Smiling back at her, I said, "Poor Felicio, in fact."
That made her laugh and restored our relationship. "You aren't a man," she said, "you're an anthology!"
I was about to say something, I don't know what, but when I looked in the mirror I saw, beyond her, a red light flashing. "A cop is stopping us," I said.
"What?" Annoyed, not at all worried, she twisted around to glare out the back window. She said something in Spanish that I doubted was a prayer, then faced front and with great irritation said, "We might as well stop."
"I thought so too," I said, pulling over to the weedy verge and touching the brakes. "But what do I do, Maria? He's going to ask me questions."
"Leave your window closed," she told me, "and I'll open mine. When he comes to the car, I'll order you not to speak, to let me handle it. So he'll hear me say it."
I was now stopped, and the police car was going past to pull onto the shoulder in front of me and switch off its red dome light. It was a big American car, black and white, POLICIA on doors and trunk. A brown-uniformed driver was at the wheel, and two plainclothes men in back.
I said, "Can we get away with that?"
"Of course," she said, and I realized that in her mind a person with her capacity for imperiousness, in a country like this, should be able to get away with anything. I hoped she was right.
Both rear doors of the police car opened, and the two men got out. Both wore white guayabera shirts and black sunglasses and modified black cowboy hats with gold stars pinned on the front. One wore dark jeans and boots, the other tan cotton slacks and soft tan shoes. Both had black holsters on their belts, on the right side, flaps shut.
The one in jeans leaned against the trunk of his police car, unsnapped his holster flap, then folded his arms and looked at me, without expression. The other one came forward, and I heard Maria's window lower and felt the sudden moist hot air stroke the left side of my neck. She snapped at me in Spanish to let her handle this, sounding very aggravated, and I sat to attention, staring back at the one staring at me. The other one stopped next to me and tapped my window with a knuckle, and I pretended not to hear him. My hands were on the steering wheel, correctly, at ten and two o'clock.
Maria demanded to know what this fellow wanted, so he gave up on me and moved farther back along the car. He called her Maria, with a little too much familiarity, and hoped Carlos was well, and she told him not to worry about Carlos, and he said but he did worry about Carlos.
It was quite a battle they had, without ever stating the topic, all words and attitude. He used the power of his position, and she used the power of her imperial status. He spoke insinuatingly, as though to say, I could be rough, but I'm choosing not to, and she spoke with condescending grace, as though to say, I could dismiss you like the peon you are, but I'm choosing to give you a moment of my valuable time.
Then he straightened, as though tired of it or having made his point. "You want to be careful on this road," he said. "And tell Carlos I might come visit him."
"You won't," she said, but he'd already turned away. As he strolled back to his car, making a laughing comment to his deadpan partner, Maria slid her window closed and said,
"¡Lechón!"
In the rearview mirror, her face was very angry. She caught my eye and made a brushing-along gesture. "Drive on!"
Now I really was the chauffeur, and she really was her highness. "Yes, ma'am," I said, but at the moment she was impervious to irony. I put the Buick in gear, and we drove out around them as they got back into their car. In the rearview mirror, I saw them U-turn and recede.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, "I'm sorry, Ernesto, that pig had me out of sorts."
"I got the idea you didn't like him. Is it okay to ask what it was all about?"
"It was nothing to do with me," she said. "Carlos had a disagreement with a man a week
That made her laugh and restored our relationship. "You aren't a man," she said, "you're an anthology!"
I was about to say something, I don't know what, but when I looked in the mirror I saw, beyond her, a red light flashing. "A cop is stopping us," I said.
"What?" Annoyed, not at all worried, she twisted around to glare out the back window. She said something in Spanish that I doubted was a prayer, then faced front and with great irritation said, "We might as well stop."
"I thought so too," I said, pulling over to the weedy verge and touching the brakes. "But what do I do, Maria? He's going to ask me questions."
"Leave your window closed," she told me, "and I'll open mine. When he comes to the car, I'll order you not to speak, to let me handle it. So he'll hear me say it."
I was now stopped, and the police car was going past to pull onto the shoulder in front of me and switch off its red dome light. It was a big American car, black and white, POLICIA on doors and trunk. A brown-uniformed driver was at the wheel, and two plainclothes men in back.
I said, "Can we get away with that?"
"Of course," she said, and I realized that in her mind a person with her capacity for imperiousness, in a country like this, should be able to get away with anything. I hoped she was right.
Both rear doors of the police car opened, and the two men got out. Both wore white guayabera shirts and black sunglasses and modified black cowboy hats with gold stars pinned on the front. One wore dark jeans and boots, the other tan cotton slacks and soft tan shoes. Both had black holsters on their belts, on the right side, flaps shut.
The one in jeans leaned against the trunk of his police car, unsnapped his holster flap, then folded his arms and looked at me, without expression. The other one came forward, and I heard Maria's window lower and felt the sudden moist hot air stroke the left side of my neck. She snapped at me in Spanish to let her handle this, sounding very aggravated, and I sat to attention, staring back at the one staring at me. The other one stopped next to me and tapped my window with a knuckle, and I pretended not to hear him. My hands were on the steering wheel, correctly, at ten and two o'clock.
Maria demanded to know what this fellow wanted, so he gave up on me and moved farther back along the car. He called her Maria, with a little too much familiarity, and hoped Carlos was well, and she told him not to worry about Carlos, and he said but he did worry about Carlos.
It was quite a battle they had, without ever stating the topic, all words and attitude. He used the power of his position, and she used the power of her imperial status. He spoke insinuatingly, as though to say, I could be rough, but I'm choosing not to, and she spoke with condescending grace, as though to say, I could dismiss you like the peon you are, but I'm choosing to give you a moment of my valuable time.
Then he straightened, as though tired of it or having made his point. "You want to be careful on this road," he said. "And tell Carlos I might come visit him."
"You won't," she said, but he'd already turned away. As he strolled back to his car, making a laughing comment to his deadpan partner, Maria slid her window closed and said,
"¡Lechón!"
In the rearview mirror, her face was very angry. She caught my eye and made a brushing-along gesture. "Drive on!"
Now I really was the chauffeur, and she really was her highness. "Yes, ma'am," I said, but at the moment she was impervious to irony. I put the Buick in gear, and we drove out around them as they got back into their car. In the rearview mirror, I saw them U-turn and recede.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, "I'm sorry, Ernesto, that pig had me out of sorts."
"I got the idea you didn't like him. Is it okay to ask what it was all about?"
"It was nothing to do with me," she said. "Carlos had a disagreement with a man a week
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