The Black Witch of Mexico by Colin Falconer

Elena,” he said.
    They both stopped. For a long time they lay there, frozen, and then she wriggled out from under him, pulled down her dress and went out.
    He stood up slowly and dressed. There was a long scratch down his ribs and two of the buttons on his shirt were missing, tokens spent on lost opportunity. He dared a glance at the easel in the corner. The one painted eye glared at him in silent accusation. He supposed the portrait would always be half finished now.
    He closed his eyes and stood in the middle of the room with his hands by his sides, opening and closing into fists. Then he took a deep breath and went out.
    She was standing on the other side of the kitchen bench, holding her cell phone. “I’ve called you a taxi,” she said.
    “Jamie...”
    “I’m going to bed. Be ready at reception at seven.”
    And she left the room.
     
     
     

Chapter 27
     
    He thought he would never see her again, that she would send Jose to take him to Santa Marta. But the next morning when he went down to reception to check out she was sitting in the foyer reading the International Tribune . Her expression was thunderous. When she saw him, she tossed the newspaper aside and stood up, her arms crossed.
    “I’ll have the valet get my car, I’ll be waiting outside.”
    A busboy loaded his cases into the back of the SUV next to boxes of medical supplies and Adam climbed in the passenger side. He said good morning and she said good morning back and that was all the conversation they had for the next hour.
    Finally, when they hit the highway to Veracruz he started to say: “About last night...”
    She held up her hand: “It’s best you don’t say anything.”
    He nodded and shrugged. Well, okay, if that’s what she wanted. He thought she might relent after she had time to cool off. She didn’t.
     
    * * *
     
    They stopped for Cokes at a roadside cantina with red checkerboard tablecloths covered with flies. The place reeked of fried chicken and diesel. Jamie had a “Comida Mexicana” of frijoles, rice, and enchiladas. Adam had no appetite. He ordered a Coke and only drank half of it and let the rest get warm.
    Back on the highway they passed countless slow moving trucks, saw endless signs for playas . The roads were good until they got to San Cristobal de las Casas, when they turned off the main road and headed up into the surrounding hills. There were more and more potholes in the asphalt, and soon after they passed a small town called San Juan de Chamula. It was little more than a market square surrounded by a few wood and breezeblock buildings.
    Past San Juan there was no asphalt at all. The rocks jutting out of the dirt scraped the underside of the car and Jamie had to change down into second gear.
    They threw up clouds of dust behind them.
    The road was lined with adobe and stucco huts in little hamlets of three or four houses. Dogs ran out barking at them, chickens pecking in the middle of the road scurried out of the way. A Mexican in cowboy hats and boots trotted past, heading in the other direction. He touched his hand to his hat and waved.
    There were no other cars. Once they had to brake hard to avoid hitting a cow. “How do people know which animal belongs to who?” he asked her.
    She just shrugged her shoulders.
    After almost an hour winding up the dirt road they reached the top of a hill crested with thorn shrub and flat, pale yellow cactus. Just beyond was a pueblo, perhaps two dozen houses, a single smoky street and a few chickens.
    “Santa Marta,” she said, the first words she had spoken for almost an hour.
    A pig lay on the side of the road wallowing in the dust. He saw a hand-painted sign with an arrow: La Clínica and a red cross.
    For the next six months this was home.
    Children gathered round the car to stare at them. The braver ones touched the dust-caked coachwork. ‘ Gringos! ’ they yelled as they got out.
    A tall, wiry man came out wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a large wooden