We park the truck in the gas station on the US side of the border and walk over to the customs building where Chavez’s offices are located. It’s only when we approach the two officials, a short compact woman and her male colleague, that it occurs to me Chavez might not be there. It’s close to seven a.m. and what if his shift was over and he’d gone home? I briefly imagine him closing his curtains to the giant orb of the rising sun and climbing into bed, his heart heavy from another night sullied by the perfidy and greed of mankind.

‘Is he expecting you?’ the male official asks.

‘Yes.’

‘ID?’ His eyes flicker over Benjamín.

I hand them my passport, explaining in a haughty, brittle voice usually reserved for British Telecom customer service, that Benjamín is an American citizen, currently in my employ and—

‘Are you okay, hon?’ The female peers closely at me.

I give her a funny look as, by now, it must obvious that all is not entirely well with my world. She turns my blood-spotted sleeve towards her colleague.

Ah yes. I explain very calmly that Benjamín has been knifed and reiterate my desire to see Chavez.

‘¿Necesita un médico?’ the man asks Benjamín, his tone considerably softer.

Benjamín shakes his head at the ground. The agents look at us and then back at each other as though they’ve never before been confronted by such an odd couple, as though, even here on the very axis, the blood meridian of the great ethnic divide, it was impossible to understand how this white English woman and the brown Mexican could be together, despite the blood ties splashed across our clothing, apparent for one and all to see.

In the customs building we’re taken to the same room as before – and it’s the same scene. A family of Mexicans on the hard plastic chairs under the watchful eyes of Bush and Cheney. An agent with a notebook asking questions. ¿Nombre? ¿Domicilio? Another agent on the telephone: ‘. . . just a routine sweep . . . cleaning fluid . . . yeah real strong odour too . . . the truck showed signs of tampering.’ Then we’re in front of Chavez’s office with the door opening and there he is, looking up from behind his desk, his grave intelligent face filled with concern.

‘Alice,’ he says, and stretches out his hand.

*

I do all the talking.

I tell him about Hogan, Ranch Rights and their exaggerated fire power.

‘Alice, we have very little jurisdiction on private property. Not if they have permission from the owner.’

‘They don’t have my permission and they claim they’re doing this on your behalf.’

When I tell him about the Mexicans being detained at gunpoint he picks up the telephone and says something in Spanish. He listens quietly then replaces the receiver.