Part 20 (2/2)

I stood on the porch, waiting. I picked up the bundle of pencils and breathed in the woody, clean smell. I was out there for twenty minutes, watching dogs pa.s.s on the dirt road, looking for birds in the branches, before I heard the bedsprings creak. Peter came onto the porch and stood beside me. ”Where did this come from?” he asked quietly.

”It's a long story.”

We stood there for a few minutes, looking out at the road. It began to rain. The raindrops were huge, leaving pockmarks in the red dirt yard. I didn't know what to say. I hoped he knew that I felt responsible, in some way, for what had happened to him. I hoped he understood that this was the best I could do.

”You could go home now,” I said. ”It's been in the news, you know. I think there are some people who want to apologize to you.”

”Someday, maybe. For now, this is home.”

”The numbers,” I said, ”on the paving stones. What do they mean?”

”12-9-12-1,” he said. ”L-i-l-a. I used eight stones, spelled it out twice, because eight represents infinity.”

”She'd like that,” I said.

He laughed slightly. ”Actually, I think she would find it alarmingly sentimental. But then, I've had a lot of time on my hands. A guy can become sentimental when he lives at the end of a dirt road for too long.”

He moved closer and put an arm around my shoulders, just for a moment, and then dropped it. ”The first time I saw you in town,” he said, ”you were standing beside a fruit stand, your back to me. It was about to start raining. I could tell you were a foreigner, and I wanted to go over and tell you to find somewhere to sit out the storm. Foreigners are always surprised by the rain. It comes down so hard, so fast, you hardly have time to get out of it. Then there was a clap of thunder. It startled you. You turned around and looked up at the sky. And for a second, maybe two, I thought everything they say about Diriomo was true. I believed that it really was a pueblo brujo, bewitched village. Because at that moment, when you looked up at the sky, I thought you were her. And for a fraction of a second, I had this picture in my mind of everything coming together, my whole life reorienting itself, as if the last decade had been a dream.”

We stood there in silence for another minute or two before I said, ”I should go. I'm visiting a farm this afternoon.”

”Wait. You can't go out into this rain like that.”

He went into the house and came out seconds later with a white poncho, just like the one he'd been wearing in the photograph in Carroll's office. ”Lift your arms,” he said. I did, and he pulled the poncho over my head. It reached all the way to my ankles. ”You look like a ghost,” he said, smiling.

We hugged, a complete hug this time, and I breathed in the pencils-and-rain smell of his skin. I thanked him and stepped out into the downpour. I took my time following the path of stones-12-9-12-1-12-9-12-1-from his porch through the rain-soaked yard. When I got to the end, he called out to me-”Wait!”

He ducked into the house. A couple of minutes later he came out again, plodding across the wet paving stones. His s.h.i.+rt and pants immediately became drenched, clinging to his body. His hair stuck to his head. He handed me a package, something hefty and book-like, wrapped in layers of plastic bags.

”What's this?”

The rain stopped, just as suddenly as it had begun. I reached into the bags and pulled out a large manila envelope. Inside the envelope, a sheaf of paper, two inches thick, covered in numbers and symbols.

Forty.

THE NEW CAFE WAS ON TWENTY-FIRST Street between Mission and Valencia, tucked between a used bookstore and a clothing boutique. When I arrived at three in the afternoon, the neighborhood was gearing up for the Dia de los Muertos procession. As I rounded the corner, I could see Henry down the block, standing on a ladder in front of the cafe. When I got closer I saw that he had a paintbrush in hand, and was touching up a smudge on the signage above the storefront. The letters were pale green, lowercase.

”Great name,” I said.

”You like it?”

”Shade,” I read. ”It's perfect.”

”I'd hug you, but I'm covered in paint and sawdust.”

”All set for opening day?”

”Getting there. Have time for a cup of coffee?”

”Always.”

Inside, he showed me the beautiful chrome espresso maker, the antique roasting machine. A series of framed photographs depicted the coffee farmers whose co-ops would supply the beans for the cafe.

”Everything is reclaimed or recycled,” Henry said proudly. ”These are the original light fixtures from the Coronet movie theater. The bar and tables are made out of redwood from an old Doelger house they tore down last year in the Sunset. The chairs are from the old U.S. Mint.”

”It's beautiful.” I pulled a small paper bag out of my purse. ”Here, I brought you something. A new blend from Jesus.”

He opened the bag and sniffed. ”Mmmm, chocolate and toasted hazelnut.”

”Wait until you taste it,” I said. ”Cayenne and citrus. A lovely vanilla bourbon note in the end. I think it should be your signature coffee.”

He went behind the counter and fed the beans into the grinder. The noise of the machine was a welcome distraction. I'd seen Henry half a dozen times since our aborted conversation in the cupping room at Golden Gate Coffee, but each time, there were other people around. ”I don't know if Mike told you,” he said, ”but I requested that you handle my account. n.o.body else.”

I nodded.

”How was the Nicaragua trip?”

”Really good. I would have asked you to come along, but-”

He stood with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired. When he smiled, I noticed that crow's-feet had begun to form around his eyes. When I'd met him, he looked so young. He had been young, I reminded myself; so had I.

”Funny,” he said, ”when Mike suggested that I go with you, I had this whole picture in my mind of how it would play out-me and you down there, eating at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, running back to our hotel in the rain-the way we used to. I kept waiting for you to give me the go-ahead. Every time I saw you at the office, I hoped that would be the day you'd change your mind. At the very least, I thought you'd let me take you to dinner, catch up.”

I hesitated. ”There was someone I needed to see down there.”

”I know. I heard. It's all pretty amazing.”

A burst of music drifted through the door as a group of old men with trumpets pa.s.sed by.

”We never really talked about what happened in Guatemala,” he said.

”It's okay, Henry. It was a long time ago.”

”Not that long.” He spooned the grounds into a coffee press and poured in the steaming water.

”I'd forgotten that about you. You're still devoted to the French press.”

”It's the only civilized way.”

I watched the street while he waited for the coffee to steep. He brought two porcelain cups-one blue, one yellow-over to the table.

”Pretty.”

”An estate sale. I thought it would be nice if all of the dishes were sort of random.” The 21 Valencia bus went by, and the chandelier above our table rattled. He poured the coffee and sat down.

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