Текст книги "Red Jungle"

Автор книги: Kent Harrington

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“They meet the twelve o’clock from Bogotá,” Carlos said. “You could set your watch by that plane.”

I should have killed him, Russell thought. He glanced towards the dark mouth of the lagoon, where the full moon lit the white breakers, which were carrying two more dope boats.

•••

Sunday, May 23, 1988

Olga had sat in the kitchen for hours. Her mistress gone– although she had always thought of Isabella as her sister, never her mistress. This was the strangeness of it, the perversity of their relationship. In Olga’s eyes, they were sisters despite all the differences so obvious to the outside world.

The conquest should have made them enemies; the guerrillas had come to the plantation one afternoon. They’d come to find Isabella and kill her. They’d come in two trucks they’d stolen. The trucks had had some passengers who had been born there and knew everyone, so that later they could have been identified but never were, because they were the sons of the plantation. It was the sons of the plantation who had come to kill the owner and it was the sons of the plantation who had been talked out of the killing by their own brothers and sisters, who told them that killing was wrong and that Doña Isabella was their patrona.

They told the guerillas that killing her would be a sacrilege. Some of the other guerrillas, who weren’t born there, laughed when they heard this. They’d been to Cuba, or they’d been educated in Russia and come back to Guatemala, and they knew that the old bond between master and servant was ludicrous. But when they faced it that evening, in the twilight, with the woodfires and the people’s faces looking at them, they knew that ludicrous or not—absurd even as it was—the oppressed believed in the very system that had enslaved them. Somehow the system represented something eternal and Christian to them. It was as if God himself had come to Guatemala and written down the feudal arrangement on a tablet.

The guerillas patiently argued their case. They reminded the people that the whites had never thought twice about slaughtering them or cheating them, or raping them, or exploiting them, or keeping them ignorant. Some agreed, but none of the arguments worked. It was God’s will, the peasants said. The guerillas were mystified. They finally left, confused by what they’d witnessed.

After they’d left, the people opened the doors of the plantation church, lit candles and prayed to God that they would never come back.

At 9:00 A.M. Olga had gone to Isabella’s bedroom with a breakfast tray, looking for her mistress. The bed was empty and still made. At first she thought that Isabella had come in so late that she hadn’t gone to bed at all, but was in the living room and somehow Olga had missed her. She smiled at herself and carried the tray into the living room that over looked La Reforma, but the curtains were still closed. The room, full of Victorian furniture, gloomy and smelling of wax, was empty.

“Doña Isabella?” Olga said, slightly bewildered. Olga put down the tray and wiped her hands on her apron. It was something she would do again and again that day and for years to come, every time she thought of Isabella.

Isabella’s naked body had been left on a dirt road that led to Antigua.

Antonio and the Minister of Health had made a call to the chief of the Guatemala City police, who happened to be the minister’s brother-in-law. The American woman, sober now and frightened, was on her way to the embassy. The idea of holding an American embassy worker for murder was out of the question, of course. No one, not even the president of the republic, could afford to offend the American embassy. The minister and Antonio assumed the woman would be protected.

They waited for a call from the embassy, standing by the phone in the minister’s study while Isabella’s body lay on the floor of the minister’s living room. The study’s door was closed, so they couldn’t see it. No one wanted to look at it. It was horrible because Isabella’s face looked stunned, as if she knew what had happened to her but couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’ll have someone come for the body,” the minister’s brother-in-law said. “We’ll have to list her as a Jane Doe.” The minister, too shaken to go on with the call, passed the phone to Madrid.

Madrid had been drinking heavily, and was just now feeling somewhat sober. The sight of Isabella with half her skull bashed in had made him vomit out the alcohol.

“It’s me, Antonio.” The two men had gone to school together.

“Antonio?” The police chief said.

“Yes. Felix, what do we do?”

“You have to take her identity, her purse, and destroy it. I’ll send someone for the body. She’ll be a Jane Doe when she’s found. It’s the best way.”

“I don’t understand,” Antonio said.

“She’ll be found and be unidentified. The unidentified are cremated in two days. That will be the end of it,” the policeman said.

“There’s an autopsy, certainly?”

“Sometimes, but I’ll take care of that,” the policeman said.

“What about her family?”

“I’m afraid this has to be kept between us. That’s what the embassy wants. They’ve already called.”

“They called you, too?”

“Yes. Just now. I spoke to them. They’re sending the girl back to the States tonight. . . . Antonio, it has to be this way. You understand . . . they don’t want an incident. Not with the war on. Isabella’s family is famous. People here would be insulted.”

“Yes. Of course. I understand.”

“I’ll send someone right now,” the policeman said.

“Please.” Antonio put the phone down. It was a very old-fashioned phone, from the twenties, black and heavy. “They’re sending someone right now. He wants us to take . . . Isabella’s purse.”

“What do you mean?” the minister asked him.

“We have to take her purse,” Antonio said again.

“What about the family? We have to call her brother. I know him. You know him. We have to call Pedro, for God’s sake. Antonio, she has a son,” the minister said.

“We have to do what Felix says. The embassy has already called him. They’re sending the girl back to the States tonight.” He watched the minister fall into a brown leather club chair that had been bought years before, in London, and shipped to Guatemala.

“She didn’t deserve this,” the minister said. They had both known Isabella since they were children.

“It’s my fault,” Antonio said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was involved with the American girl. I should have taken Isabella home when I saw she was here. It was stupid. She told me she was jealous . . . I thought . . . I thought it was just talk,” Antonio said.

The minister got up and left the room. He said that he was going to leave, that he didn’t want to be here when they came for the body, that it was too gruesome.

“He said we have to keep our mouths shut,” Antonio said.

“Yes, of course. Of course,” the minister said. “It’s the American Embassy, after all. They’re helping us win this war.” He said that almost as if he were talking to himself.

“Yes,” was all Antonio said. “The war.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The currency had collapsed the week before. President Blanco declared a state of emergency and shut down the country’s banks, amid rumors that Blanco had precipitated the crash by emptying the treasury of dollars. The army had been called out to keep order in the capital.

The state of emergency had driven the foreign tourists out of the Camino Real hotel. The hotel’s pool, usually crowded by this time of the morning, was quiet when Russell passed. Military filled the hotel’s famous coffee shop. A few Americans from the embassy, in Gap pants and well pressed shirts, shared a joke with a group of high-ranking officers. But the laughter had a mirthless tone, Russell thought as he was shown to Mahler’s table. No one in the army knew exactly how it might go in the next few weeks, only that the Americans would reshuffle the deck and come out winners. The generals had simply come to the café to sell themselves, as they always did, like whores at a bar.

“Listen. I can’t talk for long,” Russell said as he sat down. Mahler was wearing the same dirty clothes he’d left the jungle in. He hadn’t shaved, and looked oddly glamorous because of it. A gaggle of well dressed bodyguards, waiting for their military employers, stared at them.

“Carl’s given me the money we needed. I . . . I just left him,” Mahler said. A waiter came, and Russell ordered. “You have to come back with me. Now.” Mahler handed back the menu.

“I can’t. Not right away. You have to go back without me,” Russell told him.

“We haven’t much time. Selva is going to win, or just take over. You know that. He’ll nationalize Tres Rios and take it all for himself. We have to take advantage of this chaos,” Mahler said. He ate scrambled eggs quickly, jamming them into his mouth.

“Blanco suspended the elections because of the crisis,” Russell told him. “I just heard it on the radio.”

Mahler snorted with contempt.

“Don’t be a fool. Blanco is on the way out, and Selva will be the next president. It’s pre-ordained. It’s what the Yankees want.” Mahler nodded towards the corner table of military men. “Selva’s their man. And that’s the way it’s always gone here. The generals always win.”

“Maybe not this time,” Russell said, trying to keep his voice down.

Mahler fished in his dirty vest and threw something on the table between them. “I found that before I left,” he said.

Russell picked up what appeared to be a small Mayan figure of a woman, solid gold, weighing several ounces.

“And some other things. We’re close to the Red Jaguar, I tell you.” Mahler’s blue eyes were electric. “You have to come back with me now. I can’t promise you I’ll wait. If I find the Jaguar—I can’t promise anything if I find it,” he said, wiping the plate with a piece of bread.

“But you haven’t found it. Or you wouldn’t be here,” Russell said, looking at the antiquity.

“No. I haven’t found it—yet,” Mahler said. “But I’m warning you. You’ve fucked around too much as it is.”

“I have a meeting,” Russell said, standing up. “I’ll see you at Tres Rios in a few days. I told you.” He tossed Mahler back the gold figure. The two men looked at each other.

“I’m trustworthy,” Mahler said. “If that’s what you’re thinking. And I saved your life, remember.”

The elevator opened and the IMF country team Russell had met earlier in the week trooped into the cafe, all very well dressed. They were all Russell’s age, or even younger. Mahler turned to look at them.

“Who are they?” he asked when he turned back around.

“IMF officials. They’re here to try and save the currency.”

“You mean they’ve come to arrange the deck chairs on the Titanic,” Mahler said.

“I’ve got to go. I have a meeting with Antonio,” Russell said. It was, he suspected, his political connection with Madrid that was keeping Mahler from stealing what he could and disappearing. For all he knew, Mahler had already found the damn Red Jaguar and was afraid Russell might be too important now to cheat.

“Madrid can’t win. If that’s what you think,” Mahler said, as if he’d been reading Russell’s mind. “Your man was finished before he ever started. The liberals here are a pack of fools.”

Russell sat down again.

“Don’t be a fool. Don’t you understand, Madrid has a good chance of becoming President. If he does, we’ll be able to do whatever we want at Tres Rios. Can’t you understand that!” Russell leaned forward and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you really think I’d back a loser?” He looked at Mahler carefully.

“What are you saying? Is there going to be a golpe, is that it?” Mahler said.

“I’m saying finish your breakfast and then get the fuck out of here before I decide I don’t need you,” Russell said.

•••

Monday May 24, 1988

The dawn had been red and sour-looking when Olga pulled the living room curtains open. She had sat patiently in the kitchen, looking at the clock on the wall, a white shawl around her deformed shoulders to keep off the cold. Sometimes she would get up and go to the hallway if she thought she heard something. Twice the phone rang and she ran to answer. But each time it was someone calling for Isabella. Each time she had to say her mistress was not in. When the callers asked when her mistress was expected back, she didn’t answer.

The third time the phone rang, she didn’t bother to answer. It was a strange reaction. It was her job to answer the phone, but she couldn’t. She was frightened by then, and didn’t know what to tell people. She could hear the clock tick by her simple wooden chair, in a corner by the stove.

She finally picked up a cup of cold coffee she’d poured herself hours before and put it in the immaculate sink. She touched the dish towel with both hands and bit her lip. She would have to go to the police. She didn’t know what else to do. If Don Roberto were here, she would tell him, but he was far away and she had no idea how to reach him. The child was far away.

It was so different than when they were girls together, Olga thought. There had been so much family on the plantation. If there were a problem in those days, it was just a moment until you were home and safe. But now? Where were Isabella’s people? It seemed so strange, she thought, getting her coat.

It seemed so strange that such a beautiful girl could be so alone, without her family. Olga realized that she was better off than her mistress. She had two children back on the plantation. It was true she didn’t get to see them as much as she would like, but she had someone of her blood. It was a shame.

She went down the cold white marble steps to the lobby. When she opened the door to the street, she realized it was raining. She thought of going back and getting a better coat and maybe an umbrella, but she didn’t. She trudged off instead to la Reforma, and headed towards the central police station– just another deformed Indian in cheap black shoes, walking in the rain, her gait uncomfortable to watch.

She’d been hit by a truck the month Isabella was sent away to school. She hoped for a card from Isabella while she was in the hospital, but no one had bothered to tell Isabella what had happened to her childhood friend. Isabella was shocked the day she came home from school to see Olga limping horribly up the driveway.

“I’m looking for a white lady,” Olga told the pockmarked sergeant at the central police station. Her deformity had a bad effect on people, making them oddly apprehensive. They didn’t really want to look at her.

The sergeant glanced at her, then looked at the two young soldiers standing guard at the doorway. The war had moved to the city. Sandbags protected the front of the building, and a wire mesh covered the door in case someone tried to toss in a grenade.

The sergeant pushed a form at her, after making her wait for several minutes before he turned to her again. Olga could smell gun oil and leather and a Xerox machine.

Two American men with short haircuts walked through the doorway, unchallenged by the guards. They were having a heated conversation. They pushed a young man in front of them. The young man’s face was swollen from the beating he’d gotten when he was arrested; he was barefoot. Olga watched the two white men walk the young man down a long hallway, then turn and disappear. No one had paid any attention.

“You’ll have to fill that out,” the sergeant told her.

Olga tentatively reached for the form, looked at it, and then laid it down on the counter again.

“I can not read, señor,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Then how in God’s name can I help you, woman?” the sergeant said. He looked at her, waiting for an answer. She was ugly, and he didn’t want to deal with her anymore. She didn’t know how to answer. But she didn’t move, either.

“Perhaps, señor, if you would be so kind, you could write the name for me?” Olga asked politely.

“We charge people for that,” the sergeant said. He looked across at the two young soldiers standing guard at the door. It was raining harder now, and the water was hitting the building’s protective fence and dripping off. The two soldiers, very solid young men and as dark as Olga, looked coldly at her.

“Isabella Cruz . . . Doña Isabella Cruz,” Olga said, digging in her pocket. She put the few quetzales she had on the counter without looking at the sergeant. He took her money and grudgingly picked up a pencil. He rushed her through the inquiry.

The two men in raincoats were not spotted on the road. Their Cadillac came to a stop near a wide ditch, full of rainwater and debris. It was so early that the dawn made the ditch seem almost like something else, something natural, but it was just a ditch with dirty brown water.

The two men took Isabella’s body from the trunk. Neither man wanted to do it. Neither man was a bad man, or a heartless man, but they were about to do a heartless thing. The chief of police had called back and told them they would have to dispose of the body themselves. There had been an attack by the communists in the center of the city, and he could do nothing for them right now.

Antonio De La Madrid reached for Isabella’s legs. He remembered, as he did, how pretty she’d been. He thought he might not be able to do what they had to do.

He stopped and looked down the deserted dirt road before them. They were a half hour exactly from the capital.

Someone named Hugh had called from the embassy. Antonio had answered the phone. Hugh said that it was important that the embassy not be involved in what he called “the accident.” It was too sensitive a time, he said. Hugh asked them if they could do the United States government a favor. Hugh said that it wouldn’t be forgotten. Hugh said they wanted the problem to “just disappear.” That was all he had to say.

“Help the needy and show them the way,” Antonio said as he put down the phone.

“What?” the minister said.

“It was a silly song. I remember when we were in the States. Isabella and I. . . . A song on the radio. She used to sing it,” Antonio said, looking at the minister. “I have to tell her brother.”

“Get a grip on yourself!” the minister said. “We can’t tell her brother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Antonio said. “We have to tell her brother.”

“No. You know Roberto. He’s a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He’ll come back from Europe and look into this. He has a hundred friends. They’ll all help him find out what happened. He’ll kill us,” the minister said.

Antonio sat down in one of the minister’s club chairs. For a long time the two men sat like that, without speaking, because neither man wanted to be the first to go into the room and take the body away.

“There’s a boy. A son. She has a son,” Antonio said finally. “In the States.”

“Had a son,” the minister said, picking up his car keys. “Look, you know if Roberto finds out, he’ll kill us, or at least try to. He’s that type.”

Antonio nodded. He knew it was true, because he would do the same if it had been his sister.

On the way through the city that morning, they both promised to help Isabella’s boy when the time came for him to come back to Guatemala. They made a solemn pact. The minister, Rudy Valladolid, became senator the next year.

All this went through Antonio’s mind as he reached down into the trunk and grabbed Isabella by the legs. Rudy took her by the arms. It was horrible, and Antonio tried not to look down, but he had to. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to look at her one more time; even in death, she was a beautiful girl.

After they’d driven away, the rain caught the angle of Isabella’s pretty cheek.

She’d had a dream as she died, watching the faces in the living room. She’d seen her father come out from the dining room. It was the exact moment of her physical death. Now alone, her legs tucked up awkwardly under her body, she joined a long list of missing people back on the counter in the police station. The sergeant tossed the missing person form the Americans had insisted they adopt. It seemed ridiculous, but like so many things they had to do now, they did them for appearance’s sake.

At that last instant of her life, Isabella understood something her father was saying to her. She was sure she caught it. He was standing across the room and he stopped, not to warn her but to say it before it was too late. The cold collection of molecules that sat in her brain still had the thought as the rain pelted her in the face and her legs bent toward the coming sun.

“Isabella, we’re ready. Aren’t you coming? We have to go. The plane leaves for the States at four, and you know how your mother hates to be late.”

“But I wanted to say goodbye to Olga,” Isabella said, her cosmetic bag in her hand.

“You’ll see her again,” her father said. That’s what he’d come to say, just as the thing penetrated her brain, did its damage, and ended it. “You’ll see her again, dear.” She didn’t hear the dear. But it was there, and he’d said it, and that’s all that was important. He’d called her dear and she’d loved her father so, it was good that he’d said it.

Perhaps it was that cold message in a dead brain that Olga heard as she left the police station and looked towards the south, distraught and frightened, rudderless as she would be now for the rest of her life.