The Dragon Griaule

One night toward the end of the week, Yara came astride Snow, allowing him to penetrate her. Her movements were rickety and it was apparent some pain was involved, but she went past the pain and seemed to lose herself in the act. Snow held her by the hips, guiding her, helping her move, yet he wasn’t as active as he would ordinarily have been, not wishing to hurt her. The striping on her body generated a fantasy that he had been transported to a cell in a Tibetan temple lit with the glow from a butter lamp, and she was a woman sprung from one of the legends illustrated by the tapestries that hung about the place, the handmaiden of an obscure god or herself the female incarnation of an elusive archetype, her ritual markings symbols in a perfected language known only to nine bodhisattvas that pointed up rather than detracted from her beauty. She flowed like honey around him and he, too, lost himself in the moment, in the old confusions of their relationship and the new. Yet once they were spent, as they lay quietly together, his mind began to run its usual circuits and he asked why she had chosen this night to make love to him.

‘“Make love,”’ she said teasingly. ‘You never said that when we were first together. It was always, “Let’s fuck.” You’ve become so gentlemanly.’

Impatient with her, he said, ‘Okay. Why did you fuck me?’

‘I couldn’t bear not to any longer.’

‘It wasn’t like a pity fuck? You weren’t saying goodbye?’

He expected a denial, but she said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means I don’t know!’

He waited for an explanation.

‘In the morning Jefe may invite you to watch him fly,’ she said. ‘He’ll . . .’

‘I should say, “No,” right? Pretend to be sick or something.’

‘No. You have to accept. And you have to flatter him constantly while he’s flying. I’ll come with you if I can, but he may send me away. If that happens, you have to cheer and applaud . . . applaud fervently no matter how long he flies. Be prepared for him to fly a long time. Several hours.’

Half-formed thoughts crowded one another aside in Snow’s head – a cold spot bloomed beneath his breastbone.

‘I have to do something,’ he said.

Yara pressed herself against him.

‘I can’t just sit around here waiting to be executed.’

She flung an arm across his stomach, resting her head on his chest so he could see nothing of her face.

‘Yara?’

‘I’m here,’ she said.

*

Every morning at ten a.m. Jefe ate his single meal of the day, consisting of four roast chickens. He would sit at the head of the dining room table, tearing off strips of meat, chewing methodically, gnawing clean the bones, reducing the birds to skeletal remains while Yara and Snow observed from their chairs. At Yara’s prompting Snow would offer absurdly fawning statements such as ‘You’re looking fit today’ and ‘I wish I had your appetite,’ and Jefe would cut his eyes toward him, grunt, and then cast his gaze toward another portion of the room, as if he found there something of greater interest. From time to time he would address himself to Yara, reminding her of some obligation, but otherwise he ignored her presence. On this particular morning, however, his eyes never wavered from Snow, transmitting a steely neutrality. As the number of chickens dwindled, believing his life could be measured in bites, he experienced a predictable cycling of conflicting emotions (fear, love for Yara, regret, anger at Yara for being complicit in his decision to stay, self-recrimination over that anger, fear . . . etc.) and at length decided that he’d had enough and would do or say something to bring matters to a head. The question of whether he would have acted on his decision was rendered moot by a loud buzzing that issued from the TV. A grainy picture appeared on the screen showing three men beside the pink house, at the entrance to the complex, one a boy of college age with a stubbly scalp, wearing a shiny rayon jacket embellished by the signature NY of the New York Yankees, and two fleshy, prosperous-looking types in their forties, also wearing jackets, but of leather. Jefe’s aloof manner did not change, but anger streamed off him. He walked over to the TV, half a chicken in his hand, and continued to eat, watching the men shift about.

The largest of the three spoke into the box mounted beside the door. ‘Jefe! We need to talk with you!’

Without turning from the screen, Jefe waggled a hand at Yara – she made her way haltingly toward the intercom, keyed the speaker, and said, ‘What do you want? You know he doesn’t like surprise visits.’

‘We have an urgent matter to discuss,’ said the man. ‘We called, but there was no signal.’

Jefe put his finger on the screen, touching the young man’s image.

‘Who’s the kid?’ Yara asked.

‘Chuy Velasquez. He’s one of us,’ said the other man. ‘We had car trouble and he volunteered to drive us.’

‘It’s an honor . . .’ Chuy began, but the big man shushed him.

Yara asked Jefe if she should have Chuy wait outside. Jefe bit off another mouthful of chicken.

The intercom squawked. ‘Yara?’