The Dragon Griaule

The elder of his companions, a man cut from similar cloth, same mustache, same belly flab, but shorter and with a receding hairline, moved in front of Bazan, or else he might have come at Snow.

‘The son-of-a-bitch has been fucking my wife!’ Bazan tried to throw the smaller man aside, but Chuy helped restrain him.

‘Is this true?’ Jefe’s enjoyment of the moment was evident in his tone of prim amusement. ‘Have you been trifling with Luisa’s affections?’

‘Hell, no!’ Snow made as if to stand, willing to let his anger rip after so long an enforced repression, but Yara dug her nails into his arm.

Bazan shook his head furiously, like a bull swarmed by bees. ‘What the fuck is he doing here?’

‘I was hiking in the hills,’ said Snow. ‘Jefe asked me to stay. As for your wife, I’ve never had so much as a cup of coffee with her.’

‘Calm yourself, Enrique.’ Jefe joined the two men who had Bazan backed against the wall. ‘Whoever’s been at your wife, I’m certain you’ll get to the bottom of it.’

‘It’s him! I can tell by the way she talks about him!’

‘That’s your proof ? Luisa talks about him? It’s hardly convincing.’

‘Man, I’ve been married to her fat ass for eleven years! I know the signs!’

‘It doesn’t matter who’s been staining your bed sheets,’ Jefe said. ‘The real crime has nothing to do with your wife. Right, Chuy?’

Jefe patted Chuy on the back, shifted a hand to the nape of his neck, and Chuy, responding to this amiable gesture, looked to him over his shoulder, a smile aborning on his face . . . and then the smile, before it had fully established itself, dissolved into an expression of befuddlement, and thereafter into one of shock and pain. His right leg began to shake. Spittle flew from his lips.

‘The real crime is you bringing someone here who wasn’t invited,’ Jefe said to Bazan. ‘Someone I don’t know.’

Chuy clawed feebly at Jefe’s hand and loosed a warbling note that thinned into a keening. His shoes were not planted on the floor, but drifted across the carpet, their toes grazing the burgundy nap.

‘Jefe, don’t do this.’ Bazan eased away from him. ‘He’s a good kid.’

Chuy’s shoulders hitched violently, his arms went rigid, held out to the sides like a marionette whose elbow-strings had been yanked.

Yara heaved up from her chair. ‘The boy’s done nothing. Let him go!’

Startled, Jefe turned on her, rag-dolling Chuy.

‘No one’s harmed you.’ She pried at Jefe’s fingers, trying to loosen his grip. ‘He did you a favor by driving them. Or would you prefer to have been kept in the dark about Ortega? Let him go. Let Enrique get on with his business.’

‘Keep out of this!’ Jefe said.

‘This is how leaders treat their friends.’ She pried at his fingers again. ‘Presidents, generals, kings. Whatever title they give themselves, they’re pigs. Villains. You have to be better than that.’

So much fury was concentrated in Jefe’s face, Snow thought it might explode.

Yara’s words took on a blathering tone, as if she were counseling a disobedient child while straightening his collar. ‘You swore you’d pay attention to my advice. Well, I’m advising you now. You mustn’t lash out every time someone does something that doesn’t please you. You have to use some discretion.’

Jefe backhanded her, striking her side, releasing Chuy at the same moment. She reeled back against the table, shrieked and clutched her hip, and sagged to the floor. Yet after the briefest of intervals she sat up and continued her scolding, as though the shove had been but a trivial interruption. Jefe went toward her and Snow, thinking he was going to hit her again, came out of his chair and said, ‘Well done! A man has to maintain order in his house.’

Jefe’s head snapped toward him.

‘Without discipline at home,’ said Snow, ‘you can have no discipline. Who are these people to think they can rule you while you rule their country? It’s absurd!’

‘You should act from the standpoint of reason, not emotion.’ Yara managed to get to her knees. ‘You can’t simply react to events.’

Jefe turned back to her.

‘Reason, yes. But you can’t tolerate an insult to your authority.’ Snow began to understand where this byplay might lead. ‘There has to be a price.’

Helped by his friend, Bazan hauled the semi-conscious Chuy erect – his feet scrabbled for purchase on the carpet and he groaned. Hearing the commotion, Jefe whirled about, but was distracted once again by the dialogue between Yara and Snow.

Yara: ‘It’s important you keep things in balance . . .’

Snow: ‘Showing you have a temper has a certain value.’

Yara: ‘. . . or else you’ll lose control of the situation.’

Snow: ‘You can’t govern effectively unless people are afraid of you.’

An indecisive expression stole over Jefe’s face as they continued in this vein, and he became agitated when Bazan asked for permission to leave.

‘First and foremost, you have to learn self-control,’ said Yara. ‘You can’t expect people to respect someone who constantly yields to impulse.’

‘Chuy needs a doctor,’ said Bazan.