The Mongolian Conspiracy Read online

  “Don’t move,” one of them said. “Inside . . .”

  García stepped back, without taking his eyes off them. The two men entered behind him.

  “We heard some shots. Where are Mr. del Valle and General Miraflores?”

  “There, inside,” García said.

  “You’re García,” one of the men said. “I’ve seen around.”

  “Yeah, and you’re the Toad . . .”

  “So, this is the guy,” the other said in English.

  “And this gentleman is Mr. Browning.”

  “Let’s go to the office,” said the Toad.

  They went to the office. The gringo let out a quick whistle when he saw the corpses.

  “You did them both in,” the Toad said.

  “They killed each other,” García said.

  The gringo, without letting go of his gun, approached the general and took his .45 out of its holster.

  “He hasn’t fired,” he said in English, smelling the butt.

  “I received your message,” García said. “When I arrived home this afternoon, I received your message.”

  “We haven’t sent you any message, García. But right now we’re going to send you straight to hell.”

  “You didn’t go to my house this afternoon?”

  “We don’t even know where you live. We’ve been running around all day. They descended on us at the hotel —”

  “Shut up,” the gringo said. You, Mister García, you are going to die today . . .”

  “If we’d known where your house was, we’d have gone there to kill you,” the Toad said. “Anyway, I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, ever since you killed Luciano Manrique.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Mr. del Valle told me. And now, sit still, this won’t hurt, just like the doctors say —”

  At the open door, Laski’s voice rang out.

  “Need some help, Filiberto?”

  The gringo turned quickly and Laski’s bullet hit him right in the heart, throwing him backward. The Toad jumped on García, but he already had his knife out and the Toad fell on it, pushing it into his chest. García pulled it out and stabbed him again. Laski grabbed his arm.

  “Let’s go, Filiberto.”

  García picked up his gun, and they ran out. They could hear the police sirens a ways away.

  “Let’s take your car,” Laski said.

  They got in. At that very moment, two police patrols arrived at Mr. del Valle’s house. García started the engine.

  “Thanks,” García said.

  “Are you hurt?” Laski asked.

  “No.”

  “I understand that this business was between Mexicans, Filiberto, but I found myself obliged to intervene. You are my friend.”

  “I thought you weren’t sentimental.”

  Laski chuckled.

  “I need you. For what I told you at noon. And when I need something, I take care of it, like my Luger.”

  “Thanks, anyway.”

  “I’ve managed to find out who the phone number 3-5-9-9-0-8 belongs to,” Laski said.

  García looked at him, surprised.

  “Yes, Filiberto. It’s the number that Chinese man dialed, when he asked for the money he was going to bribe us with. The phone belongs to another Chinese man, someone named Liu, who lives on Dolores Street.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Miss Fong worked for that man, before going to you.”

  “So what?”

  “I want you to help me with this investigation. They’ve told me you are a friend of Liu’s.”

  “I’m done with my investigation.”

  “No, no, you aren’t.”

  “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “Miss Fong is dead, Filiberto.”

  There was silence. Yes. Marta is dead, and alone with her death. There in my bed. And me here alone with my life. And del Valle and the general and all the others are also alone with their deaths. And me, alone with my life. It’s like they’re leaving me behind. It’s like I’m always standing at the door, opening it for others who are already alone with their deaths. But I stay outside, always outside. And now Marta already went inside and I’m still outside.

  “Look, Filiberto, I think Liu sent Miss Fong to watch you, to keep an eye on your activities, thinking that you were investigating this business with Cuba . . .”

  “Who killed her?”

  “A Chinese man entered your house around five this afternoon. Shall we go find Liu?”

  “Yes.”

  They reached Dolores Street. The shops and restaurants were closed and nobody was outside. They probably took my advice and everyone’s hiding. It’s like everyone decided to leave us alone. And Marta alone with her death and me alone with my life.

  They stopped in front of Liu’s shop and got out of the car. They knocked on the door. A few moments later it opened. It was Liu. He looked at García and then at the Russian, his face expressionless. The shop was almost dark, lit only by a Chinese brazier filled with charcoal and burning papers. It smelled of smoke and incense. Liu stepped back to let them enter, then closed the door and turned to his visitors.

  “Marta is dead,” García said.

  “Yes.”

  “You killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  García slowly drew his gun. Laski intervened.

  “What papers are you burning?”

  “Paper, bad paper, very bad paper . . .”

  They walked up to the brazier. A large stack of fifty-dollar bills was burning on the coals. There were still two or three tea tins full of bills, and several others already empty.

  “Very bad paper,” Liu said.

  García raised his gun. Laski intervened.

  “Just a moment, Filiberto . . .”

  “Let him, sir. Better like this . . .”

  “Why did you send that girl to watch over García?”

  “What it matter?”

  He threw another fistful of bills on the coals, the room lit up, and the white porcelain bellies of the Buddhas lined up in the window were glowing.

  “Are you working with Wang and that gang?”

  “What it matter?”

  “What did you want to know about García?”

  “My son dead . . . what matter else? My oldest son . . . And you killed him . . . My son Xavier . . .”

  “Your son, Liu? I didn’t know you had a son,” García said.

  Liu threw more bills on the flames.

  “He lived in Cuba . . . And Marta ran away and she give him to you. And now he dead . . . He my only son and now finished honorable house of Liu. Now nobody to continue to pray for honorable ancestors. That what happen when you kill my son, Xavier. And Marta like every woman, bad, very bad. She fall in love with you, Mr. García, but this no matter now. Everyone know woman is bad from birth, very bad, traitor. But then she give you my son, Xavier, who come from Cuba full of dream to do important thing there, very important. And he give me this bad money to keep . . .”

  He threw some more bills on the fire, then leaned over to blow on the flames. Laski grabbed his jacket and forced him to stand up.

  “Who was the leader of this business with Cuba?”

  “What matter now? You kill my son, Xavier . . . What matter the other?”

  “Who was the leader?” Laski insisted.

  “What matter . . . ?”

  Laski smashed him across the face with the butt of his gun, but Liu didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even bring his hands to his face. García stepped forward and forced Laski to let Liu go.

  “Why did you kill Marta?”

  “She bad, very bad. She sold my son, Xavier . . .”

  “She didn’t tell me anything about your son.”

  Liu stood in silence, as if pondering his words. The blood was running down onto his chest. He leaned over and threw more bills on the fire.

  “She tell me she going to stay with you, because you good . . . I don’t believe her. Women alw
ays tell lie . . . She told you about Xavier and he dead . . .”

  García fired. The Chinaman fell against the window, broke the glass, and the porcelain Buddhas fell to the ground. García put his gun in the holster and left the shop. Some lights went on and a few Chinese cautiously peeked out their windows. A police siren could be heard from far away. García left the car where it was and walked toward Avenida Juárez. His hands were hanging by his sides, heavy, like two useless items. I have to wash my hands. Why keep carrying around other people’s blood? It’s not right to go to her with my hands covered with blood. She might get frightened. Fucking hands!

  Laski caught up with him at the corner of Avenida Juárez.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Filiberto.”

  García kept walking. He turned right, toward Cinco de Mayo and La ópera cantina. Laski walked alongside him.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. It was important to find out everything possible about this Chinese conspiracy.”

  García kept walking. My hands are heavy, too heavy, as if I were carrying stones. Liu killed her. I killed Liu. My hands are heavy. They hurt, too many deaths all together. I feel like sitting down on this bench . . . on a rock in the open fields, like before, by the side of the road. But there are no more roads to walk down with my heavy hands, my aching hands from all the dead I carry around with me. Fucking hands!

  “That wasn’t professional what you did today, Filiberto. You must get everything you possibly can out of a suspect before killing him. That’s elementary.”

  García crossed San Juan de Letrán. In Yurécuaro I would sit on a rock next to the train tracks. My hands weren’t heavy then. I could throw stones against the rails. I could climb the orange trees and pick stolen fruit. My fucking hands weren’t so heavy.

  “Or maybe your government gave you orders not to get to the bottom of it. Or maybe the Americans . . . It would be sad if you, a Mexican, were working for the gringos. They are your real enemies.”

  García turned down Condesa Alley. And here I am with my hands so heavy, walking down the street. And she in my bed, alone with her death. And me alone, walking down the street, my hands as heavy as the many dead. And nothing’s heavy for her anymore, not time, not nothing. Or maybe her death is heavy, as if a man were on top of her. I don’t know what that’s like, death. She does now. That’s why she’s alone. That’s why she’s not with me. Because she knows and I don’t. All I know is how to start down this road, how to live carrying my solitude. Fucking solitude!

  Laski grabbed his arm:

  “You have to listen to me, García.”

  García stopped and turned around. His hat shadowed his face.

  “Look, if your government ordered you to act this way, I have nothing to say, I understand you. But otherwise, if it’s for personal reasons, sentimental reasons . . . For Miss Fong . . . That’s just not professional! None of us kills for reasons like that. It would be absurd. It would be criminal.”

  García said:

  “Go fuck yourself and your mother!”

  Then he turned and started walking again. Laski stood there, watching him go.

  At La ópera cantina, the professor said to him:

  “The colonel is looking for you, Cap’n.”

  The professor was very drunk. His voice was slurred and his eyes unfocused.

  “Give me a bottle of cognac,” García asked the man at the bar.

  Only a few clients were there. The cantina was getting ready to close.

  “You’ve got blood stains on your clothes, Cap’n,” the professor said.

  García opened the bottle of cognac and poured himself a glass.

  “In the old days, lawyers always had ink stains on their hands and their clothes. Occupational hazard. But we don’t use ink anymore. We use typewriters. You people should find some equivalent system. Our whole civilization tends toward allowing us to keep our hands clean . . . At least, our hands.”

  García gulped down a shot of cognac and closed the bottle. Fucking professor! He’s never been afraid of me or, maybe, he’s looking for a way to die. Maybe he’s the only one who’s really got any balls, at least when he’s drunk. But Marta is alone in my bed. Alone with her death.

  “Come with me, Professor. We’re going to a wake.”

  “Did you supply the deceased?”

  “Come on.”

  He picked up the bottle of cognac, paid, and they walked out.

  When they entered the house, García didn’t turn on the light. Enough was coming in through the window. He went into the kitchen and washed his hands. Shouldn’t go to her with this blood on my hands. With all this fucking blood.

  The professor was dozing off in the living room.

  “Where’s the deceased, Cap’n?”

  “Come with me.”

  They went into the bedroom. The light from the window shone on the bed and the inscrutable shape of the corpse under the sheet. García pulled two chairs up to the foot of the bed. He told the professor to sit down in one of them. Then he went into the kitchen and brought two glasses, filled them with cognac, and gave one to the professor. He sat down, holding the other one.

  “Thank you,” the professor said.

  “Say a prayer, Professor.”

  “What prayer? I can’t remember any . . .”

  “I’m asking you as my friend. Just pray, even if there aren’t any candles.”

  The professor began to recite something, like he used to when he was an altar boy. The words came out all mixed up, slurred from the booze.

  “Requiem eternam dona eis Domine.”

  García took a long slug. The gun pressed against his heart. Fucking wake! Fucking solitude!

  A note about the author

  While working on this translation, Katherine Silver, with the kind help of Francisco Prieto, got in touch with the author’s offspring. Bernal’s youngest daughter, Cocol, offered insights into her father’s idiosyncratic use of certain terms and turns of phrase and also generously shared some family lore. New Directions asked if her stories could be added as an afterword to The Mongolian Conspiracy. Cocol agreed, “with the caveat that I am speaking from the myopic perspective of a fifteen-year-old, tinged by family history, interpretation of memories, and some stories my Aunt Lola (a very creative woman), my dad (also very creative), and my Uncle Luis (a lawyer — not so creative) told me. I am conscious that my reality is very much my own, from a very narrow vantage point. Just some loose insights that anyone is welcome to. Or as the Italians say: Si non e vero e ben trovato. (If it’s not true, it’s a good find.)” Asked about her father’s political affiliations, his philias or phobias, as del Valle asked Feliberto, Cocol replied, “It’s a complicated story.”

  My family, on my father’s mother’s side, were ultra-right-wing monarchists and devout Catholics. In the mid-1800’s, my great-great grandfather, the historian Don Joaquín García Icazbalceta, who owned seven sugar haciendas in Morelos (of which Santa Ana de Tenango still remains in the family), made a bet with a cousin that he could turn a healthy profit while treating his workers decently — even giving them above-average wages, their own land, medical care, and no company store. The experiment was a success and he made a profit. He didn’t convince anyone else to try it as he had hoped, but as a result the family is still very respected in the village of Tenango. He saw this as his social and Christian duty. He later came afoul of the Church when the bishop ordered him to write a historical account of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He complied but told the bishop that faith and history do not mix and although in his heart he believed in the Virgin, the historian in him could not justify her existence other than as a myth. He wrote that there was absolutely no historical proof of the apparition. I believe he was excommunicated, and I do know that most of his friends deserted him.

  Partly as a result of this and to regain acceptance into Mexican society, my great grandfather, Don Luis García Pimentel, became an almost fanatical right-wing Catholic. His daughter, my gra
ndmother, Doña Rafaela Garcia Pimentel y Elguero, even gave our best hacienda (Santa Clara de Montefalco) to the Opus Dei. Anyway, Don Joaquín’s experiment has been a source of great pride in the family.

  The Bernals were very very rich landowners from Tlaxcala who came to save the decaying García Pimentel family from penury: although they went along with it, the Bernals did not particularly share the García Pimentels’ enthusiasm for Catholicism — my grandfather, Rafael Bernal y Bernal, being a bon vivant of great proportions.

  Then, in the third year of my grandparents’ Paris honeymoon, the revolution started and their world was completely turned upside down. The García Pimentels lost most of their lands and, later, so did the Bernals. There was hunger followed by the disillusionment of the post-revolution period.

  My father grew up with a devout mother and a hedonistic father who adored each other and traveled constantly. My father became a mix of both: an intellectual who devoured Nietzsche and Sartre, spoke Latin fluently, and was a devout Catholic, too. He was big in the Sinarquista movement of the ’40s and ’50s — he was actually very proud of having been in jail eighteen times for “disolución social.” He was fiercely opposed to Benito Juárez, believing that the separation of church and state robbed the nation of its soul. He was also a supporter of Franco. So you can say he was very right wing. At the same time, with my uncle Ignacio Bernal (a famous archaeologist), he made a lot of money out of cheating foreigners at bridge and paraded a series of very elegant and expensive mistresses.

  Not sure what exactly happened in the ’50s, but he left Sinarquismo and wrote a poem repudiating his support of Franco. He went to trial for defacing the statue of Juárez on the Alameda (he hired mountain climbers to drape a hood and a noose over Juárez) and was pardoned by Miguel Alemán (a pardon which he refused on the basis that he hadn’t done anything illegal). Then, in 1956, he met my mother, who was a young divorcee working in radio, and that was it. He left the Church (and his current mistress, the Princess Agatha of Ratibor) in order to marry her.

  I was born in 1957 in Caracas to an atheist father, who was by then left-leaning, and an agnostic mother, both of whom proudly had me baptized in the cathedral in the very font where Simón Bolivar had been baptized. So . . . go figure.