also served great burgers. As they sat there, waiting for their order, she tossed a coin in the jukebox sitting in a dusty corner and “At Last” began playing.
She felt like swaying to the music. If she’d been at home, she would have done it, her bare feet against the floor, her arms wrapped around an invisible lover. Because there was never a real lover for Maite. No flesh-and-blood man.
Except there was a man with her now, sharing her booth. She touched the back of her neck, her fingers sliding down to brush the top button of her dress.
The waitress came by with their food, and Maite busied herself with her hamburger; she’d ordered the same thing he had, feeling it was the safest choice. One time she’d ordered a pineapple carved and filled with shrimp at a restaurant, and Cristóbalito had chided her because it was the most expensive item on the menu. Between taking sips of her soft drink, she glanced at Rubén. He still had feelings for Leonora. He’d said as much. But he’d slept with her, and now they were sitting there together, all friendly-like.
She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. She took a breath. “You’re not sorry?”
“About what?”
“You know. About sleeping with me.”
He blinked, confused. “Why would I be sorry about that? I told you, it’ll make a nice memory.”
“Oh, don’t joke like that.”
“Overthinker,” he said, tapping his head with his index finger and smiling. He had a decent smile, all warm.
She blushed again and figured by now he thought she was a complete fool. But it wasn’t like she did this regularly. She was angry at herself for not having the composure of the women in the stories she read, for not being the sophisticated lady. Instead, she was a stupid, blubbering spinster.
He took out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned an arm against the back of the booth as he took a drag. “Can you call in sick tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“For one, I’m still a bit nervous and don’t want to have you out of my sight in case, you know, that DFS agent tries to speak to you again. Second—”
“I can’t skip work all week because of that.”
“I know. But you didn’t let me tell you the second thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Second, you’re pleasant and I don’t mind spending time with you,” he said, reaching for the ashtray and placing it in the middle of the table. “I’ve been so stressed I thought I’d have a damn heart attack, but I feel relaxed around you.”
“Do you, really?”
“Yeah. I’m not sorry at all.”
He stretched a hand and caught her own, his thumb rubbing circles against her wrist, and he was looking into her eyes with such interest Maite felt herself blushing again, like a girl. With her free hand she touched her neck, a finger pressed against the hollow of her throat.
“So you want to lie low tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What, is that really bad? I can teach you how to shoot too.”
“In my apartment? Are you crazy?”
“Without bullets, of course. Or maybe how to punch a guy. I bet you don’t know how to make a fist and throw a punch without breaking your fingers.”
“It sounds like you want me to become a guerilla fighter,” she said. “I take dictation.”
“Well, you never know.”
He wasn’t astonishingly handsome like Emilio, nor enthralling like Cristóbalito, but Maite figured he was something. Right? He was at the very least courageous. She could picture him with a machete, deep in a jungle, carving a path through the greenery and leading his men.
There wasn’t a jungle in Guerrero like the ones in Secret Romance, lush and filled with toucans, but there was some vegetation. Mountains, caves, rugged trails. And if they did connect them to the dead man, then that definitely would be a better location than Mexico City, rugged trails or not.
She imagined herself as an outlaw, far from civilization, while the moon, like a single unblinking eye, stared down at her. A man stood up and picked a song from the jukebox. “Blue Velvet.” She adored that song. The music made her wish to dance, again, while wearing a long velvet dress.