18.
We pulled into Lengüeta Del Diablo a couple hours after dawn, as people were beginning to fill the sidewalks and vendors were opening their stands. We had been on dirt roads for the past ten or twenty miles, and now as we drove down the deserted streets of the town I realized I had never even noticed the border. Grod didn't seem worried about it, but as much as I thought about it, I couldn't imagine Grod being worried about anything. Around us, pueblo buildings and wooden carts filed by as Grod was forced to slow down in the winding streets.
Grod squeeled his tires around the battered brick roads attracting the delighted attention of the local kids, but much to the dismay of these children's grandmothers. It wasn't until we parked at a small building and got out that I realized the cheers, both good and bad, were for Grod, and not just his antics.
Grod lit up a cigar, ignoring the small, but impressive crowd of neighborhood kids ranging from five to fifteen gathering around him. A few tugged at his long, deep-red bathrobe as others pulled at his legs and his free arm. The rest filled a poorly drawn circle whose center of mass found itself underneath Grod's feet. They were all yelling eagerly at him, but their voices all mixed together into an indiscernible noise.
Finally, Grod stopped and turned around, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him and not down at the kids. And as quickly as one can unplug speakers, the children quieted and stepped back in awe. Grod's eyes settled on an especially run down building on the corner of the street. Small faded wooden signs around the top of the building just above the windows bore words I couldn't understand, aside from "cerveza" and "tequila", and through the dirty windows I could see the faint outlines of people sitting at tables. Grod slowly began to walk toward the building, the children falling in behind him. I was drawn after him too, half-consciously, my head swimming with the casual weirdness of my surroundings.
The building was, like I said, run down. There was a front door, but it was on the ground outside and looked like someone had kicked it off its hinges. The inside was also about what I had expected: floor covered with sawdust, big old wooden fans spinning slowly on the ceiling, and a scattering of locals around the stained and battered tables playing cards and drinking beer. Not really a bad place to have a drink, I thought. The bartender, a short old woman with gray, curly hair, looked up as Grod came in.
The children waited eagerly at the door, the front few keeping a keen eye on Grod while those behind were constantly shifting around, trying to get a better look. Grod smiled at the old woman behind the bar, but she didn't return the smile--even as he laid down a fifty dollar bill on the counter.
Grod glanced nervously toward the children then back at the woman. Finally the woman spoke up, "You know my sister hates you." Her voice sounded deep and rough, as if ravaged by years of smoking, and her mild French accent seemed to separate her from the surroundings.
Both parties continued to eye each other, waiting for the other to give in. Grod looked at the kids and back at the woman before pulling another fifty from his robe and placing it on top of the first.
"Fine," said the woman who took the money. She reached under the counter and pulled out a large, brown jug and handed it to Grod. This seemed to excite the children who started cheering and talking amongst themselves. Grod walked into the group of them, holding the jug up as they jumped and grabbed for it.
"Settle down, young'uns," Grod said, laughing. I had been standing by the doorway throughout the whole transaction, captured by the scene, but I forced my feet to move and pushed myself to the bar. I pulled out a chair and sat, unnoticed by the old woman, who was busy watching Grod carefully. He laughed harder and uncorked the jug. The kids went crazy, jumping up onto tables and knocking over chairs.
"Children shouldn't be drinking that stuff," she muttered half to me and half to herself. "Well, no one should be drinking that stuff."
She pulled up a stool and sat down across from me, behind the bar. "So you're Grod's writer, huh?"
"Yeah," I said offhandedly. Outside Grod had finally given one of the taller kids the jug and the kids were pushing and shoving to get swigs. Grod just watched and laughed. After a minute he came up and pulled out another stool beside me.
"Now, how 'bout a glass for me and my friend here?" Grod smiled almost too gleefully, but the woman continued to stare grimly at him. He laid down another fifty and also a small item I couldn't identify. It looked like something you'd see dangling from a key chain. The woman ignored the money and picked up this item, staring at it for a minute before turning resignedly to the bar.
"Fine," she said again, and took a couple of glasses down from the backbar. "What is your name, dear?" she asked me, ducked underneath the counter searching for another, smaller brown bottle.
"This here's Paul Crawford," Grod said first, patting me on the back.
The woman reappeared and filled our glasses with the bottles contents. "This man cannot speak for himself?" she asked, turning Grod's proud smile to a contempt-filled grimace. She let him pout briefly then turned toward me, "Paul Crawford. I am Sophia de Bordeaux."
"Oh," I said, "You must be Grandma de Bordeaux."
Grod rolled his eyes, but the woman appeared unaffected. "No," she said, "That would be my sister, Madeline. She has been dead for quite some time."
"What's she been up to these days," Grod asked.
"Tell me, Paul, do you have a woman?" Sophia asked me, ignoring and further infuriating Grod.
"I, uh... no, not really," I said, looking down at the bartop.
"Good. No one to mourn you when Grod gets you killed." There was a long and fairly awkward silence, and I noticed that the children had swarmed outside, where they were running around in the street. It looked like the jug was nearly empty. "Well, bottoms up," Sophia de Bordeaux said at last, and I took a sip of the tequila. It was a strange and amazing experience, like drinking sweet water mixed with fire. Mostly fire, though. Little dots danced in front of my eyes as I felt a strange sensation in my brain, like unused neurons rattling to life, and the ends of my fingers seemed to buzz with electricity. I put the glass down until I could breathe again, and when I could I asked the woman if the tequila really was enchanted. She immediately glared at Grod, who had already finished half of his glass, and who broke into a gleeful grin at her anger. But the woman's glare crumbled, and she propped her chin up on the bar with an elbow, sighing.
"All right," she said, "I guess I'd better start at the beginning." Grod laughed loudly and took another long draught of tequila.
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Grod squeeled his tires around the battered brick roads attracting the delighted attention of the local kids, but much to the dismay of these children's grandmothers. It wasn't until we parked at a small building and got out that I realized the cheers, both good and bad, were for Grod, and not just his antics.
Grod lit up a cigar, ignoring the small, but impressive crowd of neighborhood kids ranging from five to fifteen gathering around him. A few tugged at his long, deep-red bathrobe as others pulled at his legs and his free arm. The rest filled a poorly drawn circle whose center of mass found itself underneath Grod's feet. They were all yelling eagerly at him, but their voices all mixed together into an indiscernible noise.
Finally, Grod stopped and turned around, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him and not down at the kids. And as quickly as one can unplug speakers, the children quieted and stepped back in awe. Grod's eyes settled on an especially run down building on the corner of the street. Small faded wooden signs around the top of the building just above the windows bore words I couldn't understand, aside from "cerveza" and "tequila", and through the dirty windows I could see the faint outlines of people sitting at tables. Grod slowly began to walk toward the building, the children falling in behind him. I was drawn after him too, half-consciously, my head swimming with the casual weirdness of my surroundings.
The building was, like I said, run down. There was a front door, but it was on the ground outside and looked like someone had kicked it off its hinges. The inside was also about what I had expected: floor covered with sawdust, big old wooden fans spinning slowly on the ceiling, and a scattering of locals around the stained and battered tables playing cards and drinking beer. Not really a bad place to have a drink, I thought. The bartender, a short old woman with gray, curly hair, looked up as Grod came in.
The children waited eagerly at the door, the front few keeping a keen eye on Grod while those behind were constantly shifting around, trying to get a better look. Grod smiled at the old woman behind the bar, but she didn't return the smile--even as he laid down a fifty dollar bill on the counter.
Grod glanced nervously toward the children then back at the woman. Finally the woman spoke up, "You know my sister hates you." Her voice sounded deep and rough, as if ravaged by years of smoking, and her mild French accent seemed to separate her from the surroundings.
Both parties continued to eye each other, waiting for the other to give in. Grod looked at the kids and back at the woman before pulling another fifty from his robe and placing it on top of the first.
"Fine," said the woman who took the money. She reached under the counter and pulled out a large, brown jug and handed it to Grod. This seemed to excite the children who started cheering and talking amongst themselves. Grod walked into the group of them, holding the jug up as they jumped and grabbed for it.
"Settle down, young'uns," Grod said, laughing. I had been standing by the doorway throughout the whole transaction, captured by the scene, but I forced my feet to move and pushed myself to the bar. I pulled out a chair and sat, unnoticed by the old woman, who was busy watching Grod carefully. He laughed harder and uncorked the jug. The kids went crazy, jumping up onto tables and knocking over chairs.
"Children shouldn't be drinking that stuff," she muttered half to me and half to herself. "Well, no one should be drinking that stuff."
She pulled up a stool and sat down across from me, behind the bar. "So you're Grod's writer, huh?"
"Yeah," I said offhandedly. Outside Grod had finally given one of the taller kids the jug and the kids were pushing and shoving to get swigs. Grod just watched and laughed. After a minute he came up and pulled out another stool beside me.
"Now, how 'bout a glass for me and my friend here?" Grod smiled almost too gleefully, but the woman continued to stare grimly at him. He laid down another fifty and also a small item I couldn't identify. It looked like something you'd see dangling from a key chain. The woman ignored the money and picked up this item, staring at it for a minute before turning resignedly to the bar.
"Fine," she said again, and took a couple of glasses down from the backbar. "What is your name, dear?" she asked me, ducked underneath the counter searching for another, smaller brown bottle.
"This here's Paul Crawford," Grod said first, patting me on the back.
The woman reappeared and filled our glasses with the bottles contents. "This man cannot speak for himself?" she asked, turning Grod's proud smile to a contempt-filled grimace. She let him pout briefly then turned toward me, "Paul Crawford. I am Sophia de Bordeaux."
"Oh," I said, "You must be Grandma de Bordeaux."
Grod rolled his eyes, but the woman appeared unaffected. "No," she said, "That would be my sister, Madeline. She has been dead for quite some time."
"What's she been up to these days," Grod asked.
"Tell me, Paul, do you have a woman?" Sophia asked me, ignoring and further infuriating Grod.
"I, uh... no, not really," I said, looking down at the bartop.
"Good. No one to mourn you when Grod gets you killed." There was a long and fairly awkward silence, and I noticed that the children had swarmed outside, where they were running around in the street. It looked like the jug was nearly empty. "Well, bottoms up," Sophia de Bordeaux said at last, and I took a sip of the tequila. It was a strange and amazing experience, like drinking sweet water mixed with fire. Mostly fire, though. Little dots danced in front of my eyes as I felt a strange sensation in my brain, like unused neurons rattling to life, and the ends of my fingers seemed to buzz with electricity. I put the glass down until I could breathe again, and when I could I asked the woman if the tequila really was enchanted. She immediately glared at Grod, who had already finished half of his glass, and who broke into a gleeful grin at her anger. But the woman's glare crumbled, and she propped her chin up on the bar with an elbow, sighing.
"All right," she said, "I guess I'd better start at the beginning." Grod laughed loudly and took another long draught of tequila.
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© 2006 Ian Blake & Marshall Scott
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