Payback

103

Calvina Agnese pulled the thin sweater tighter around her shoulders, more to move her stiff limbs than to ward off the early-morning cold. The Ecuador-bound bus wasn’t due for another three hours, but the line for spots already stretched well past the stones that marked the spot where people were usually turned away. Calvina was two people beyond the stones, but the veterans in the line around her said it was likely she would get in anyway. A small bribe to the driver might help, they’d added, and Calvina had allocated a few soles from her meager supply for that.

Calvina had had to pay for the boat and bus from Nevas and would have to spend her own money to get to Quito, the capital of Ecuador, and the airport, where the man with the balloons would meet her. She did not know which city she was going to and would not until she was at the airport. Nor had the details on what would happen when she arrived been explained.

The passport she’d been given had spelled her name wrong and gave as her address the school in Nevas where she had gone. They had not even bothered to ask her real address, and she thought it better not to question them about the name.

“What are you doing in Ecuador?” asked an older gentleman near her as she waited.

“I have a job,” she lied.

“A young girl like you should go to the North,” he said, meaning the U.S. “There are many rich people there, if you work hard.”

She smiled at him.

“You’re not so pretty,” the man added. “But a hard worker would make a good bride.”

Calvina felt her face flush red as she turned away.

“All the others I could accept, but to lose Rosalina as well — that is the final blow,” Túcume told Babin as they waited for petrol.

“I don’t think she would betray you,” Babin replied. “Not Rosalina. Why do you say that?”

“She did.”

Túcume threw his head back on the seat. Babin thought he wore the look of a man crushed by the world.

“She was a descendant of the people who had sheltered my ancestors,” said the general, his voice almost a moan. “Now even they turn against the Inca.”

Depression made Túcume compliant, but Babin worried that the general was sinking too deep. He had hardly said anything as Babin explained his plan to take the weapon to the North and extract revenge; the Russian had had to ask point-blank whether he would do it before getting a “yes.”

“Why would Rosalina give me up?” Túcume asked.

“I don’t think she did.”

“This is just like the natives — like all of our people. You see from the vote — no one came to the polls. Did you even hear talk of an election in any town we stopped in?”

“No,” said Babin. The news reports had said that turnout in the native regions had been low, running at about 10 percent — far under Túcume’s expectations, though actually in keeping with most elections in the past.

“This is how the conquistadors won,” said Túcume. “They used our people against us.”

“Perhaps you should sleep,” suggested Babin. “We don’t want to cross until nightfall anyway.”

“Sleep. I cannot sleep.”

“What do you think about getting another driver?”

“Who would we trust?”

Babin nodded. It would be risky to take someone with them, too tempting — even if the man could not see beyond the general’s ill-fitting clothes and realize who he was, he would know they had money, and they would have to be on their guard constantly.

But another helper, someone to get them food even, to buy tickets when they went to Ecuador and Mexico — above all, someone to distract the general even slightly — that would be most useful.

“I think I will stretch my back and legs,” said Babin, getting out of the car. Túcume said nothing.

Though tiny, the town was something of a way station for travelers. A long line snaked in front of the local café: a mixture of workers, northern tourists, would-be emigrants, and adventurers waited for the daily bus to Ecuador.

A helper might be found here. Not a driver — it occurred to Babin that most of these peasants probably had never driven in their lives.

They’d lie, of course, if asked.

He couldn’t trust a man, not even an old one.

A woman?

Babin crutched forward, pondering the idea, its risks and rewards, even as he eyed the crowd. A woman might be trusted. Certainly a pretty one would take Túcume’s mind off his problems.

Or not. That would be too obvious.

An older woman was out of the question. Anyone who reminded him of Rosalina would be a terrible choice.

A girl, barely out of her teens, not quite experienced enough to cause too many problems but smart enough to do as she was told.

A good idea? Or more complications?

Babin saw two, maybe three girls who would do in line. It was hard to judge ages without staring, and staring would make them suspicious. He turned and crutched back toward the car.

He would send Túcume to choose.

The gray-haired gentleman who approached the line at the bus stop reminded Calvina of Señor DeCura even before he began to speak. He was taller than Señor DeCura, bigger, more clearly native by birth. But his accent was the same. The first words from his mouth were Spanish, asking if everyone here was going north across the border, when the bus was expected, and when the ride was due. Then he began speaking in Quechua, repeating the questions.

No one answered. Calvina saw a look of hurt cross his face and felt sad for him; she glanced to her left and right and, when she was sure that no one else would speak, told him in the language of her grandparents that yes, it was a long wait until the bus came.

“You live nearby?” asked the man.

She shook her head, then added, “Lima.”

“Why are you going to Ecuador?”

She felt her face flush. “Work.”

“Where?”

“The capital.”

“When do you need to be there?”

“The work begins when I arrive.”

The man paused, considering something. Then he said, “I need someone to help me with my friend, who is a cripple. The work is not hard, and I will pay with a ride to Ecuador as well as a modest sum.”

At the mention of a job — even though the words were in Quechua — Calvina felt several of the people around her stir.

Should she go with him? Perhaps it was a trap. But he seemed so reassuring, so much like Señor DeCura.

Hadn’t Señor DeCura proved to be less than he seemed?

No. Whatever trouble he had gotten into was not his fault. Señor DeCura was too kind, too wise. Others had been jealous and brought him down.

“What sort of job, señor?” said an older woman in Quechua.

As the gentleman turned to her, Calvina stepped forward and touched his arm. “What is it I should do?” she said.