Pacazo Read Free

the one over there? You told me once before, but I have forgotten.
    Up the right fork, into my office, take a folder of handouts from my desk and leave the leaf in its place, up the stairs and into the classroom as the bell rings. Smell of chalk dust, smell of sweat. These are my Intermediate students. They ignore me or pretend to, continue their discussion of last night’s match between Cienciano and Alianza Lima. I set my briefcase beside the lectern, take silent roll as I wait for calm. Eighteen of twenty-four are present, neither good nor bad. Still they talk, marvel at the game’s final goal, and I concede the moment.
    - Who scored it? I ask.
    - Waldir Sáenz, says a student named Milton. Beautiful, he says.
    I ask him to come to the board, to diagram the goal and label its parts in English. Milton takes the chalk. He shows chaos at midfield, a pass to Muchotrigo on the wing, a cross in to Sáenz and the shot, straight at the goalkeeper, the ball seeming to slip through the man’s body. Only the final label gives Milton trouble.
    - Por la huacha, he says. Between the legs, and beautiful.
    - Huacha, yes. In English we say nutmeg.
    As good a warm-up as any. I put the word on the board, have the students drill it as if it will be of value. I describe the spice as well, and Milton asks for the historical connection. The students are focused now, stare at me, and I smile.
    - I have no idea. But speaking of history.
    The students moan. I nod, shrug, walk them through preparatory vocabulary. Next the text, Daniel Boone, skim and scan. Comprehension questions, and finally the writing assignment, a national hero and his or her flaws.
    The students’ heads lower. I shuffle through the folder. For any time left over I have a crossword about vegetables. I lean on the lectern, stare at the back wall, and here is what will happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that:
    I am walking home from work. The sky catches soft fire in the west, and the smells of jasmine and offal settle over the city. As I pass the park not far from my house, a taxi slows beside me. The driver honks and I do not look up: looking up only encourages them. He honks again, pulls closer to the sidewalk, says, Oye colorado, taxi?
    I shake my head, but as the cab glides away I glance at the license plate. It begins with P and ends with 22. I freeze, then shout and wave. The old yellow Tico pulls over beneath a matacojudo tree. I step slowly toward it, look in through the window on the passenger’s side, and the driver’s face is almost familiar.
    - It was you, wasn’t it? I say.
    - Mister? he says.
    And I believe I know that voice. I wipe my hands on the front of my shirt, put my handkerchief on the door handle, open the door and drag him through and out of his taxi. I slam him face-down against the hot hood. He twists and swings at me and misses, blood streaming from his nose, spattering my hands and face and clothes. I reach up, grab one low matacojudo, strike the man’s head but the fruit is overripe and breaks. I reach up again and rip a vine loose, garrote the taxista, the vine tighter and tighter, the man’s body at last still.
    No other cars have passed, but my neighbors may well have heard or seen from their open windows. I let the body fall, walk to my house. I hear Casualidad and Mariángel in the kitchen, slip past them to my room, shower and dress.
    Back to the kitchen, and Casualidad smiles, asks how I entered the house without her hearing. The elastic band of her eye patch is askew, a sharp diagonal across her forehead, holds a shock of black hair vertical above one ear. I tell her that I am tired of instant coffee, that from now on I will only drink real coffee, and send her to the supermarket. I kiss Mariángel, turn on cartoons for her to watch. Out in the back yard, I spray the bloodstained clothes with lighter fluid, burn them in my new galvanized tub, and bury the ashes in the flowerbed.
    Then I remember the police lieutenant,