Paulo was a quiet man. Few words. He watched, listened, and was purposeful in all he did—wasting no movement. I attributed it to years of conserving his energy for whatever unknown came next. His unwritten response to life was one of crisis management. While Isabella entertained herself with the peephole, he waited quietly in a chair just outside the door.
* * *
We left the hotel on foot, following Paulina’s finger, and arrived at Meson Real fifteen minutes later. It was a “locals” joint and the smell coming from the kitchen was divine.
The waitress came and took our orders, and given that the menu was written on the wall—in Spanish—Paulina asked, “Want some help?”
I tried to make sense of the wall. “Yes.”
“You want real Nicaraguan or tourist stuff?”
“Real.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Might be kind of spicy.”
“I’m game.”
While we waited on our food, I tried not to pepper Paulo with too many questions. He told me he had been born just a mile or so from where he now lives, but he had traveled a good bit to find work in both cane and coffee plantations.
When he said he’d worked in coffee, I began listening a little more attentively. “You’ve worked coffee?”
“Sí.”
“Where?”
“Honduras. Costa Rica.” He tapped the table. “Nicaragua.”
“Where in Nicaragua?”
He pointed west. “Las Casitas. Near mi casa.”
“Any one place in particular?”
He shook his head. “No understand.”
“What plantation?”
“Jus’ one.” When he said it, there was a sense of warmth and affection I’d not heard before. “Cinco Padres Café Compañía.”
I swallowed hard. “What’d you do there?”
He made a circle around the table. “Manage workers.” He tapped himself on the chest and smiled. “El jefe.”
I shook my head and was in the process of saying I didn’t understand when Paulina put her hand on mine and said, “He managed all the workers. The plantation. Everything.”
“He was the foreman?”
“Before this foreman…yes, that was part of his job.”
“Why did you leave?”
He paused. “Jus’ too many events.”
I pointed at Paulina, acting as if I didn’t know. “Was it the hurricane you mentioned?”
He sliced his hand across the table in a level motion. “Hurricane Carlos bad. Very bad. Kill many. Kill my brothers. Their wives. My wife. Many family, but…” He shook his head. “We survived Carlos.”
My voice quivered. “What…happened?”
Paulo paused, crossed his hands, and then spoke, almost in reverence. “American company.” Paulo made a fist as if he were crushing a cracker. “They squeeze us…require us to pay back loan. Have no way to pay. But after Carlos, we has nothing. All gone. So, when we no pay, American company take.”
Something about my complexion must have startled Paulina because she put her hand on my forearm. “You okay? You’re doing that thing again.” Her index finger rolled around the underside of my wrist and landed on my pulse where she held it.
“No, I’m good.” I wiped the cold sweat off my face. “What’d you do?”
He shrugged. “Many empty homes in Valle Cruces. We move in. I return to sugarcane.”
“Do you rent?”
He shook his head. “No one to pay rent.”
“Who owns it?”
“My cousin.” He said the name proudly. As if he were honoring it. “Saulicio Mares Estevez.”
“Where is he?”
“Beneath the mud.”
“I’m sorry?”
Paulina spoke. “His family in Managua lets us live in it.”
The pieces of this puzzle were floating around my brain, and I was having a tough time putting them together. I scratched my head. “Where were you living?”
He looked at me, surprise covering his face. He pointed at Paulina. “El casa.”
I turned to Paulina. “Whose house?”
She brushed the hair out of Isabella’s face. “My father’s.” She turned to me, and for the first time, she fingered a polished stone hanging around her neck. She said his name slowly and with great affection. The words swam around my head, finally settling on the memories attached to them: “Alejandro Santiago Martinez.”
I swallowed hard.
“He, along with four other men, started Cinco Padres.” She pointed across the table at Paulo. “Paulo married my father’s sister. So while he wasn’t one of his brothers, they trusted him. My father was the businessman. Dealt with the banks. The buyers. Paulo was the people’s man.” She smiled at Paulo. “He kept everybody happy. And”—she laughed—“he kept everything working. Tractors. Trucks. Conveyor belts. Even delivered babies. Didn’t you?”
He laughed as if the memory were pleasant.
When the food arrived, steam lifted off the overfilled plates, and everyone ate and savored it with great delight. My meal looked like steak fajitas with everything in the kitchen thrown on top. And while it tasted and smelled wonderful, I didn’t so much eat it as push it around the plate. Halfway through his dinner, Paulo said something to Paulina in a hushed tone, which she acknowledged quietly. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I asked if he was okay. She said, “He asked if you liked your food, because you’re not eating.”
Following her dinner, Isabella eyed the offering of ice cream listed on the wall. Paulina quietly scolded her in Spanish. I had a feeling she was telling her that we weren’t ordering dessert. When the waitress returned, I asked Paulina, “Would it be okay if I ordered her some ice cream? Really, it’d be my pleasure.” She turned to Isabella, who nodded excitedly. Isabella held up three fingers and said, “Cho-co-la-tay.”
The image of Zaul entered my mind and the ticking clock I’d been hearing since I sat in the hospital room beside Maria’s bed returned. I needed help yesterday, so when everyone had finished, I spoke to both of them. “I’d like to make you a proposition—if you’ll allow.”
Paulo nodded. “Of course. Please.”
“I’d like to hire you. Both of you.” Paulina stared at me with a growing suspicion.
Paulo shook his head. “No need to hire. You ask. We help.”
“What I’m about to ask is no small thing. I’d feel better if you’d let me pay you.”
Paulo shook his head, and for the first time, I saw a shadow of pride I’d not seen before. He waved his hand across the table, palm down, slicing through the air. “No pay. We will glad help.”
The job for which I wanted to hire them would mean he’d not be working in the sugarcane fields. Which meant a loss of income. Which meant their meager existence was about to get worse. I said, “I am here looking for someone. A sixteen-year-old kid. He’s sort of like my nephew. He got mixed up in some bad stuff, ran away from home, and came here. His name’s Zaul, and his parents asked me to bring him home before he gets himself hurt or disappears forever. He’s hotheaded, tempestuous, and as much as he would deny it, he’s a bit naive as to people and their intentions. He thinks he can read people, but he can’t. I know he came to León, and he’s a surfer, so I know he intended to chase big waves along the coast, but I have a feeling his fortunes have reversed since arriving because the foreman at Cinco Padres Café is now driving his truck.”
Paulina looked surprised. “That new truck?”
I nodded. “My business partner, Colin, bought it last year. Zaul’s his son, and he hoped it’d bring them closer as they chased waves up and down the coast.”
“That’s an expensive truck.”
“My partner inherited a business from his father. They started poor, then struck gold when his father realized how to import rum. He picked up where his father left off and has done very well since.”
Paulina raised an eyebrow. “And you?”
“I work for him.” I emphasized the word “for.” “I handle deliveries.” It wasn’t a complete lie.