York, David was screwing Clarissa with the lovely underwear. She was poring over press coverage, tweeting his Twitter, feeding his ego, feeding his face. Sheâd fix puttanesca. Blow his job.
Anna counted her money. Two grand for Gonzáles in one envelope. Given that her father had already wired the looter two grand, she owed the digger only eight. She put that in a second envelope. An extra two grand remained. Her fatherâs travel money. A slush fund for masks. She slid the bills into her wallet. The money felt filthy and sensual. Like David. She checked her phone again. No calls. No texts. Sadness pressed the roof of her mouth, singed her nostrils, rose into her eyelids. She fought back. She would fight back. She poured half a shot, downed it. Revenge was a dish best served cold. Well, forget about it. This was Mexico. The journey to purchase the greatest pre-Columbian archaeological find of the modern era began with a single step. Anna got up, wobbled. On the threshold, she lowered her shades.
At the cupid fountain, she dragged her hand along the frayed edge where the concrete had crumbled. The babyâs plump face was serene, his innocence made ironic by amputation. An angel with one wing was headed in one direction. The only question was how fast.
ten THE CARVER
Emilio Luna rose from bed and felt, though his furrowed hands attested otherwise, that he was still a young man. The mask carver made coffee, padded onto the concrete patio of his home in San Juan del Monte, a hill town outside Oaxaca. His tools lay strewn in yesterdayâs wood chips. The air smelled like cedar. He bent to touch his toes, came close, reached toward the sky, came close, hiked his pants, sat down on his tree stump, propping a pillow behind his back. He picked a chunk of wood, then measured the customary thirty centimeters and saw he had a problem.
This piece of wood was too small; still, he didnât want to waste it. He turned it over, waiting for a solution to appear. He sketched his idea on cardboard. He drew human lips and eyes round as coins, with bulging, transfixed pupils. With a machete, Emilio Luna sliced off the bark, roughing out the form. Resting the mask in his groin, he worked pickand mallet until a countenance emerged. Next step, sanding. Juanito, the boy with Touretteâs, his usual helper, was not around. The boyâs mother was sick and Juanito had to care for his sisters. The carver had forgotten the mess of sanding, how dust settled in your socks and ears. The boy deserved a raise.
His wife appeared. He didnât look up.
âVoy al mercado,â
she said. Iâm going to the market.
âSÃ.â
âWhatâs wrong with the tiger? Itâs different.â
âYes, I know.â His tone was more scornful than he meant it to be. âI am an artist. I donât have to do it the same way every time.â He had on occasion argued exactly the reverse.
His wife frowned. âI took money from the pillow.â
He nodded, pretending not to notice she wanted his attention.
âIâll be back.â
Only after his wife had turned did Emilio Luna look at her: her wide hips, bowed legs, apron ties. How had he married such an old woman? As a young man, he had imagined married life would be as peaceful as a Sunday picnic, where he would lie in the shade of a eucalyptus tree while a sweet girl soothed him with kisses that tasted like apples.
Of course, his wife would return. Where else could she go?
Emilio Luna painted spots on the tigerâs face, which gave the animal a crazed expression, then shellacked the mask and propped it to dry. Tired, he fell into the hammock, listened to the birds.
An hour later, he awoke. The mask was dry. He punctured two holes and tied the mask over his face. He didnât usually try on his masks, but this one was different. Thin shafts of light entered from each side. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants off the drying line anddraped them
Anna counted her money. Two grand for Gonzáles in one envelope. Given that her father had already wired the looter two grand, she owed the digger only eight. She put that in a second envelope. An extra two grand remained. Her fatherâs travel money. A slush fund for masks. She slid the bills into her wallet. The money felt filthy and sensual. Like David. She checked her phone again. No calls. No texts. Sadness pressed the roof of her mouth, singed her nostrils, rose into her eyelids. She fought back. She would fight back. She poured half a shot, downed it. Revenge was a dish best served cold. Well, forget about it. This was Mexico. The journey to purchase the greatest pre-Columbian archaeological find of the modern era began with a single step. Anna got up, wobbled. On the threshold, she lowered her shades.
At the cupid fountain, she dragged her hand along the frayed edge where the concrete had crumbled. The babyâs plump face was serene, his innocence made ironic by amputation. An angel with one wing was headed in one direction. The only question was how fast.
ten THE CARVER
Emilio Luna rose from bed and felt, though his furrowed hands attested otherwise, that he was still a young man. The mask carver made coffee, padded onto the concrete patio of his home in San Juan del Monte, a hill town outside Oaxaca. His tools lay strewn in yesterdayâs wood chips. The air smelled like cedar. He bent to touch his toes, came close, reached toward the sky, came close, hiked his pants, sat down on his tree stump, propping a pillow behind his back. He picked a chunk of wood, then measured the customary thirty centimeters and saw he had a problem.
This piece of wood was too small; still, he didnât want to waste it. He turned it over, waiting for a solution to appear. He sketched his idea on cardboard. He drew human lips and eyes round as coins, with bulging, transfixed pupils. With a machete, Emilio Luna sliced off the bark, roughing out the form. Resting the mask in his groin, he worked pickand mallet until a countenance emerged. Next step, sanding. Juanito, the boy with Touretteâs, his usual helper, was not around. The boyâs mother was sick and Juanito had to care for his sisters. The carver had forgotten the mess of sanding, how dust settled in your socks and ears. The boy deserved a raise.
His wife appeared. He didnât look up.
âVoy al mercado,â
she said. Iâm going to the market.
âSÃ.â
âWhatâs wrong with the tiger? Itâs different.â
âYes, I know.â His tone was more scornful than he meant it to be. âI am an artist. I donât have to do it the same way every time.â He had on occasion argued exactly the reverse.
His wife frowned. âI took money from the pillow.â
He nodded, pretending not to notice she wanted his attention.
âIâll be back.â
Only after his wife had turned did Emilio Luna look at her: her wide hips, bowed legs, apron ties. How had he married such an old woman? As a young man, he had imagined married life would be as peaceful as a Sunday picnic, where he would lie in the shade of a eucalyptus tree while a sweet girl soothed him with kisses that tasted like apples.
Of course, his wife would return. Where else could she go?
Emilio Luna painted spots on the tigerâs face, which gave the animal a crazed expression, then shellacked the mask and propped it to dry. Tired, he fell into the hammock, listened to the birds.
An hour later, he awoke. The mask was dry. He punctured two holes and tied the mask over his face. He didnât usually try on his masks, but this one was different. Thin shafts of light entered from each side. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants off the drying line anddraped them
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