BACK AT OUR residencia, Palillo and I listened to the voicemail that had been left after I’d pressed REJECT CALL in the dinghy:
‘Hola, it’s Pacho speaking. The chickens are ready for pick-up.’
‘Motherfucker!’ exclaimed Palillo.
I played it again. Despite the fake name and code, I recognised Sandoval’s voice. In one way, this was a relief: my original plan was still on track. However, the knowledge that I could proceed whenever I wanted was almost too much for me.
‘Delete it! And Ratón’s number too,’ Palillo advised me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him next Saturday.’
While Palillo showered, I listened to Sandoval’s message four more times. Finally, as I heard the water stop running, I deleted it. I had to get ready. Dinner with Camila’s family was in two hours, although my friend The Toothpick had no intention of attending.
‘Good luck with the in-laws,’ said Palillo, emerging from the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his waist.
‘Thanks.’
‘When you get back, knock five times like this.’ He demonstrated his secret tap.
‘What for?’
‘Because Palillo might have company. Naked company.’
I laughed. Only five days since he’d seen Piolín, and already she was ancient history. I wished I could forget and move on like him. But once something was in my head I couldn’t let it go.
As I was driving to Camila’s house, Sandoval’s voicemail continued to plague me. Finally, I forced myself to relax. After all, I didn’t need to phone Ratón to pass on the message immediately. I had their code now. And if our plan to take Ratón at Santo Paraíso miscarried again, I could use it at any time.
Señor Muñoz sat at the head of the table. His giving me the place of honour to his right was pressure enough. Camila’s not-so-subtle sideways glances and under-the-table nudges only added to it: the future of our relationship was contingent upon my withstanding a thorough analysis under the family microscope.
The main course passed uneventfully with Camila’s brothers ignoring us. As her mother served dessert, Señor Muñoz asked me casually, ‘Is your job dangerous?’
Camila must have repeated the African oil palm story.
‘It can be.’ I cut a strawberry with my spoon then looked him in the eye. ‘A tractor tipped on one of the workers in January.’
That was all that was needed. An honest-to-God denial.
‘I know your Papá would be proud of the way you’re looking after your mother.’
I beamed. But then I felt guilty because his praise was based on a lie.
After dinner, Señor Muñoz invited me to speak privately in his study. He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker, still gift-wrapped, and two tumblers.
‘Whisky? I’ve been saving this.’
I nodded and we clinked glasses.
Señor Muñoz sipped his whisky and was silent for a moment. ‘My daughter cried for a month after you left,’ he said finally, choosing his words carefully. ‘She hardly ate. She didn’t do her homework. In fact, she barely left her room. I know you had your reasons, but I don’t want to see her get hurt again.’
‘Señor Muñoz,’ I said, ‘I’ll be honest – I can’t offer Camila stability right now. I need to be away earning money. But I do love her.’
He nodded; there was something else eating away at him. ‘I’m also worried about the Guerrilla. You being back here and going out so publicly might provoke them. And if Camila is with you …’
‘I understand. But I’m only here for another week and I’ll be careful.’
Sighing, he placed his hands on the armrests and pushed himself wearily to his feet. ‘At your age, my wife and I were engaged. So who am I to stop young love?’