Sipping the tepid beer failed to improve his outlook. He’d wait here fifteen minutes, he decided, no more, and then walk about the village, see what developed. And then, depending on his state of mind, he would either approach the pink building – the whorehouse, he suspected – or he would get the hell out of Dodge. At the moment he leaned toward the latter. He had satisfied his commitment, he told himself. It had been without any real purpose, a romantic gesture, a sop to his conscience, a token idiocy. Now that he had come to Tres Santos and found nothing of consequence, seen nothing that bore upon Guillermo or the skull or anything in his past, he could go home with a clear conscience.
Wherever home might be.
He lifted the bottle to his lips and a slim, pale, diminutive man emerged from the back room, pushing aside the plastic curtain. In his early thirties by the look of him, the same height as the girl, at least a head shorter than Snow, with barbered dark brown hair and a loose-fitting, button-less white shirt woven of coarse cloth. He had a TV actor’s plastic beauty, a clever symmetry of feature that appeared to be the work of a surgeon whose intent had been to create the face of a male doll with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw, yet one capable of simulating a feminine sensitivity, this implied by the largeness of his eyes and the fullness of his lips. He brushed the girl’s hair aside and kissed the side of her neck, putting a stamp on the nature of their relationship. He nodded pleasantly to Snow, rested his elbows on the counter, and said, ‘Doing some exploring, are you?’
Snow, flustered by the man’s sudden intrusion, aware of who he must be, said, ‘I’m sorry. What?’
‘Exploring.’ The man indicated Snow’s backpack. ‘Hiking. Taking in the scenery.’
‘Oh, right. I’m heading for Nebaj.’
‘Nebaj? What’s the attraction? Nebaj is a shithole.’
‘There’s a bus . . . to the city.’
‘Ah!’ The man stepped from behind the counter and, without invitation, joined Snow at his table. Snow was alarmed to have him so near. The cantina seemed more cramped than before, as if the man occupied a much greater space than in actuality he did. His movements were deft, precise, yet theatrical in their precision, and his eyes looked to be set at a peculiar angle within their orbits, canted slightly downward, investing his stare with an unnerving flatness. He flicked his hand toward Snow’s bottle and said, ‘A bit early for beer, no?’
‘I wanted coffee, but I didn’t know how to ask.’
The man spoke peremptorily to the girl, who vanished into the back room, and then said brightly, ‘Coffee’s on the way. Care for some eggs, some tortillas?’
‘No, that’s . . . I’m fine.’
‘Itzel can fix you something. It’s not a problem.’
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, it’s no problem.’
‘Thanks.’
Snow couldn’t place the man’s accent. It was definitely not Temalaguan. Possibly some place farther to the south. Argentina or Chile.
‘You know,’ the man said. ‘You look familiar.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think you look familiar to me? That’s quite a presumption.’
‘I meant, I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘I didn’t say we’d met.’ The man’s voice held an ounce of irritation and Snow had the impression that he was seething with anger, that anger was his base emotion.
Itzel returned with a tray bearing a jar of instant coffee, another of Cremora, a cup of hot water and a spoon. Chickens squabbled out in the street. A pig trotted by, emitting soft, rhythmic grunts. The coffee restored Snow somewhat and he hunted about for a conversation starter, something that would lighten the mood.
‘You’ve been in my head,’ the man said.
Snow was caught off guard, perplexed by this peculiar phrasing.
‘You or someone very like you,’ the man went on. ‘I’ve been trying to remember.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course not. Why should you?’
Snow’s sense of unease spiked. ‘Look, I . . .’
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ said Snow, uncertain whether or not he could pull off an outright lie.
‘So who am I?’
‘I figure you’re the guy who lives in the big house on the hill.’
‘And you believe that because . . . ?’
‘You’re obviously not from around here and yet you act like you’re in charge.’
The man chuckled. ‘I believe you know more about me than that.’
Sitting up straight, Snow said, ‘I’m not sure what you think I know, or why you’re fucking with me. I’m just going to drink my coffee and move along.’
‘That’s a real shame. Visitors are at a premium here.’
Snow’s eyes went to Itzel. She stood with her head down, hands spread on the countertop, unmoving, as if bracing herself.
‘You ought to stay a while,’ the man said. ‘I’ll put you up at my place.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I can’t afford to miss my bus.’
