Bicho's spot was at the cannon. Even through the midday-while Granada took its siesta because it was too hot to think-tourists wandered the streets in full view of the Nicaraguan sun, and so Bicho was out selling. Tourists would buy the chicle, he thought, just to get rid of him. It had been this way for so long that he no longer had a sales pitch: Bicho held up the box with his skinny child's arm, looking pitiful and mumbling "tres córdoba." Their coins drummed against the cardboard box and they plucked out a discolored green or red packet. They hurried away as quickly as the afflictive climate allowed, while Bicho pocketed their money so as not to appear too wealthy. If they passed him by and it was early in the day, and thus the heat was not too oppressive, he might hustle down the street and bottleneck them between a wall and a storm drain missing its metal grate. In this manner they had to pass too close to avoid making eye contact, or they risked disappearing into a hole filled with trash, and milky brown sewage. Until the city replaced the grate, which it might never do, this trick allowed him to get the ones that got away. The gringos were good for business, except when they gave the chicle to the beggars in the Parque Colón. They didn't chew gum and would immediately run across the park to sell it again.
He sensed, rather than understood, why they came to Granada. It was the legacy of the oldest city on the continent; the air he breathed held the same breaths taken in by the Conquistadors of old-history trapped by humidity. As he breathed out he felt alone. Long ago, the pirate Morgan had fired the rusty barrel of Bicho's cannon upon Granada. Next to this was a plaque the boy couldn't read. Someone told him the dull brass letters remembered those lost when an American, William Walker, burned the city to the ground. Walker left a sign: Here Stood Granada, so the survivors knew where to rebuild. Yet of this invasion, Bicho knew nothing. Nor did he know why an army had hoisted the stars and stripes over the city in the antique photos sold on tables in the park. He knew what people had told him. And for the people who could remember, there were perfect reasons to hate the gringos-yet they did not: hate was too exhausting in this heat. Whatever crimes the gringos had committed in the past were forgotten, for no reason at all. For Bicho, this was simply a good spot to sell his chicle.
The old buildings surrounding the cannon on his plaza were now filled with computer and coffee shops. Soon, it was said, an evil giant, Estarbooks, would arrive in Granada. Even now, his scouts ran up and down the shady side of the street asking gringos to fill out answers to questions on how the giant would be received. The giant paid well; his friend Checho was a scout, but then he was several years older and spoke some English. Checho said the giant was popular. So popular that he would eat all the coffee grown on Volcano Mombacho and replace it with café from a land far across the sea, a place called Biet-nam. Nica coffee would disappear, and with it all the jobs and haciendas. In its place the giant would stand a sign, painted with a green mermaid.
"A single café will cost as much as several days' food," Checho said.
"I don't believe you. Who would buy that?"
"Look around you, Bicho-all these fat gringos live here."
"But the giant... he won't sell chicle, will he?"
"Yes. Yes, he will. And in little tins, not paper like you, and it will cost as much as the café."
"Maybe they will buy my chicle instead; I could stand right outside the giant's door and sell it for less, much less."
"His is a magical chicle in a colorful package. The gringo likes bright, colorful packages. And the giant will not let you stand outside. He will have guards to protect the gringos and throw you in jail and you will starve."
"I can't go to jail."
"OK, I have to go. Do you want a pen? It has a picture of the giant's wife, la sirena, it'll bring you good luck."
He took the pen and turned it over to examine the logo. "She is not as beautiful as the one in la loteria: you can't even see her tetas. You can keep it." He handed him the pen and then said: "Checho, can I watch you play baseball tonight?"
"No." He stood. "I had to stop playing-for the giant." He turned to walk away, but then stopped. "Hey, Bicho-I saw her yesterday, your sister."
"Yselle?"
"She was with the Rubio."
"Checho, where? Here?
"Find me in the park tonight, OK?"
"Wait," Bicho pleaded, but Checho was already far down the street.
He didn't mind the gringos, but he disliked the ones actually living in Granada. They passed him by as if he was the shadow of a dog. He disliked the Rubio most of all. Every day, the Rubio waddled his over-stretched guyabera shirt and ratty red ponytail along the peristyle of the colonial buildings. They said he could never find a wife in los Estados so he moved to Nicaragua to buy one; Bicho never thought that one might have been Yselle. Everyone knew what the Rubio was about, but he had money. Plenty of money-enough for a high concrete wall tipped with broken glass to surround his property. With his box of gum, Bicho harassed the Rubio for córdobas each time he passed. And every time the Rubio wagged his fat finger at him "no," and tottered on. Bicho always pursued him, shaking his box so the coins rattled against the cardboard, just because. The Rubio might then buy chicle from one of the other boys, the ones selling on the other end of the plaza. When the Rubio returned, smelling sweet and fried from his morning feast, Bicho would ask again; to this the Rubio held his palm aloft and said the word "No."
Bicho tried to follow the Rubio home. He made it as far as the guard's kiosk. While the Rubio passed through the checkpoint by holding up a few fingers of his left hand, Bicho was spotted long before he made it to the gate. A stout man in a pressed, gray uniform stepped out from the kiosk and grabbed Bicho by the shoulder. Bicho called out to Yselle, before being shoved to the ground. The contents of his chicle box scattered across the road; the guard then kicked the box beneath a nearby donkey cart, and told Bicho the next time he would use his shotgun. He collected only a few packets of chicle before hobbling back to his cannon. This Rubio, he thought, was worse than any giant.
When he had sold his final packet of chicle, Bicho followed the scent of grilled meat to the Parque Colón hoping to find Checho: he would know how to get a message to Yselle. He passed a woman searing churrasco on a grill made from a rusty tire rim and snapping with hot coals. She fanned orange sparks and greasy smoke across his path.
"How much?" he asked.
"Twenty-five," she said without looking at him.
The price made his stomach ache. He shuffled over to a white cart for a skinny, red hotdog with cabbage, crema, ketchup, onions, and whatever else the man would cover it with. Five córdobas. He found a bench unmolested by white spots, sat, and drew in the vinegary smell of the day's first meal. At dusk, with his belly still empty and still no sign of Checho, he walked home.
"Bicho," his mother called. "Bicho, I need córdobas for the market. I want to cook you a chicken, for your birthday."
"My birthday was two months ago, Ma-Ma."
"I gave birth to you, Bicho, eight years ago. I know when your birthday is-the tenth of March."
"Today it's the twenty-sixth of May." He sat down on his blanket in the corner. "And I'm eleven."
She wasn't the same since Yselle had run away. Any mention of her name sent his mother in search of the bottle. Cheaply distilled rum had replaced her mind and, at times, her sight. He knew he needed to protect what was left of her thoughts. Before telling his mother, Bicho would wait until he actually found Yselle and returned her home; until he had successfully defended the borders of his family.
In a crack he hollowed from the adobe, he cached a few bills for the day when their landlord shook the door to collect the rent; the rest he gave over to his mother for her tortillas and gallo pinto. There could be no chicken. The thought crossed his mind that he should buy the beans and rice himself; keep his mother from the temptation of the bottle. But she needed something to do-some reality to bring her mind back to the present.
Knable bit his lip. He would have to teach her to cook before long; at this rate, they would chew through his savings before he reached sixty. Too many restaurants, even cheap ones, exhausted this month's play money with five days to go. Next month, it might be a week. By December he would be spending January's stipend. She was no longer content with the leftovers he brought home, she insisted on accompanying him to dinner, misbehaving until he acquiesced.
Then he remembered-last week he had her fitted with braces. That's were the money had gone. He smiled. Now, with her mouth full of metal-aching with adjustments-her complaints were unintelligible. There was still the chip in her front tooth. It could wait, he thought. "All in good time, mi amor. All in good time."
He had promised her a trip to the U.S., but they couldn't return until she reached the age of consent. Here, at fifteen, he had married her away from a life on the street with legal approval. A year ago a prostitute, now his wife. It took only a small donation to the official's pocket-less than her braces-to have this beautiful ward of the state transferred to his marital bed. Yet after only six months of marriage he was unprepared for her rebellion-the tantrums, broken plates, and demands for more. What would happen when it became clear he had little money and no intention of bringing her to Texas or Iowa, or anywhere; what damage would she cause him? Knable wondered if he'd have time to prepare himself for that sad day.
He usually kept her locked at home when he went for breakfast-too many backpackers at the only restaurant that served french toast and waffles. They always ordered waffles.
Yesterday, after a torturous screaming fit, he agreed to take her along with him. A trim couple from Minnesota seemed to glare at him while they crunched on their bacon and slurped their coffee. He suspected they knew something-with squinty blue eyes, their straw-colored hair-as he stroked the fine skin on her smooth, dark arm. Or perhaps it was paranoia: simply the ten o'clock sun that snuck under the portico and blasted their faces. Or the haze of scorched lard from the kitchen, wafting too closely to the woman's sharp nostrils. Or the fly that dove toward her face, making her react as though it were a wasp: swatting and pitching and weaving as far as her chaired position would allow. When the fly left they cooed, their whispers not of love, but of doubt: there was no way a man like Knable could land such a beautiful prize. Welcome to Nicaragua, folks, it was your sort that drove me here, he sneered. Sunshine and winged insects are routine, and anyone can have a degree of happiness for a short stack of dollars, legally.
On their way home Knable crumpled a few colored notes into her pink palm and patted her bottom in the direction of the new market. She didn't move until he doubled the allowance. He didn't let her shop at the open air stalls anymore, not since the bout with bad chicken. Really, Knable wanted to keep her away from her street-walking friends, the ones that might lure her back. Why she would give up the riches he provided her, he didn't know. But she might; and for this he worried.
He shooed away a rather persistent chicle boy and crossed to the Hotel Real to take an over-priced coffee with the new fellow in town. They had met last night at the churrascuria. Ecker was in Granada on behalf of a real estate developer.
"Knable, good to see you." Ecker said, his wiry hair poking out from behind a bulky laptop. "Thanks for being on-time: I've got to catch a taxi to Managua in less than an hour."
"I've been here a year, but I've kept my American sense of time. There are no siestas for me." The waiter overturned Knable's cup and filled it with lukewarm coffee.
"That's great-no rest for the wicked, eh? Well anyway, like I was saying yesterday: I need someone who knows the town. I've got hundreds of retirees that just can't afford California anymore-housing and prescriptions are driving them to bankruptcy." The absence of a left front tooth lisped the last syllable.
"Why do you think I'm here?" Knable asked, tipping his coffee too soon so that it dribbled down the breast-pocket of his guyabera. "Oh, damn. Sorry."
"Yes... well, exactly." Ecker watched the yellow-brown spread down Knable's belly, as though killing the embroidered flowers. "Do you have any experience in the real estate business?"
"Well, I've been through the unpleasant process here, in Granada. And I'm a businessman by trade: I once owned a hobby shop."
"See, I've got an experienced agent here already, the problem is she's Nicaraguan, and the boomers still associate the country with the Reagan-years: Contras and communist rebels and whatnot. I need someone to comfort them-massage their minds about investing in this backwards place. Make it seem not so backwards. Naturally, they've been priced out of Costa Rica."
"Naturally. So what would I do? Greet them at the door?"
"Basically, yes. It'll be about that easy-when I'm not in town you'll be the white face of the operation. You'll get an office and a desk ... you just memorize the party line-share your great experiences, you know. It'll be strictly part-time. Once a week sort of thing. Rarely more than that."
"Will there be-" Knable looked down and picked at the damp coffee stain.
"Of course. Now ... it won't be much. Though for what little work you'll be doing it'll seem like you're overpaid. But nice for a retired fellow like yourself."
"My kind of work, and I can always use a little extra."
"So, I take it that's a yes." He winked, smiling and flashing the hole where his tooth was once rooted. "Great. Could you write your number here? I'll be back to beautiful Granada around mid-June to open the office. We'll have you and your wife over for dinner."
"Oh, she doesn't get out much," Knable said, looking up a little too quickly. "She's Nicaraguan, you see. And she speaks no English."
"Ah, I see," Ecker said, his eyes changed. "A taste for local girls, eh? Even better. Actually, I'm certain there'll be a few widowers who'd love to know your secrets, if you catch my drift. Guess you've caught on already: that kind of info can really sway them in our favor. Before you know it we'll stake claim to the entire shore-fill it with our own little American community."
"Actually, I think I'd enjoy that. I... I haven't made many close connections with the locals." Knable's voice trailed off. "Kind of like back home."
"Before you know it, you'll be able to buy yourself some friends. OK." Ecker checked his watch, and signalled the waiter. "I'd best get on the road. See you in a few weeks."
"Yes. It's very exciting. Though don't forget your rain gear. It starts in June and you'd swear it never stops." Knable took his outstretched hand, the French toast shifting in his belly. He watched Ecker's cab drive away. He didn't like the questions people were bound to ask about his young bride. Then again, he would be in a position to control-to some extent-which people he allowed into his little world. Knable crossed the shade of the park and walked home to his wife.
He opened his eyes. Why didn't she wake him for dinner, he cursed. Knable searched the house but found it empty. She hadn't returned from her shopping trip. He mis-buttoned his shirt and slammed their gate. This is how it started, he thought: she's late today, tomorrow she'll take a lover. The guard told him he had not seen her.
He eventually found her in the Parque Colón, talking to a boy in a starched shirt with his foot resting upon a bench. Even from this distance Knable saw her tonguing her braces, smoothing the blouse over her nubile pieces. All to arouse this filthy teenaged suitor, he fumed. Anger doubled his speed.
She saw him approach and began gathering her things and a brown paper bag, its corners spotted almost transparent with grease.
Nearly out of breath, he grappled for her arm. "Where have you been?" At once, Knable pulled her to her feet, glaring at the boy. "And you can get the hell out of here!"
The boy didn't move right away, but backed off when Knable whacked the paper bag at his feet. A chicken leg rolled from the mouth of the sack, collecting a few pigeon feathers. So she had intended to bring him dinner ... no excuse, he thought.
She bent to collect the bag, putting it atop the rest of her shopping. As she stooped, reaching for the chicken leg, he jerked her to her feet again.
"Leave it." He pulled her away. They became a curiosity-a lover's spat-though no one moved to assist her. The vendors packed up their tables, and oily pigeons fought to devour their deep-fried cousin.
Knable dragged her out of the park and past the cannon.
In the half-light Bicho scurried to sell his final packs of chicle. It had been a poor day. Two older boys had relieved him of his coins and half his territory. It was only after they had tired of the afternoon heat that Bicho was able to recover. Though he might not make enough to cover his costs for tomorrow, and tonight he would not eat.
Bicho forgot the pain in his belly upon hearing sharp, English words. The Rubio forced a girl along, his thick hand wrapped about her elbow. As they crossed by the cannon, Bicho rattled the change in the box under the gringo's chin. He mumbled something, and looked into the face of the prisoner.
"No. No chicle goddammit! Como siempre, no!" Knable swatted the box away, the coins chimed against the pavement; the gum landed with silent little pats. The girl scanned the shining discs cast upon the ground. Knable yanked her forward.
Bicho never stooped to collect the box or the coins. He waited until the fat man neared the end of the block. Running as fast as he could, Bicho dove into the sweat-stained center of the Rubio's back. Knable stumbled forward, his left leg finding nothing but the dark air of the open drain. He crashed to the concrete and his ankle buckled under his full weight. The girl also tumbled to the ground, landing atop her shopping on all fours.
"Yselle, ayudame," Knable cried. "Yselle!"
Bicho helped the girl to her feet. Gathering her bags, he smelled their pleasing contents. Tonight, they would have a chicken dinner. Bicho looked down at the wailing mass of flesh. "Por fav-oor... ayudame," Knable said, his undone ponytail had fallen over his face. He rocked side-to-side, his hands trying to strangle away the pain from his broken leg.
"No," Bicho said, stepping between Yselle and Knable. She looked down at Knable; uncertainty weighed heavily upon her face. Bicho grabbed his sister by the hand and led her home.
© 2009 by Jason R. Riley.