—What bar? What night? You’re making up lies, woman.

—There was a man. He came to sit at our table and said, —I’m looking for el chino de Los Llanos. And placed a machete to Santo’s neck.

—You lie, woman. I don’t want to know any more of your lies.

—And I saved your life, remember that? Esperanza said.

Don Chan turned his back on her and didn’t know why she kept talking when he told her he wasn’t interested in fiction.

—And I told him, buy me a drink first, so I can say farewell to my husband. I’ll never forget his face, the executioner’s jaw dropped, right on the floor. —Señorita, it’s your lucky night, ’cause I could use a drink, but the Chino will buy it. The executioner waved over the bartender to serve us a round of drinks.

—When did you ever go to a bar with us? These are pure lies, Don Chan insisted.

Santo and I had just gotten married. I reached out to Santo, whose leg was banging against that table. I was so afraid for you both. So I told the executioner, —My father is a de los Santos, from la capital.

And he said, —I loved a de los Santos girl once. She wouldn’t date a gardener. So I got a job in the government and then she said she wouldn’t date a man in politics.

—And then you slammed your hand on the table and said, —We had a garden, but bastards like you burned it.

Don Chan had a faint memory of something, but no, Esperanza wasn’t there. He didn’t remember that.

—And Santo told the executioner, —Tell Balaguer that he doesn’t have to worry, there is nothing in Los Llanos but mosquitoes and weeds.

—Woman, you speak lies, Don Chan said and was feeling his heart against his chest.

—How can you forget? You wear the scar from the machete on your hand. Look for yourself, Viejo.

Don Chan didn’t want to open his palm. Esperanza struggled with him and then gave up.

—You promised him that night that it was over. You told him that it would take at least another forty years before Los Llanos could start trouble again and by then you’d be dead.

—But I’m not dead, am I? Don Chan said, banging his scarred palm against the armrest. —I’m still alive and now I can’t do anything in this body. All I can do is watch people die. Everyone die. My wife, my son…Every day I see things fall apart and I can’t do anything. Maldita sea! Why is this bus taking so long?

Esperanza handed over the water bottle to Don Chan, and some tissues. She looked over at him as he blew his nose and thought how any day that little engine of a man was bound to lose all his steam. There was no point in getting him worked up. He did a good enough job of that himself.

Nueva York to Santo Domingo