Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,7
“You seem to be in an especially good mood today, Gabo. Haven’t seen Ambrin again, have you?”
Gabriel’s green eyes took on saucer form and steaming coffee sloshed over the edge of his cup, wetting the top of his sandal on the way down. Stalin frowned and stopped stuffing grapes into his mouth from yet another sack of food the guys had carried in.
“Oh come on you guys! Leave poor Gabriel alone! You know he doesn’t like to be teased about Ambrin.”
Gabriel had by now managed to get a grip on his coffee, but his usually-pale neck was now stained scarlet. “Yeah you guys, we shouldn’t even be talking about her. You know I can’t see her…it wouldn’t be right. We’re not even engaged. She knows I didn’t mean to see her without a veil that one time.”
“But that’s when you fell in love, isn’t it?” Benjamin commented without looking up from the cheese.
The whole team knew it was. Walking in the garden at the Khan’s mansion one day, Gabriel had run into Ishmael’s niece, Ambrin…without a veil. All the guys knew the story by now: sapphire eyes, and Gabriel was instantly in love. He was trying to get up the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage.
Alejo let them go on about it for a while, because he really was dreading the thing he was about to bring up. Stalin, mouth still full of food, beat him to it.
“So,” he asked, polishing his little glasses on the tail of his long kameez shirt and spewing crumbs, “who’s up to be the next speaker at our retreat?”
By speaker, he meant the next target. Lázaro, who always seemed to have an opinion about everything, set his feet apart on the floor and leaned forward to eye them all intensely. “I would nominate the Southern Baptist mission house back in Cochabamba. The world couldn’t be a much worse place without them, right?”
A grin stretched his tanned face and Benjamin seemed to agree with him. Alejo fought a sour expression. Was the guy never going to let it go? He’d only known Lázaro for six months, and had already overdosed on the guy’s hatred for Americans. And missionaries. Word on the street was that Lázaro had dated a cute missionary girl who later dumped him, thus the dislike of anything missionary or American.
Alejo thought that Lázaro just wanted an excuse to do whatever he wanted.
“I’ve already lined up the next speaker,” Alejo shook his head. He tried to sit up straight but felt the three cups of coffee he’d just downed settling in his gut like cool acid. Sweat trickled down his ribs and he saw blackened fingers through tall white grass, fought the urge to gag.
“Well whoever it is, I think it would be a lot more beneficial to get rid of all those missionaries preaching pie-in-the-sky while letting the world we live in go to hell.” Lázaro again. Stalin was grinning, amused.
This was getting ridiculous.
“It’s Franco Salazar,” Alejo said, cutting them off.
One of Gabriel’s blond eyebrows rose. “The politician? What has that fat old dude done? Everybody seems to like him back in Bolivia. He’s fashionable, drives a swell red sports car, and, they say, even has gold teeth.” His chipper grin died away at the look on Alejo’s face.
“Tell us about him,” Benjamin pushed away the plate of bread and cheese. “Guys, Alejo knows what he’s talking about.”
Benjamin always respected him; they had been friends for years, since they were both recruited into the Prism together while getting masters degrees in London. Alejo knew his expression had morphed into something pained, but he couldn’t control it. He felt the sun baking his neck again, like it had that day, while the breeze whistled through the tall white grass. The smell of death threatened to engulf him here, fifteen years later.
I do know what I’m talking about, but I would give anything not to know. I don’t know if I can say this.
Alejo did his best to focus, felt his face darken. “I’ll tell you. And when I’m done, you’ll know why Salazar has to die.”
His team leaned forward and, stuffing the nausea that came whenever he thought about Ruben, Alejo told them.
But he didn’t tell them about Ruben.
Even without Ruben, it was enough.
When Alejo was finished, Benjamin’s face burned. Stalin chewed on his lip, and Gabriel looked ready to vomit.
“He’s our next speaker,” Lázaro managed to croak. “It’s a good choice.
3
electric blue
THE CITY SAT IN THE BOWL OF THE ANDES,