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Payasos: a novel: Chapter 1
Richard Wilson stared out the window at the streets below.
It was a beautiful day for a circus, he thought next. And indeed
it was. Under the bow tie sun a Dantesque circus had arrived in
Lima, Peru. Abimael Guzman, the great and feared leader of
the ringmaster. The Peruvian Government conducted the orchestra.
soldiers bodily carried Guzman from his prison cell and placed
him inside a lions cage that was in turn loaded aboard a flatbed
truck. As soon as the cage was locked, an order was barked, and
the truck began its ponderous journey to the Palazia de Justice.
stood erect...their only claim to fame: deposing a clone of them
they, numbering in the tens of thousands, thronged the sidewalks
so that they pushed against the wooden barricades in the hope of
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dressed in filthy rags which were the only clothes allowed him,
rattled the bars while stomping and storming and ranting and
raving about the cage, his fire red night black eyes glaring
people were, except for an occasional tourist, good Godfearing
with wide eyed baby's clinging to their shoulders, men with the
grease of changing oil or the barbers shears washed from their
hands, slim petite girls wearing the latest sample of fragrance
delight at spitting on him and heaving rotten eggs and hatefully
shouting: Son of Puta! And maybe a whore had sired him. To read
hourly basis Guzman's mother spread her legs wider than Mary
Magdalene, his father the thief who shared the cross with Jesus
children upon communism's black altar.
And in truth Guzman had sacrificed many men and women and
children.
hunting down the last great South American Communist Greuerlla,
sacrificed many.
And Guzman thrived on the attention. Cage me. See me. And
yes, fear me!
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And the Govement officials wallowed in the glory of
capturing this most feared man. We captured him. We caged him. We
are the victor’s.
For four days he had watched the scene, sometimes in person
like now, and at other times on television. He wasn't troubled by
the obvious curlty in locking a man in a lion’s cage and parading
government’s daily propaganda briefings. Had somebody inquired as
to his disinterest, he would have honesty responded: It is not my
job to take sides. This was true. He was the press liaison
between the American Embassy and the press and his job was to
filter the events, sanitize them so to speak. And he had done his
job well. Right by the numbers. Otherwise known in Embassy jargon
as A. O. (A. for the right answers to the questions thrown his
way. And O. for Opinion...none.) He had done such a good boring
job that most of the journalist had abandoned the daily news
conference at the United States Embassy for the more laten thus
besides the food was better at the Brazilian Embassy.
The scene played itself out and the crowds, in two and
threes shuffled away. Richard blew out a breath and grabbed his
suitcase and headed out the door and the airport. He took a
direct flight to Guatemala City, which was home. The flight was
only two hours long and to occupy the time sipped on Bourbon on
4
the rocks while reading a week old issue of Time magazine, but he
through events in Lima. Although he sat in first class, more leg
room, seat room, and first class passengers were the first to
Airport, he stayed in his seat sipping on bourbon while the other
compartments and push to disembark. He was in no hurry. He was
home. Another five minutes one way or the other. Just relax.
Actually it took fifteen minutes before the plane was empty of
smile and pushed up from the seat and briefcase held in left hand
left the plane. He retrieved his single suitcase and left the
terminal. The moment outside, the familiar dilapidated billboard
greeted him: Mi Guatemala Es Asi. The round washed out red on
white Coke logo flanked both sides of the greeting. Usually when
and the greeting brightened his mood. But not this time. Instead
he suddenly felt almost lost. He quickly attributed this to the
curb. The air, thick, tar like, burned his lungs. A bevy of
street urchins begged for spare change. They badly mangled the
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six words of English they had managed to learn. "ust one Amercan
uarter, plse mster." And taxi drivers hungrily reached for the
single suitcase he carried. They had their seven words of English
down pat. "Come, my taxi is right over here."
He had one phobia. He despised the Indians touching him or
himself...but the mere thought made his skin crawl. And at first
he felt the all too familiar revulsion at the dirty little hands
touching him. Reaching for him. And he shuddered. As quickly as
the feeling had come, it fled. And for a moment the hunger and
the fervor of the street urchins and the taxi drivers carried him
back a few hours earlier to Lima, Peru.
Guzman? The cage. The people jeering. Jesus!
If there really is such a phenomenon as a sudden shock of
Guzman's image faded. He found himself staring at the Coke logo
while thinking: I can't take this anymore.
And there it was just lying there inside him waiting waiting
waiting to be a rock turned over, he thought. Turn it over and
inspect the rest of it. The backwater reasons. The other phobias.
The...But he wasn’t afforded another second to inspect what lay
under the rock. Tear it down. Reduce it to the nothing it was.
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frozen unable to move right or left or forward or backward. All
the while the taxi drivers tugged at his suitcase, and the boys
pleaded for spare change. Only his size kept them from sweeping
him away. The boys were small and underfed, the taxi drivers,
hundred and twenty to a hundred and fifty. He stood five eleven,
fat or muscle, but instead a sort of out of shape in between. Or
as he saw it when shaving in the morning: a middle age lump.
His stomach curled. And the street urchin’s voices grew more
threatening. He forced a deep in and out breathes, and violently
pushed by the street urchins and taxi drivers and peddled forward
for the parking lot and his car. Well chosen curses
followed...the usual Latin slurs: his mother a whore, his father
a thief. He ignored them and a few minutes later after passing
over a wad of Quetzals to the youth who had spent the days
guarding his car against thieves sat behind the wheel of his 1989
Toyota Supra convertible. The car was a comfort and a sense of
relief filled him. A car can be like that, he tiredly thought.
But despite its comfort when he held out his hands they
before retiring for the night he had started taking a Valium to
help him sleep and also to ward off the occasional hangover from
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imbibing too much hair of the dog. He had never taken one during
down...Bourbon was preferable...later, yes later.
broke a ten milligram tablet in half and crushed it between his
the usual involuntary shudder.
The boy he had paid sat atop the hood of a burned out Ford
counting, like a miser, the bills. Another boy stood and talked
decision...which seemed all but impossible right then anyway. He
felt lucky to have just made it to the car. As for what to do
next, the mere thought plagued him. It wasn't that he didn't know
what to do. He knew well enough what he should do. Although late
immediately file a report upon returning. The report was faxed to
rejected it. Screw them, the report could wait until Monday. He
took another second and considered going to Sam Wall's house. Sam
also worked at the Embassy and was about as close a friend as he
C.I.A. For security reasons the Embassy allotted him an apartment
located on the Embassy grounds. But he rejected this also. As a
8
Revolutionary Front,' a fifteen foot high by two feet deep
concrete fence surrounded the Embassy compound. Sam's apartment,
located in the middle of the Embassy complex, afforded a view of
after Lima, Guzman, the lion’s cage, the thought of spending the
concrete fence further depressed him. He only briefly considered
visiting his girl friend, Crista. She was married to the German
Ambassador and usually the Ambassador hosted an event on Friday:
cocktail party or black tie dinner. Protocol required Crista to
attend these Friday events. Home was his last option. His house
years ago. During that time a couple of earthquakes had damaged
the original structure, but the previous owners had rebuilt the
house. The man who he rented it from had gutted the inside and
kitchen, bedroom, bath, living room and a study. The roof served
forty minutes outside Guatemala City. But in heavy traffic, or if
identity papers the trip could take anywhere from an hour to two
thought of home comforted him. Celia, his maid would be there. He
could, sipping Bourbon, sit on the roof terrace and gaze at the
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volcano that the natives had long ago christened Aqua. Relax.
A decision finally made, he sat there a few minutes longer.
The Valium had begun to work its desired effect and his mind
began to loosen. As it did he dimly wondered if perhaps Lima and
the barbaric cruelty of parading a caged man for the masses to
ridicule was the beginning of the end for him. He had worked at
the Embassy for a little over four years. During that time he had
followed in detail three coup d'état, an ongoing civil war, and
countless political assassinations; both by the government and
the Guerrillas. The general consensus amongst Embassy personnel
was that Guatemalan years were like dog years; one for seven, and
five years the max before burnout set in...Inefficiency quickly
followed. The State Department, quick to recognize burnout, just
as quickly reassigned the man to a desk position in Washington.
allowing his emotions to bleed though and color his judgment. But
he had almost done so today. Guzman. Funny. He had felt sympathy
for a mass murderer. Maybe he was ready for a nice quiet desk
job, he tiredly mused. He had expected the thought to sadden him.
didn't sadden him. Quite the contrary, actually, he felt a sort
of relief; the kind of relief a man fears feeling, but once felt
savors it. He sighed, a sigh of completion. A knowing end to the
biggest fear of all: The everyday fear of waiting for the end to
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come. A moment later the thought frightened the hell out of him.
He was fifty six years old now. State would never offer a desk
job to a person his age. State would retire him outright. At best
a three month severance goodbye parachute, and a small pension.
As he pulled away, he savagely thought: 'So s Nada.'
11
Chapter 2
road out of the city. As the road wove up into the mountains the
rain increased in intensity, pounding, like thumbtacks, at the
car.
He paid the rain little heed as he muttered over and over:
mind 'So s Nada' was perfect for the shock he felt. So s Nada: I
The taunt didn't die out until he got caught behind a pair of
what were fondly referred to by the tourists and local population
as chicken buses. His hands began to sweat as the buses huffed
along, barely going ten miles per hour.
He truly feared the damn chicken buses and with good reason.
held together by tape and glue and hope and prayer. The road
leading out of Guatemala City curved upward into the mountains.
Going around the curves, the brakes smoked under the pressure the
driver's foot applied to keep the bus under control, and the
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buses swayed and creaked under worn springs until it appeared
they must tilt over. And at least once in a blue moon one went
over the mountain, killing all aboard. Every few miles along the
crosses. Draped over the crosses were once bright red and yellow
but now sundried dead roses and purple cloth. The crosses and
purple cloth and roses served as testament to the dead. This he
along with it to oblivion. The sole consolation: his name carved
on a wooden cross.
He fell into his usual habit and cursed them while making a
move to pass; which turned out to be very difficult maneuver. The
moment he made his move, the wet road narrowed, and skirting the
edge of a twothousand foot drop, his tires kicked up muddy dirt.
All at once the mud gave way and the tires lost purchase and the
rear of the Toyota began to slide. To correct the slide he spun
the wheel and shot forward in front of the bus to his right. He
held his breath and when well past the chicken buses, softly
whistled it.
The rain had stopped. But the outside air still had that misty
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enough for him to revel in the abstract beauty the mist employed:
shading the lush foliage, blurring the lines between trees and
bushes.
He never admitted this to a soul, but he saw Aqua as a she,
attempted to understand this enchanting mistress but her mystery
eluded him. Perhaps if he had a poetic bent this understanding he
sought would come to him. Perhaps not.
waiting. He rarely returned home at a set hour, but she always
stood waiting for him. He had once asked her how she knew, half
expecting her to offer up some crap about how Indians had a sixth
sense. But she was a devout Catholic and far too religious for
such and merely replied that she had grown accustomed to the
sound of his car. In the car port a gun metal Mercedes sat parked
to one side. Crista, he thought, surprised, why she wasn't at the
opened the passenger door and took out the suitcase.
"You look tired."
"Long trip," he commented.
She had worked for him since his first week in the house,
and knew him well. And although she sensed more, her dark Indian
14
Especially around him. She was the maid. He the master of the
upbringing, he imagined. But his attempts were to no avail. She
order of things. When he did so both of them were relieved.
woman. She set the suitcase down on the foyer. "She waits on the
terrace."
"Any other messages?"
"Señor Sam wants you to call him as soon as you arrive. It
is urgent."
Embassy business. It could wait.
"A Bourbon, please."
"No food?"
"No. And afterwards you can go home."
"I unpack your bag first."
"Fine," he replied.
muscle, in a deck chair, her back to him while facing Aqua. Her
dark full hair obscured her face. But he wasn't prepared to see
15
her. The weight of her presence fell heavily upon his shoulders.
"Waiting long?" he asked.
"No, not really," she answered.
"The Ambassador."
"Richard."
him."
"Richard," she calmly said, "Why? What good will it bring?
We have each other. This is enough."
Calm. Logical. Precise. So precisely German. Crista was all
this. What did she see in him who was as typically American as
she was German? They had met while attending a cocktail party at
the German Embassy. He rarely attended such events. He found them
evening hours reading or hanging out at his favorite bar. He had
Ambassador. She was attractive to be sure and he stared at her a
moment too long and she caught him looking at her; he quickly
shied away, telling himself the room was filled with attractive
women. A few hours later, a little drunk, and because he didn't
smoke a little nauseous from the smokeclouded room, went out to
the balcony for some air. She stood there alone wistfully staring
off at the stars. He wasn't shy around women, nor was he glib and
smooth as other men to him appeared to be. Still he had mumbled
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something inane about stars and romance going hand in hand. She
right here on the balcony."
"American humor," she dryly responded and left him standing
there alone wondering if he had imagined the entire conversation.
The demands of work were such that he forgot the encounter
entirely. A few days later, after work, after a few drinks at his
favorite watering bar...and finally while lounging at home, she
rang. The conversation went short and to the point. "I want to
make love with you. Do you have a bed?"
"Yes," he dubiously replied, thinking at the time: The woman
is pulling my leg.
But she wasn't and it began just like that. A few words on
the balcony. A doorbell. A yes. A very long silent walk to the
Their bodies pressing together while falling on the bed. He had
known his share of women over the years, not a lot but at his age
enough to draw comparisons...likes and dislikes, and although he
about it. The small full breasts, the slight curve of her thighs,
the way her pelvis tilted upward, the crest of its bone stabbing
his groin when he thrust too deep and too hard. There was also
nothing overly passionate about her. No moans. No screams. Just a
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slight movement, and a tiny cry of release. Nothing else.
Afterwards there was a firm goodbye handshake that left him
encounter. But the next day she called again. And the next, and
Neither of them bothered to hide their affair...considering they
assumed from the beginning that the Ambassador knew about the
affair. But he never outright asked. She had made it clear early
Although he accepted these limits, he, from time to time, joked
about them...mostly to get a rise out of her. His antics failed
each time. Their affair had continued for almost three and a half
years and during this time her tiny cry of release during love
making was the closest he had seen her come to losing her
composure.
He kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were warm.
"So what brings you up?"
"There are guests from Germany. I came to purchase cloth for
them to take home." She touched his leg. Her hand, warm, aroused
him. "I missed you."
"Thanks. It's good to be missed."
watched on the news. Horrendous. Such an uncivilized region."
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How was it? I think I am burning out. If so, State will
Celia. My life here. Gone.
Instead, not wanting to face further questions, he avoided
the question entirely, "How long can you stay? An hour?"
"I am expected back. But yes, maybe a little longer."
Their conversation paused while Celia brought his drink. She
had unpacked the suitcase and put the dirty clothes in the
hamper. She would go home now unless he required anything else.
He said no. Celia left.
"She will never like me."
"It's her religion," he said for the hundredth time.
"Yes. Let's make love here," Crista said.
The rain had left the air a bit chilly and he mentioned this
and suggested turning on the electric grate.
"I will lift my dress and sit on your lap. We will hold each
other and gently rock back and forth and create warmth. Yes."
A reply wasn't necessary. He wanted her. He wanted her bad.
always wanted her. He knew the latter was due to the uniqueness
Embassy. He in Antigua. This forced separation kept the socalled
infecting them.
19
The emotions showed, and she, reading them, stood and
reached under her dress and pulled her panties down until they
puddled at her feet. She stepped away from them and kneeled and
undid his trousers and rolled them down around his ankles. She
slid his underwear down around his knees, then stood, lifted her
dress and slowly lowered herself until they touched. Then she
gently pushed...nestling him snugly inside her.
He thought: warm, so very warm.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gently rocked.
Their lovemaking, familiar, nice, easy...like returning home
after a long day at work and resting tired feet on an ottoman.
during the entire time who would she make love with after he left
Guatemala.
The finish left him longing for more. But afterwards, Crista
had to go. To protest. No. He had done so often over the years,
and always received the same steady even response, "Richard, we
take what we can."
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Chapter 3
shadow over the Mercedes. He stood next to the idling car. The
dashboard lights framed her face. Faint. Soft. They always had
rehearsed part. "Be careful driving."
"Richard," she responded in kind, "You always say this."
tired eyes on her.
abruptly suggested.
"Is something bothering you, Richard?"
"No," he lied, "Just want to go on a picnic. Saturday is the
day the Ambassador goes duck hunting."
lunch."
Bending forward. A question in her eyes, or so he imagined.
She brushed his lips. Shifted into drive. For a moment he watched
the Mercedes effortlessly move along the road.
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Yes Richard, he thought. He brushed the rest of the thought
away and followed the arc from the light in the carport back to
the house. The house felt vacant without Crista and Celia...no,
hadn't contributed a damn thing to the house, except for living
house. He paid the bills, both bills...Celia and Crista.
"Shit," he muttered, brushing a hand across his mouth.
He attempted to fill the void inside him by puttering, first
interest. The kitchen held promise in the form of a tumbler of
with only airlines food in him, went down hard. He carried the
glass, going from room to room searching for something to do. But
the drainer, and the garbage tied within a plastic bag and
waiting by the front door. To put it out at night invited stray
suspected the garbage held worthwhile items and ripped the bag
open and spread the contents on the street and sidewalk. The
bedroom, no, sleep or watching television propelled him back to
the bookcase. Same books. Same familiarity.
22
Bar. But dismissed the notion out of hand. Gus's would be empty
Guzman clinging...a transparent phantom shadowing him from room
to room. Finally he settled at the desk in the den and called Sam
stupid, stupid. Read a book. But another voice said: Sam left a
still work at the Embassy. The moment Sam answered with a terse,
"Who," he said, "It's me."
Sam stated. "All hell has broken loose in your absence."
"What happened?" he automatically responded
"General Rosa."
General Rosa, he wearily thought, who else.
"What did the bastard do?"
"Remember Black?"
It took a moment for him to collect his thoughts. Sam didn't
prod or interrupt during this time. After a few seconds, he had
it. Black headed a British forensic team who had the tactical
massacre. The reason Black's name failed to ring a bell at first
was because Black had begun the project a little over two months
23
ago. At the time he, Richard, had questioned why President Elias
had approved of the excavation. To do so was dangerous. Although
President Elias was elected by the people, he stayed in office
through the good grace of the military.
"Black's completed his investigation," he ventured.
general press conference. The gist: fifteen bodies had lain in
the shallow grave, eight years, maybe nine. All Indian. Ten men.
Two women. And three infants. All were murdered execution style:
a single bullet to the head. The bullets removed from the victims
were standard military issue. President Elias issued a statement
via the Prensa Libre. He intends to allow Black to continue his
his own statement. General Rosa was harsh in his denouncement of
investigation. General Rosa was so ticked off he even went so far
Washington was attempting to meddle in Guatemalan affairs."
surprise to Richard. The newspaper leaned toward the right. And
24
using the rightleaning Prensa Libre as a propaganda tool was
standard procedure: both for the military and the president. The
intent wasn't so much to inform the people, but to pass veiled
threats between the two ruling factions.
"Even though Black is British," he sourly replied.
diplomatic pressure from the British Embassy, had approval from
Military Death squads was revoked."
He had forgotten that and said so.
Rosa's behavior interesting."
He readily agreed
General Rosa is up to. State wants an analysis on the situation
want to pick your brain before I send out the communiqué."
For the next hour he sipped on bourbon while they analyzed
the underlying reasons for such a public display by the General.
Guatemalans called a retirement party for the President, and what
the world called a military coup. But this being Central America,
25
possibilities and out of frustration readily agreed that the
whole affair was probably a silly game between the two powers.
But moments after they reached this agreement, Sam came up with
an undiscussed possibility for the General's behavior. Four years
murdered: shot fifteen times and his body doused with petrol and
shallow grave. The affair had recently reached an unsatisfactory
conclusion. Four lowlevel military officers were convicted and
sentenced to twenty years in prison. The consensus at the State
Department, where Bernard had many friends, was that the trial
was a sham and that the real culprit, General Rosa, had
escaped...the logic behind this assumption was not without merit.
Christian, was very outspoken over the way the military treated
the Indians. So perhaps the General was attempting to shift the
spotlight from the mock trial to Black. After lengthy discussion,
they decided the latter filled the bill. Sam would write up an
analysis and dispatch it tonight.
pissed."
"Did you tell him I was out of the country covering Guzman?"
dinners. He expects the staff to cover anything else. I called a
26
general press briefing and announced that the Embassy, and the U.
S. government had no prior knowledge concerning the atrocities."
"Thanks," he replied.
"It's nothing."
"Just the same."
"Sound tired. Guzman get to you?"
"I I just need a good night's rest."
"Probably."
For a brief moment he wondered what Sam meant, perhaps Sam
sensed...but let it go. They had a standing habit of meeting on
Saturday. So he asked if he was coming in tomorrow.
what's new. Hopefully by tomorrow the mess will cool a bit. Give
us some breathing room."
Although the conversation had brightened his mood a little,
he still felt down, and decided to go to Gus's place. If you were
an American living in Antigua, Gus's was the only place to go.
cafes. But the majority of these either catered to the tourists
or the Guatemalan residents. Gus tailored his place for the older
atmosphere at Gus's suggested many things. A comfortable coziness
first sprang to mind. And unlike the restaurants and cafes that
catered to the tourist trade, the coziness wasn't contrived. The
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downstairs was small, barely large enough to hold six tables and
a bar with eight spokeback stools, and the lighting dim enough
to hide the telltale shadows under the eyes...but not so dim as
to make squinting a sport. If the closeness downstairs grew too
stifling, you could take your drink upstairs to the roof garden
and lounge at a table and stare at Aqua, or the sky. But it
wasn't the roof garden or the confined coziness downstairs that
tuned out the blues. Mildly put, Gus had a fondness for forties
big band music, and except for an occasional Andes flute music,
the tape deck played nothing but Les Brown and his Band Renown,
Xavier Cugat, Artie Shaw, Glen Miller and others of their era.
Coziness and Glen Miller suited his blue mood.
28
Chapter 4
Gus's bordered the Central bus terminal. During the day the
the station was, except for the few weatherbeaten wood rotted
almost falling down Tiendas where cane cutters gathered shoulder
to shoulder on wooden plank benches to drink away the hardships
of working in the fields, deserted. Petty thieves prowled the bus
station and the surrounding area, and things had a habit of
eye on the Toyota, he had parked directly in front of the bar.
drifted from the speakers. Jun, the Indian girl who waited
tables, passed her dark Indian eyes in dull recognition at him.
The act was neither friendly nor hostile. She greeted every
gringo the same way. He passed her a likewise nod before passing
a cursory glance around. Only Doc Wilson was there. He, slouched
Friday evening. But the night was still early, just a little past
29
eight.
Richard meandered past the tables to the bar and sat on the
stool next to Doc. Gus, the rope taut muscles on his stocky Greek
Terasa stood next to him reading out loud from a letter clutched
in her hands. The letter was from Terasa's husband back in the
sound, betraying the three packs of cigarettes he used to smoke
each day.
"Another letter from your husband, huh," Richard commented.
three fingers neat into a glass and set the glass in front of
him. "Sure is," he grunted.
recited out loud the letter's contents. The letter, forgoing the
words: Love, I care for you, please come home, etc, instead
mentioned at least ten times the purchase of a new pasta maker.
To hear her husband tell it, this new pasta maker was the Space
bathroom.
30
"It's your old bladder," Gus yelled out.
"It's cheap Guatemalan beer," Doc answered.
"Poor man," she said.
"Who? Doc or your husband?" Richard inquired.
Like a child trying to decide between a candy bar or rock
candy, Terasa trapped her tongue between her teeth and thought
almost see the wheels in her head working over the question and
couldn't help but smile. She had arrived in Antigua about a year
ago, running, as she put it, from the pasta maker. The pasta
maker spent his days prosecuting white collar criminals for the
night for dinner and talked about teaching history. Just had to
wait a few more years. Save a few more dollars. Except it was
always next year, next year. When she had first told the story,
escaped down here to sort my thoughts out."
surprised at first. Gus had a weakness for young pretty women who
could add two and two while keeping their mouths shut. She wasn't
so young, and a little heavy in the wrong places, and a little
slow when it came to adding two and two, and rarely kept her
mouth shut. But she had a delightful innocence about her. So much
so that a man naturally gravitated to her. And when she had first
31
arrived plenty had. But she had chosen Gus. And surprisingly they
worked well together. Terasa, slow and easy going, Gus, raging at
every little thing.
"Both. All of us," she replied.
Richard considered inquiring when Doc returned and roosted on the
same stool he recently had vacated. Gus leaned his elbows on the
bar and asked about the events unfolding in Peru. Doc's ears
perked up at the mention of Peru, as did Terasa's.
Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unit. Leaving out the incident
at the airport, Richard explained what a circus Lima had been.
Guzman. The lion's cage. The people heaving rotten eggs and
fruit. They each sympathetically nodded, saying they had watched
minds, "What about here? Is Guatemala safe?"
Richard assured her, them, as much. Since he worked at the
question...honesty, well they could do without that.
Gus immediately began discussing whether Guzman was a goat or a
hero. Doc favored the latter, Gus the former. Within minutes the
conversation grew heated. Richard sipped his drink, not feeling a
32
need to offer an opinion either way.
Little by little people drifted in until all the tables were
tables. But like all Indians, she moved at her own pace...slow.
Her slowness, as always, exasperated Gus, and he angrily waved at
Terasa to go and help her out. Used to his moods, she shrugged
and did as instructed.
"If I live to be a hundred, I'll never understand the
Indians," Gus remarked. "A customer can sit there for an hour
before Jun will wait on him. I can yell and scream. Does no
practically live like an Indian. Explain this to me? Can you do
this? Huh?"
about the Indians wasn't a new one in Antigua. In the restaurants
and cafes frequented by foreigners or Spaniards the complaint was
the same...slow service. Apathy, some called it. Revenge, others
said. Nor was Gus's question new. He had asked Doc to explain a
thousand times and Doc always answered by retelling the same worn
parable. Richard, relaxed internally for the first time all day,
sat back and listened, almost reciting by heart the interchange
between them.
"There is this Indian woman who sells oranges. A shriveled
33
up ancient woman the color of coffee. As the morning dew evapo
rates on the leaves and grass she packs eight dozen oranges in a
large piece of canvas. She hauls them down from the mountain and
pyramid of oranges on it. She waits for people to come and buy an
orange or two. Were you to arrive at eighty thirty and want to
purchase the entire pyramid, she wouldn't sell them to you. She
would explain that if she did, then what would she do...nothing
for the rest of the day."
back up to the mountain and pick another dozen and come back and
sell them."
With this Gus stormed away.
"Were I to cut you open," Doc yelled back, "I would find a
man leading a life of quiet desperation."
Doc's last remark brought a smile to Richard's face, as it
usually did. Doc liked to analyze people, and always used the
imagined.
As Richard motioned Terasa for a refill, John and Terry took
up residence at the bar. John had heard Doc, and yelled at Gus,
"That's okay, Gus. Doc would find a pirate in me. Told me so
yesterday."
34
"With the Jolly Roger flapping in the breeze and you on the
stern yelling: onward slaves," Doc joked.
Doc offered up a raspy chuckle at his own joke. John waved
John had moved to Guatemala from the States in 1980 and had
foreigner to open a bar or any business. The civil war raged, and
everyday a passing car tossed a bomb out the window into a cafe,
bar, or restaurant. John's bar suffered such a fate. After John's
They had returned a couple of years ago. They had had enough of
the bar business, and started a weekly newsletter geared toward
were, depending on the whim of the government, always subject to
closure or bombs. Even little newsletters.
sooner finished when Foster, a refugee from the sixties, took a
vegetarian restaurant. He also exported handwoven Indian goods.
He resembled his beliefs: a guru with a constant twinkle in his
eyes.
Same question from Foster. The same false reassurances.
35
At first, for Richard, explaining the events in Peru had
helped serve as a catharsis. A way to stand on the sidelines and
examine the events and his feelings. But he had grown tired of
playing the 'soothe our fears guy' and of examining his feelings
satellite signals from H.B.O and Showtime and in turn charged its
subscribers a monthly fee to view the movies. But a few days
method of scrambling their signals. The result: no more English
language movies.
Although Terry had brought the subject up, it was Foster who
carried the ball. The Guru twinkle remained in his eyes, but he
was galled at this injustice and ranted and raved. The source of
movie theater. He had always had this dream, started way back
when he was a child and first saw the M.G.M. lion, to have his
own theater. He had nursed the dream for years, and had hit upon
the solution one night a few months back while passing a joint to
his wife. At the time they were lounging on the bed, along with
their three Irish Setters, watching Godzilla on the television.
Foster leaped up off the bed at the exact instant that Godzilla
36
refer to Foster as sedate would be an understatement, and his
Irish Setters leapt off the bed like smoke and crawled under it.
Thus six red eyes shone out from under the bed and his wife
coughed and choked while he repeated: THAT'S IT. The next day he
folding chairs and a popcorn popper. The next week a huge crate
show. The movies he ran were pirated from the movies Guatemalan
Cable pirated from H.B.O and Showtime.
Terry remarked, trying to soothe his feelings.
"Hundreds," Foster responded, heavily highlighting the word,
movies over and over again. Just not right."
stealing the signal or Guatemalan Cable unable to unscramble the
signal?"
As is apt to happen when people are a little oiled, not so
convictions, a heated discussion ensued on the merits of Terasa's
question.
37
swiveled on the stool and stared outside. Rain and darkness
splashed the street outside. He saw the Toyota, saw the mirrors
and tires were still attached. Right then for no reason at all,
But he sat among friends, and the memory seemed insignificant,
as if it had never happened. Maybe talking about the events had
helped after all, he mused inwardly.
"Give me a ride home?"
Doc had a decrepit Ford Galaxy. Richard asked where it was
at.
"Jose's shop. Brakes. He's had the car for three days."
"Slow workers."
"Just their way," Doc replied.
"Sure," Richard responded, "And sure. I'm ready to leave."
After a flurry of goodbyes, they were on their way.
38
Chapter 5
They only got as far as the sidewalk. The rain came down
hard and mean and they sought shelter under the roof overhang to
wait for it to lessen before making a dash for the car. Dozens of
parked buses littered the bus terminal. Most were painted school
bus yellow, but a few were painted day glow red, green and
orange. Beyond the terminal lay an open field where the homeless
had set up tarp sleeping quarters for the night. Despite the
rain, cook fires, fueled by red hot coals, glowed in the open
including strains of American songs, of which few if any of the
lounged just outside the Tiendas. Their heads hung beaten down
low, they searched for a scrape of food. Somewhere in their dog
brain the overriding thought was: just a crumb. Please. Just a
crumb.
For a few seconds, Richard and Doc stared hopefully at the
sky. Richard was about to say the hell with it when Lt. Oscar
walked up, an umbrella growing out of one hand. The Lt, the
39
highest ranking police officer in Antigua, was a short man,
barely five foot two. He had a long comical upturned mustache, of
the kind often portrayed in Mexican comic books.
The Lt. had been alone as he approached them from the dark
confines of the bus terminal and this surprised Richard. It was
other officers; each carried carbines. So the Lt was looking for
somebody. Richard ventured as much.
"Such a night to be out," The Lt. said in response. With his
pocket, pulled out a cigarette and cupping a match lit it. The
brand was a local Guatemalan brand and on the package stood an
armsoutin greeting laughing clown in a green polka dotted clown
suit. "The rain," the Lt continued, "Fools. They be better off in
jail."
"So you are looking for somebody." Doc stated.
nature."
tomorrow, Doc. Chess. I beat you this time."
chess."
40
A chuckle from Lt. Oscar, and he was gone, swallowed up by
yelled, "Stop!" And a shot rang out.
"The hell with the rain," Richard said, "Let's go."
"Aren’t you curious, Richard?" Doc asked.
"It's not my job to be curious," he replied and dashed for
the car.
Despite Richard's comment, Doc hesitated, peering toward the
shadows playing in and around the parked buses. At last he also
ran for the car. As Richard pulled away he saw Lt. Oscar emerge
from the shadows. With him were his men. They held a third man by
the elbows. And it wasn't until the Toyota turned up Calle Toto
that Doc too turned away.
41
Chapter 6
charge in exchange for treating their various cuts and bruises.
parked the car along the side of the road. A huge rusted iron
gate blocked the entrance to the Hacienda. The moment Doc swung
land, greeted them by licking at their shoes...first Doc's then
Richard's. Doc stooped to pet Poco on the head, then straightened
and started walking. The dog ran along side, yapping and jumping.
Although they skirted the dirt path keeping close to the banana
trees and orange trees leading to his house to avoid the mud, mud
quickly caked their shoes. Richard cursed and Doc chuckled.
"Why don't you move?" he complained.
But they had reached Doc's hut and his complaint fell on
deaf ears. That, as Gus had put it, Doc lived like an Indian was
42
an understatement. The hut, about ten by fourteen feet in size,
had a tin roof. Despite the smallness of the space, Doc had
managed to stuff years of living...boxes and papers and clothes
and Indian artifacts filled almost every inch of the space. The
only exception was a self constructed crisscross pathway leading
from the front door to the bed to his desk. The desk wasn't a
real desk, but a makeshift thing constructed from two waist high
filing cabinets and a large sheet of plywood. Doc loved children
and years ago had started a oneman charity to educate, feed,
Consequently he was a consummate letter writer. An old Underwood
outgoing and incoming. The incoming letters contained a promise
recommend to a friend or relative the sponsoring of a child.
Why Doc chose to live like this befuddled Richard. Doc could
certainly afford better. The first time Richard had visited Doc
he assumed Doc chose to live like an Indian because most of his
clients were Indian and Doc wanted them to feel at home. But the
mountain villages.
Once Richard had briefly considering asking him why he chose
43
to live like an Indian, but decided against it. Where he lived
was his business.
Doc only had one chair, an ancient desk chair of the kind
built seventy years ago for the large frames of the robber barons
of old: three inch oak all around, and a seat large enough to
hold two people of normal stature. After pouring a few ounces of
rum in two glasses and handing Richard one, he took the chair. As
usual the chair swallowed him up so only his face showed.
Richard sat on the edge of the bed. A lamp atop the plywood
afforded the only light in the room. The dim light caused trace
shadows to play off Doc's face, and only his eyes, as if masked,
shone out. The eyes were old and the years of living behind them
had bleached the whites of the eyes to a pale yellow. But behind
those yellow eyes lay a mind as sharp as a tack.
Doc's age was a perennial question bandied about at Gus's.
And the regulars at the bar didn't have so much as a clue as to
how old Doc was. Oh, they knew he practiced the fine art of
even sure about his age. Gus guessed him to be about seventy
around forever." Terasa just enjoyed listening to him and never
offered an opinion either way. The subject didn't interest John
and Terry. Doc, laughing whenever the subject was broached, never
offered so much as a hint. But if Doc's age remained a mystery at
44
Gus's, there was one general consensus in the bar concerning him:
that Doc had surely been a dashing, handsome man in his youth.
They all based this observation on his bushy white eyebrows, and
thick unkept snow white hair. But the rest of him hadn't fared so
everything but skin and bones and leaving in its wake a bent over
reed of a man; a thin reed whose clothes, always a brown suit,
hung loosely around him.
However old he was, Richard thought right then, the man
behind those eyes had witnessed a great deal of living and dying.
Of this he was sure. "How goes the pledges?" he asked, settling
against the wall.
People in the States feel more giving around the holidays."
"People everywhere."
Doc's bony fingers toyed with a stack of letters. "My
children. Hunger knows no season. Birth, this bloody entry."
tonight."
"Yes Richard. Not tonight. You and Sam. Both alike. No time
for such nonsense. Sam, our local C.I.A. operative. You, our
local...What?"
repeating a well worn lie.
45
"Richard, you looked tired tonight," Doc commented. "Is
toiling for the jackal finally wearing on you?"
He sighed. Doc was drunk. There was no getting away from it.
Not after the incident at the bus terminal.
"No. The Guzman trial."
"Yes. Cage the fierce beast for all to feast upon."
Next Doc would ramble on about birth. Babies. He wasn't in
the mood. He finished the drink and stood.
"I got to go. Long day Doc."
"Yes Richard, seeing a man paraded around in a cage makes
for a long day. Go. Go home. I apologize for being such a bad
host."
Fifteen minutes later Richard lay in bed. Sleep eluded him.
After an hour of tossing and turning he went to the bathroom and
took the other half of the ten milligram Valium and ground it
returned to bed and within ten minutes sleep's breast fed him.
46
Chapter 7
Saturday and Sunday were the two days Richard had the house
to himself. Saturday was market day and Celia took the day off
from the household chores to do the grocery shopping for both her
households; his and her family's. She was very religious and on
Sunday she attended mass. Consequently he had slept a good eight
hours uninterrupted by pots or pans banging...Celia used the pots
as an alarm clock, or so he believed...and the rest had mended
the fractured spirit within him. As he lay staring at the ceiling
indecision and fear were gone. The calm decisive man he had
always relied upon was back. He could now look back and logically
examine yesterday's events. Guzman. His feelings of disgust. Were
the overwhelming emotions he felt real? No doubt about that. But
Guzman treated like a dog. Hell, watching that circus would put a
kink in anybody's day. But if they were real, then it was time to
call it quits. And waiting for State to pension him out was
47
unacceptable. He would monitor his performance over the next
several weeks. If he found it lacking in any manner whatsoever,
he would submit his resignation.
did it well. But he accepted the decision. Decisive men were like
this. Or so he attempted to convince himself.
After an invigorating shower, he went though the usual 'keep
one by one squeezed the juice from the orange halves into the
stones. And believed that drinking eight ounces of fresh squeezed
had learned this fact from an article in the New York Times. The
article detailed the findings of a research project undertaken by
the University of Texas Medical school in Austin concerning the
retardation of kidney stones. The study established that a daily
stones. At the time he had read the article, he had had two
almost drove him mad. He had yet to suffer a recurrence of kidney
stones since incorporating orange juice into his morning diet.
He next hardboiled three eggs and washed them down with a
48
cup of very strong black coffee. The food filled a void in his
stomach and, nourished both in mind and body, washed the dishes
and headed out to meet Sam at Gus's.
exception. The Central Plaza formed a square. Businesses thrived
here: mostly banks and cafes. A park rested in the middle of the
square. During the week the Parque Central Plaza and the park
were fairly quiet. A nice place to sit and watch the world go by.
peddler. But on Saturday and Sunday the Plaza and park took on a
festive carnival atmosphere. Pullman tour buses unloaded hundreds
of tourists who in turn mobbed the area in search of a bargain.
Indians from the mountain highlands flocked to the Plaza and the
park. They used the Plaza and the park as an openair market and
the tourists. The Indians, when not peddling their wares, cooked
on makeshift coal stoves a host of maze and bean dishes to sell
enough to hold two people walking abreast, were no match for the
throngs of people. So as usual the streets on the east and west
side of the Plaza were closed to traffic to allow for the crush
of people.
49
He parked the Toyota in front of the Augustan Spanish
Central Plaza. He had a half hour to spare before meeting Sam,
and after making sure the doors were locked, headed to the park
to sit on a bench and listen to whatever traveling minstrels were
Capitanes...centuries ago the seat of government in Guatemala but
now housing the armory and the police station. From there he cut
across the street to the park itself. The Park was a gardener's
nightmare. Dozen of trees, vines weaving over the cement pathways
and lush bushes, fiery and wild, created a jungle atmosphere; of
course the most dangerous creature prowling about were the rats
lush garden and in the center of the park was a stone fountain.
The fountain cascaded in circles, each one larger than the last
women. The women, as they had for centuries, abundantly fed the
cascading circles.
He searched for a vacant seat on a bench near the fountain
when he spotted Ruth Lehto sitting on a bench. Smoke drifted from
a cigarette in her hand. An Indian child sat with her. As soon as
he approached, the child scampered off the bench and pointed for
him to sit. From beneath the bench the child hefted a wicker
50
basket filled with handcrafts and held the wicker basket out so
he could see the wares inside. "Special price just for you."
The pitch, 'Special price,' was a common refrain heard all
day around the sidewalks bordering the Plaza and in the park.
Ruth laughed. The child's face, anticipating a sale, dropped.
"Maybe next time," he said to cheer the child up.
Her face immediately brightened.
"Go play," Ruth fondly instructed.
The child, after first tucking the basket under the bench
for safe keeping, giddily ran away.
Ruth took a long pull off the cigarette in her hand, blew
the smoke out and said right off, "You are just the man I want to
see."
She wanted a favor and he couldn't help but chuckle. She was
in her late seventies and after spending forty years working for
Catholic Charities in St Louis had retired in Guatemala to work
for...Catholic Charities. She believed that since he worked for
asking for a favor...and always for a young Indian boy or girl.
there was an opening...but, feeling ill at ease, always swore her
51
to secrecy beforehand. He knew other Embassy personnel traded
treatment at a restaurant in Guatemala city, or a few dollars, or
whatever the person had to offer. But except for Ruth, he had
never done so. So to him it wasn't so strange that he felt ill at
price he paid, and believed he assisted her because she reminded
him of his longdeparted grandmother; hair gray, yes, but a
wondered if the American Ambassador would understand.
"I know there is a slot open," she stated.
"One," he responded.
"I only require one," she pointed out.
"Boy or girl?"
"A boy."
"So far so good. The slot calls for a boy," he replied, then
joked, "Equal opportunity and all."
She absently nodded and began explaining about the boy. Her
voice was earnest, and she only paused to pull hard on the
cigarette. "The boy is barely fourteen. Just a child, really. Far
too young to be conscripted in the Army...
52
On she spoke. He listened while at the same time soaking in
there. Along the sidewalks joining the Palacio de los Capitanes a
tourists would jump in wideeyed fright, see it was just a game
and laugh and, a little pale in he face, wander away. When he had
first arrived in Antigua, he had been the recipient of the game.
He had witnessed it often since then.
"Are you listening to me?"
She was something, he thought, and probably a hellraiser in
her youth. But in this case help was out of the question. The
Guatemalan Army had a habit of taking young boys and men off the
service. According to her the Army had snatched the boy. End of
story. There wasn't anything he could do. She knew this.
"Heard every word."
"Please. Do this and I will refrain from asking for a favor
for at least a month."
internal politics here. It's against Embassy policy."
"Oh pooh," she snorted. Her upper lip had curled up much
53
like a rabbit nibbling on a carrot and he laughed out loud. "Go
ahead and laugh," she retorted. "But helping the boy will soothe
your troubled soul."
Today his soul wasn't troubled, yesterday yes, he started to
attention to her because directly across the way from where they
sat General Rosa strolled along the sidewalk joining the Palacio
De Los Capitanes. His arms swung at his side, as if he hadn't a
care in the world, and a smile rested on his otherwise chiseled
trousers.
Richard was very surprised to see him out of uniform, and
briefly wondered what General Rosa was doing in Antigua and why
breeding farm a few miles outside of Antigua. He, Richard, had
General Rosa, and had once, in a moment of drunkenness, done so
laughed...a harsh thin crackle. She politely declined an answer,
instead steering the conversation toward horse breeding. But the
laugh was answer enough. She had position, yes, but true power
rested in General Rosa's harsh thin crackle and she knew it and
54
knew Richard knew it and was graceful enough to humor him.
Señorita Basoane, and uninterested in his sex life, Richard began
the slow swing back to Ruth who was saying something, when out of
the corner of his eye he saw a boy race toward General Rosa on a
bicycle. The boy probably thought General Rosa was a tourist, he
thought, and had time to think that the boy was in for a hell of
a tongue lashing. That was all he had time for. A loud explosion
erupted and the bicycle went skidding one way while the boy, arms
flaring to his chest, fell stone to the ground at General Rosa's
feet.
"Jesus," he heard Ruth mutter while quickly making the sign
of the cross,"Jesus Christ have mercy."
Automatically she started to rise. He maintained a forceful
hand on her shoulder, pressing her down upon the bench. "Don't be
a fool," he murmured.
"Let go of me!"
"No."
"Let go of me!"
foreign country. Now act like one." He had spoken rather harshly
and placed his other hand on her shoulder, gently, softly, as a
priest. There is nothing either one of us can do. Just, Ruth, let
55
it go. Please."
As he surveyed the Plaza, he saw that things were very much
the same as before General Rosa had gunned down the boy. The band
musicians had failed to hear the gunshot above the music and had
gathered in a circle around them. A few tourists who were caught
fatigues poured out at a full run. Just outside the gate, sat an
machine gun. A few Indians, sensing something was amiss, moved in
trained and had formed a protective shield around General Rosa.
The half truck had moved out into the center of the street. A
soldier kneeled on the flatbed, his hands atop the thirty caliber
faced the soldiers and the half truck. The faces on the Indians
history and experience told them something was amiss, and usually
this amiss involved them.
Richard uttered the F word. He should have noticed the half
truck and machine gun before...General Rosa never went anywhere
56
without heavy protection...and mentally kicked himself.
"We must do something," Ruth whispered, "SOMETHING!"
A visible strain was evident in her voice.
"Okay," he replied, and carefully chose his next words. "Sam
should be at Gus's. I want you to go to the Indians. But stay on
the periphery of the crowd. Send one of the boys to fetch Sam.
Choose the women you know are leaders of their villages and have
them quietly disburse their neighbors. Now promise me. This is
all you will do. You do this and I will see about the boy. See
how he is. Promise!"
"Yes," she weakly responded.
Although disgust covered her, he saw in her eyes she would
do as asked. She stood and crushed the cigarette under her left
shoe and began moving toward the crowd. But she moved slow and
moved at half speed. He cursed her age. Finally she reached the
boy's ear. The boy, about ten or eleven, nodded and on a dead run
headed toward the bus station.
It was Richard's turn. He had also promised. A part of him
wanted to disregard the promise. This wasn't his problem. He had
no business becoming involved. Another part longed for a drink.
He disregarded all his thoughts and stood all at once, as if to
do otherwise impossible, and headed toward the nearest break in
57
the crowd of Indians. Indians are usually polite people and as
soon as they saw a gringo, parted to let him pass. He supposed a
few of them also figured he knew what the hell was going on and
would do something to at least satisfy their curiosity. Fools, he
thought. They placed their trust simply because he was a gringo.
Jesus what idiots.
The second he reached the front row of soldiers he removed
the Embassy identification card from his pocket. The soldier he
approached was young, no more then fourteen or fifteen. The boy,
and muttered something harsh in Spanish.
"I want to see General Rosa," Richard ordered in Spanish and
with authority.
The use of Spanish and General Rosa's name surprised the boy
and for a second his mock machismo fled leaving behind the scared
face of an Indian youth who not too long ago played the same
scarethetourists game. But a sharp order from behind him jerked
him back to starched attention and he glared, or tried. But he
couldn't quite pull it off; the frightened face of a boy shone
fourth. "Move along," the young soldier beseeched.
The man who had issued the order wore the elite blue uniform
of General Rosa's personal guard and special forces. And unlike
58
the boy who was of Indian blood, this was a man of about thirty
and of obvious Spanish descent: tall, razor thin mustache, dark
proud nononsense eyes. Upon his head lay a smartly placed blue
beret. A machine gun was slung loosely in his right hand. He
studied Richard, his dark intense eyes cold and hard.
Move along, move along, Richard thought. But as much as he
wanted to, he was stuck. He could attempt to bluff by spilling
out a meaningless long sentence echoing his importance and about
how General Rosa would be displeased if he wasn't allowed to
pass. But the soldier appeared the type to sneer at such an
obvious bluff. So he opted for the more abrupt route, hoping to
confuse him long enough for either Sam to arrive or for General
General was a rooster, and loved to strut his importance. To do
so the General needed an audience. Not just his soldiers but a
real audience. He hoped he qualified.
"General Rosa!" he shouted as loudly as he could in the hope
time waving the Embassy identification card high above his head.
"U.S. Embassy! General!"
what to do. General Rosa pushed between them. The moment he saw
Richard a soft mean smile crossed his face.
59
"What do you want?" he demanded, speaking in English.
Although General Rosa carried a hell of an ego, he was also
a cautious man. And had used English because his men only spoke
would save face.
the Embassy, and knew why General Rosa had used English. He
briefly considered answering him in Spanish, but decided against
doing so. As much as he detested the man...embarrassing him was
stupid. Especially in front of his men.
"I want to see the boy."
"Why? He no concern of you."
What's it matter?"
General Rosa had indeed, as Richard had guessed, spent the
evening at Señorita Basoane's ranch. The memory of her fragrance
boy had gone and ruined the mood. Stupid Indians. Now this stupid
American wanted to play the important man. Foolish Gringo. He had
let the insult at the party pass. But now. Now was the time to
the holster and placed the cold steel of the barrel against
barrel down the right side of Richard's face until it touched his
60
lips...here the gun lingered.
The metal was cold and sent shivers down Richard's spine and
his heart pounded hard in his chest. But the sad flutes coming
from the plaza, not the gun, filled his senses. He saw, tasted
the music. And heard a funeral dirge. Holding his breath, he
searched out of the corner of his eyes for assistance. But he saw
that Ruth had done her work well. Most of the Indians had drifted
away. The stunned tourists had also hurried off. It was now only
him and General Rosa and of course the boy. But he lay somewhere
soldiers. And in all likelihood the boy was dead.
"So you want to see the boy, huh," General Rosa said, only
this time he spoke in Spanish and his men laughed harder.
"Holster the gun, General," Richard heard Sam order.
Sam's voice served to quiet the desperation growing inside
Richard. But still the gun restricted movement, keeping him from
lean frame side up next to General Rosa. Out of the corner of his
eye he also saw Doc Wilson. But all he could see was his face,
Richard, of all people in this predicament. He dearly wanted to
say: Fuck you Doc! Just fuck you! But General Rosa had yet to
remove the gun.
61
"I said holster the gun," Sam repeated, "And if I have to
say it again I will speak in Spanish and your men will think you
are a woman if you don't shoot me and you won't you know, shoot
me. I know this. You do also. So holster the goddamn gun!"
General Rosa said, "But I can shoot him. What is he but a
drone. You, you are C.I.A. So I shoot him."
I won't ask this nice again."
"Of course not," Lt. Oscar softly entered.
Richard didn't have so much as a clue as to where Lt. Oscar
had come from but the sound of his voice, soft as it was, visibly
startled him and he jumped. Just a little start, but enough. Just
enough so General Rosa pressed the gun harder against his lips,
reinforcing his authority...at least in Richard's mind.
the police."
"Yes," Oscar replied, his voice still soft, "But I have to
file an official report."
"The boy attempted to shoot me. I killed him. My men have
the gun the boy carried. This is all the report you need."
ventured.
62
"There are none."
Lt. Oscar moved a few inches so Richard could see him. He
took a pack of Payasos from his shirt pocket and slowly removed a
Both the clown and the Lt. wore a bemused smile.
Richard's thoughts raced. Slow down, he cautioned. Just take
it easy. The General is not going to shoot you. Why? Because he
would have done so by now. So the main question is?: Tell Oscar
that the General killed the boy, or remain silent. Had the
General seen him watching him stroll along the sidewalk just
before shooting the boy? No. Too many people and trees. Lots of
trees. But what did it matter. To him? To General Rosa?
possibility. There was a gun pressed against his mouth. But his
against them. He justified this thought by telling himself it was
not his place to accuse General Rosa of murder. So he just stared
back blankly at Oscar and the silly clown.
relief in his voice. "Now why don't you put the gun away and let
important matters to attend to."
63
placement of the gun into the holster harness.
who had up until then held himself rigid, almost fell over. As he
steadied himself, he inhaled, actually tasting the bitter sweet
air. The fear of death gone, suddenly he was angry. At Ruth. It
Doc. Just out of general principles. And at Sam. But most of all
he was angry because he was shaking all over. And oh how he must
look the fool right now. And he wanted to tell General Rosa off.
Wanted to punch him in the chops. If he could do either then the
shaking would cease. But what he wanted most of all was a drink.
The fun, or ruckus, such as both were, had ended and as
General Rosa climbed without further word into the cab of the
half truck, the contingent of his elite guard took up positions
positions at the armory. And it was only after most of them had
dispersed that the boy came into view. Forgotten, now remembered,
chest. A pool of blood had collected on the sidewalk. Lt. Oscar
ordered several of his men to take up position around the boy.
Doc knelt by the boy and checked his pulse, shook his head and
stood.
The soldiers gone, the few remaining Indians came forward.
The police let an older Indian woman pass. The woman touched
64
Richard's hand as she passed. Just a touch. Perhaps the touch was
a thank you for intervening; he didn't know. But if so, he felt
guilty. He had done nothing to deserve her thanks.
The Indian woman, black hair tied back in a bun, knelt by
the boy. Her bronze face emotionless, she touched the boy's
forehead. The act, tender in nature, was also an act of a mother.
Richard; her eye's held a thank you. But also something else:
blame.
He gave her a fast hard curl of his lips.
"No," she said, shaking her head, "I wasn't blaming you. You
should know me better. But I kept my promise."
rubbing his hands together, "I'm angry."
She looked at his hands. "At me?"
He let his hands fall by his side. "Yes. No, no, no, no," he
murmured, "At myself. Just myself."
"This is the boy's mother."
"Yes," he replied for lack of anything else.
shall reward their suffering in Heaven."
65
The army is the power here. Not God."
"Yes," Ruth replied and knelt next to the woman. The woman
raised her head and a low continuous murmur came from her barely
parted sun cracked and peeled lips. The sound low, almost hush,
subsiding.
after a moment he realized she was speaking in an Indian dialect.
He directed his gaze to follow hers; Aqua, her peak sheathed in a
Aqua's gods would take her son. Keep him until her time came to
join him. Together the mist would carry them to heaven. It was an
old Indian belief.
But he didn't believe in old Indian customs, nor God, and
mindless of Sam and Doc, angrily pushed past them. At first he
wasn't sure of where he headed. He wasn't in the mood for company
and briefly considered going home, locking the door and getting
bad. His hands shook and a baseball size knot of fear pained his
stomach. Gus's was a few blocks away whereas his car lay three
blocks away and his house a good mile. So he headed to Gus's.
66
Chapter 8
throbbed in a chaos of activity. Dirtyfaced men pulled creaking
wooden carts along the street, bus drivers attempting to wedge
one more passenger aboard a departing chicken bus yelled, "GUATE!
GUATE!" Beggars stacked up along the boardwalk’s wall leading to
Gus's. Their silent, bandaged hands urging for a Centavos or two.
One of the bandaged hands managed to snag Richard's pants cuff.
Richard, on most days, managed to walk a wide berth around the
beggars, but such was his anger he failed to notice the slight
yank or the hand slipping away. He stormed into Gus's, right past
John and Terry and Foster who sat at a table littered with an
advertising layout and went straight to the bathroom and scrubbed
his hands. But they still felt dirty, and he scrubbed them a
second time. Then scrubbed them dry on his pants.
When he came out of the bathroom Gus read the look on his
face and lifted the bottle of Wild Turkey and removed the plastic
spout and set the bottle on the bar. Richard drank straight from
the bottle. The raw whiskey burned all the way down. But he
67
continued drinking until the bottle didn't shake. Little by
little the sad flutes and pipes in his head and the sight of the
Indian woman kneeling by her slain son gave way to the big band
him. Wordlessly Gus served them a drink. As they picked up their
glasses Gus rested his elbows on the bar, the sinewy muscles
bulging.
"What was all the excitement about?" Gus at last inquired.
"I mean the way that Indian boy came running in here I figured
the army had invaded the town."
"General Rosa murdered an Indian boy," Doc replied.
He added. "And almost me. Not that Sam gave a damn."
"You're all wrong," Sam declared.
"Bullshit!" he yelled, "What the fuck. The asshole had a gun
at my head."
"Lips!" Doc pointed out.
"Listen, Doc," he angrily replied, "Stick to your babies."
"Richard," Sam said.
toward Gus. He stood and snarled, "You are full of shit Sam, you
know that. Gus, put it on my tab. Doc's too. And this asshole's
also." The last was directed at Sam.
68
Like a blind bull in a china shop, he rushed for the door
scurrying for shelter. Consequently he had the narrow sidewalks
to himself, and bowed his head and muttering curses under his
still sensitive...he went up Five Calla Poniente. The buildings
shingled roofs that overhung. After about a block Lt. Oscar fell
Richard with it. He shook him off.
"So much rain," The Lt. commented, matching his steps.
"It is the rainy season," he commented back.
"Yes."
"The General killed the boy. The boy was just playing a
game. The boys always play the same game. You know?"
"I know."
"Yes," he grunted, "You know everything."
There was no answer to that and, both knew. So they walked
in silence until they reached Richard's car.
69
carry an umbrella. Rain all day and night. Well, I best get back
Flowers. So much work."
imagined. But despite the LT.'s little warning, which had nothing
at all to do with rain...and everything to do with staying out of
the General's way, he angrily shrugged it off.
Always dirty. Impossible to keep clean. Damn them all.
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Chapter 9
By the time he made it home, the drizzle had turned into a
downpour and a river of mudrinsed water rushed along the gullies
in the cobblestones. A dirty mist swelled about Richard. Gritty.
Ugly. But the water that dripped from where the convertible top
met the windshield onto the steering wheel annoyed him the most.
And he angrily brushed at it with one hand while tapping the horn
with the other, honking for Celia to open the carport. But there
was no response and he honked again, and again and again. Still
sighed, forgot...it was Market day.
dropped them, caught them at the last moment and unlocked the
carport. The moment the Toyota was tucked away, he, out of habit,
put the top down so the inside would dry, cursing the car while
doing this because the latch skinned his knuckles.
By the time the convertible top was secure in its boot, he
was pissed off at the entire world and stormed inside to the
kitchen and took an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey from the shelf
71
and sat on the living room floor and rested against the couch. He
pried the cap off and took a long swig. Followed the first with a
second long swig and another and another until half the bottle
was gone. By this time he was plenty drunk, head full of evil
thoughts, when a knock came at the door. Sam, he thought. Good.
He would tell the sonofabitch off good and proper.
"Come on in asshole!" he hollered.
Crista entered. Expecting Sam, he stared disbelieving at her
at first, uncomprehending. Suddenly laughed out loud, thinking,
of course they had planned a picnic...he had planned a picnic; a
today's breakdown, he, in rare poetic license, drunkenly thought.
She wore a red cotton dress. Black hair in a pony tail. A
dangling from her left hand.
He snickered. "You look like Little Red Riding Hood."
If disappointed in his condition, she hid it well behind a
angry at me!" He goaded.
"Why?"
"I am soused."
"You are a little boy."
air, "All men are little boys."
72
When she was angry or annoyed there was a way she had of
showing this by curling her face up, sponging away the beauty,
and for a moment she did so...unnoticeable almost, a jerking of
her head to one side while pulling the cheek muscles toward her
ears. But he noticed and flashed a victorious grin. She saw this
and shook her head at.
"It is raining. So we will picnic here," she said, "Unless
you want me to leave. I will. Leave."
A moment's hesitation in answering was reply enough for her
and before he could answer she disappeared in to the kitchen, and
a few seconds later returned carrying a towel. He watched, in an
amused drunken sort of way, as she spread the towel on the floor.
She unpacked the contents of the picnic basket one by one and
arranged each item in proper of what her mind deemed methodical
order on the towel. The salt and pepper shaker went in the
middle. The wine was placed to the left along with two wine
bottles.
"Why not just dump everything in the middle?"
"Because life must have order. Especially when you live in
such a country."
"What if I just lean over and do so."
"You are mad. Angry. So if doing so will ease your anger. Go
73
right ahead."
"What if I slap you?"
"You won't."
"Are your sure?"
"Yes."
"How can you be so sure?" he asked, annoyed that she knew
him so well.
"You are not this type of man."
"Is the Ambassador?"
"Let us not speak of him."
"We never speak of him."
"When I am with you I am with you."
her!
He wanted to break her composure; just once, and bent over
until the towel loomed under him and with a boarding house reach
swept everything aside. The salt and pepper shakers went skidding
to the far wall. The rest just sort of collapsed into a jumbled
triumphantly...or more aptly a lopsided drunken smirk of victory.
"I better clean this up," she calmly said, and reached for
the wine bottles first.
Before she could move, he lunged forward and wrapped a hand
around her neck and pulled her close. She came willingly, and
74
half lying on the towel brought her face to his, breathing at her
the sour smell of whiskey. The dress had ridden up around her
thighs and her white panties showed. He reached over and ripped
at them until they came apart from her body. Then buried a hand
fingers in her pussy. She gasped, a little squeak. This wasn't
enough. He wanted to hurt her. Hear her cry out.
meekly rested the hand on her bush.
"You are right," he whispered, "I am not that kind of man."
His hand fell away from her. She stood, the cotton dress
cascading around her ankles. She was going, he thought, and was
glad. The sight of her made him sick. Not at her. At himself.
Were she to leave maybe he could drink some more and lie to
himself and eventually turn away from his actions. But she
didn't leave. She stooped and took both his hands in hers. To do
this she took the bottle from one hand and placed it on the
floor. He let her, guilt the driving force. She urged him up, and
together they went to the bedroom, her leading, him following. As
if he were a child, she undressed him, folding his clothes into a
letting her cloths fall at her feet.
75
He was very drunk, vision blurred, but not so as he couldn't
make out her pink erect nipples. When she lay on the bed, an
overwhelming need to take her filled him, and he started to mount
her, clumsily so. She held a restraining hand against his bare
chest. Confused, he lay back. She rolled over so the peach crack
of her buttocks nestled within his stiff penis.
screamed, "Fuck me hard! Hard! Make me cry out! Fuck me!"
The passion in her voice, so unlike her, momentarily
confused him. She must have felt as much because she fell into
speaking German...a low unmistakable moan spoken in the harshness
of the German language. "Fuck me Richard! Shove your cock in my
ass!"
Her harsh command fired his passion.
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Chapter 10
I'm dying. God I am dying. Help me. Take the host my son.
Jesus cleanse my soul. Here my son.
Was blind but now can see
Taws Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace that fear relieved.
"Wake up Richard."
"Wake up Richard."
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound.
"Richard wake up!"
As if coming out of a fog, he awoke without memory of where
he was. Although no longer drunk, the whiskey clogged his mind
and the room focused slowly, then through a haze Crista appeared.
She was propped up on one elbow, staring down at him. In return,
he attempted a lopsided smile up at her.
"I was dreaming."
"Yes. You were talking out loud. I know the host. I am
Catholic. But what is Amazing Grace?"
"An old Negro hymn."
77
"Ak," she replied in German. The expression indicated that
she failed to understand the English meaning, or couldn't find a
German equivalent. It was just a dream and he left it at that.
"How long?"
"Two hours. Maybe a few minutes more."
"Time?"
"Three."
"What day is it?"
Crista kissed his forehead. "I'll go make you a bite. Eggs?
Scrambled?"
"Sounds good."
A fleeting peck on his lips, a smooth slide off the bed, a
deft lifting of her dress off the floor, and a last sight of firm
white buttocks...and she, except for her smell, was gone. He lay
listening to the rain outside. Slowly the events of the past few
hours came back to him. Their violent love making. Ruth. General
Rosa. The boy. But most vivid was the anger directed at Crista.
dream, a very bad dream. But it seemed so real. The shot, the
the gun tickling his lips, the outburst at Gus's, Crista, the
picnic basket, ripping her panties off. All at once he knew it
otherwise.
78
As the initial shock wore off, he easily justified the
outburst at Gus's. He had been frightened and angry. Sam was a
ripping her panties, oh hell just come right out and call it
in bed and her cries as he had penetrated her anal cavity. He
supposed he could just apologize. No he couldn't, he knew. Oh he
could apologize easily enough...he had no illusion, he was that
excuses fostered by weak men seeking to justify their actions. He
had begrudgingly in the past agreed with her assessment, yet at
times had also felt neutered by the inability to apologize...the
act soothed whatever guilty feelings he had at the time. And he
felt plenty guilty right now.
Slowly, as if prolonging time added a grace period to going
and facing Crista, he got up and went to the bathroom and broke a
molars...shuddered. As he turned the shower on, he heard a knock
at the front door and Doc's voice acceding to Crista's offer of
coffee. He supposed Doc was worried about him and had come over
to see if he was alright. As much as he could have done without
the visit, he more than appreciated the sentiment. With Doc there
79
he wouldn't have to face Crista alone.
Yesterday wasn't a fluke incident. He had lost it. It was over.
On Monday he would submit a letter of resignation.
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Chapter 11
By the time he finished showering and dressing the rain had
stopped. He found Crista and Doc on the roof terrace sitting on
relaxed, hair falling to her shoulders, and barefooted. Although
the roof was damp from the rain, the mountain elevation had
turned the air humid and crispy spider webs of mildew had already
begun to form in the corners of the roof. Even with the humidity,
a damp chill lay in the air and Crista had turned on the electric
grate and the heat from it was enough to chase away the chill.
"Isn't it beautiful," Crista said upon seeing him.
She meant Aqua, and indeed she was. Like a woman her moods
Aqua was at her most enchanting after a healthy rain. Obscuring
the peak, dark storm clouds unfolded a sheet of gray for as far
as the eye could see. Lush vegetation sprouted out from under the
sparkled.
Sitting, avoiding her eyes, he answered, "Yes." The yes came
81
out almost a sigh. He glanced at her, seeking a sign, anything,
hurt, anger over his rough treatment of her, but she was was…all
smooth, happy.
"She's like a woman," she softly said, " A steady source of
comfort. Yet?"
"Yet what?" Doc inquired.
"Yet nothing," she murmured.
A soft smile flickered across her lips. The smile was for
Aqua, Richard was sure. Certainly not for him. He did glean a sad
message in her smile. Did she sense the end of them, as he did?
Out of the blue he wished Doc wasn't there. Maybe alone he could
talk to her, try to explain.
heart to fear. And Grace that fear relieved."
painting they each watched and for a second they were silent.
During that second he knew absolutely and positively it was over.
And a sadness overcame him and out of desperation he needed to
say something, answer the words she had heard while he slept and
avail. Before he could speak, she broke the moment by standing.
"I have your eggs warming on the stove. I will bring them
up."
A moment later she was a pair of bare feet descending the
82
staircase.
"There goes one special woman," Doc stated.
Richard ignored Doc.
"How she can love that bastard is a mystery to me."
"She doesn't?" Richard automatically replied.
"Figure of speech," he answered, waving a hand in the air,
"Love as in stay married."
"Class breeding," he replied.
Again the annoying hand. "Sometimes you disappoint me."
"If you have something to say, come out and say it!" he
snapped.
"The woman loves you. She'd find a way to walk on water for
you. Take her and run before this place claims you, chains you."
"What a comfort," he sarcastically retorted, "Advice on love
from a lifelong bachelor. As for chains? Doc, you've spent the
past thirty years rotting away in a tinned roof hut."
Hurt flashed across Doc's face.
And Richard had already hurt enough people today and wanted
to reach out and take the retort back.
"Best kind," Doc quickly quipped. "A bachelor has yet to
fail at marriage. As for the other, who knows the chains better
than the rug beater who wears them?"
"Huh, hu Doc, let it go," Richard said as Crista returned.
She set a plate of eggs on the table in front of him and lay
83
knife and fork next to the plate. He forked up a bite, the eggs
and he had lost Crista.
"I leave you men to talk," she announced, "I will run to Don
Vasquez's and buy the paper. Maybe I will also sit and enjoy a
cup of coffee. Yes. I will. I will be back in about an hour."
Antigua was the Miami Herald. Don Vasquez, who operated a restau
rant and cafe, sold the paper. He did this to service the
Englishspeaking clientele who frequented the Cafe. The Saturday
edition of the Miami Herald arrived by chicken bus from Guatemala
City around five, and usually was sold out by six. She knew he
reading too much into their situation. After all he had acted the
fool when drunk many times before, and she had always taken him
in hand, playing whatever role suited the situation, and in the
end forgiven him.
Lost Crista? Ludicrous! Delusion! Who was he fooling? He was
leaving the Embassy which meant a Stateside job. Which meant no
more Crista. Who would she make love to when he was gone? A damn
sight better than him, he imagined.
84
"Sure," he readily answered, attempting to add a carefree
tone to his voice. After all what did it matter, really?
"Yes," she replied, "And you Doc? A loaf of Don Vasquez's
raisin bread? Hot out of the oven. Yes?"
Doc loved Don Vasquez's raisin bread and his eyes lit up at
the mention of it. But he sighed. "No. I would feel too much
guilt. The children."
She smiled knowingly. A peck on the cheek and she was gone.
Richard managed a few forkfuls of eggs, but they tasted like
the plate aside, Doc looked his way.
"Amazing Grace how sweet the sound. Not a German hymn."
"No," he replied, not bothering to explain.
"You surprised me this afternoon," he said.
"You mean by getting involved?"
"Yes. A fashionable new you?"
involved is a sucker's game."
"Why?"
"You came all this way for this?"
"Sure. When a man acts out of character I am curious. When a
man I know well acts out of character I am very curious."
85
"Really. You've lived in Guatemala for thirty years, and
you're curious. Funny, but I was always curious about you and
what brought you here. What were you running away from?"
"An overbearing father."
"We seem to be evading each other's question."
"Not I," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.
is running away from something."
"And you?" he asked, his bushy eyebrows upturned into an
inverted V, "What are you running away from, Richard?"
Embassy. When I quit I return to the States."
allowed yourself to become involved?"
For a moment he considered telling Doc About Ruth's request,
how he had helped her in the past...helped because she reminded
him of his grandmother. He considered this if only to get him off
his back. But instead he answered Doc's annoying hand in kind, an
annoying dismissal to this bent to the conversation.
Such a land. Pity such a land."
"Keats," he inquired.
"No. I just made it up. Missed my calling I imagine."
"Chess," he asked.
86
"One game," he answered, "A short one. I must be off.
and one is born."
called out over his shoulder, "Doc, save the poetic crap for
later."
"Sure," he called out, "While we play we can talk about what
brought you to Guatemala. Be good for your soul."
The game lasted about half an hour. As usual, Doc won. He
left, muttering some poetic nonsense about love. During the game
pieces. But although he may have lost the chess game, he was one
young doctor, he had botched an abortion at a time when abortions
were illegal in the States. The woman had died. Doc had lived in
his license to practice medicine. Central America, Guatemala in
particular, welcomed him with open arms. He knew all this because
Doc, when very drunk, told the story with bitterness and bitterly
retold the story until he passed out. Doc never remembered, or
pretended not, the telling of the story the next morning and out
of respect for him nobody bothered to bring it up.
87
gently sipped on bourbon and watched Aqua fade into twilight
lines and shadows while waiting for Crista to return, and thought
loving him. He had never remotely considered the word 'Love' in
startling to say the least. But as startling as the observation
was, he readily accepted that Doc was right. As proof of this he
didn't have to look any further than a few hours ago. Her
acceptance of the violence of their lovemaking. Meekness really.
So unlike her.
He wondered why Doc had seen this and he hadn't. But he
supposed that he had never consciously entertained the thought of
Crista and himself loving each other before because the word love
had tactfully been left unspoken between them. For sure, they
liked each other, and beyond that they filled an empty space in
things and hung them on the wall for all to see; and he had so
many beautiful things, each commanding his total attention until
focused on the next acquisition. But Richard's walls were bare,
and in him she commanded attention, even when nursing his drunken
selfanger and fear.
88
The next thought came naturally. If she loved him would she
move to the States?
Now there was a truly startling thought. And he laughed out
loud...he must be losing it...a few hours ago he was hurting this
woman. Now he wanted her to run away with him.
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Chapter 12
By the time Crista had returned a lush blanket of dusk had
settled over Aqua. Although he had drank very little, he was a
bit fuzzy, but not so much as to be drunk. She murmured something
about laying the newspaper on his desk in the study. He stood and
cut her off by greeting her warmly, hugging her and kissing her
lips. She responded in kind and after they separated, sat on a
deck chair. He reseated himself.
"Doc told me about the boy. And General Rosa pointing a gun
at you. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was angry," he admitted.
"At the boy?"
"At the boy? Nonsense. The boy died. At myself, yes, for
fact made them worse."
"Yes, anger. I understand such anger."
"The Ambassador?"
"Richard."
"Richard, yes Richard we do not discuss the Ambassador," he
replied, "Well Richard wants to know if you love him?"
"I have never loved. I was not bred for love. But yes, I
love you. Is this what you wanted to hear. Or do you now want me
90
to leave. Return to Guatemala City. Never return. You want this?"
"No," he replied, "I want to go away with you. Move to New
York. Spend my life with you."
will regret these words."
muster, "Over the past few days my life has changed. I can
attribute part of this change to Guzman. But only a small part.
The gun at my head. This act irrevocably changed me and how I
feel about Guatemala. I guess the thought of one's death will do
this. Through the experience I discovered several things. One, I
don't want to die in Guatemala. Two, I love you. Three, I want to
spend my life with you. Grow old together. What do you say?"
To jump for joy wasn't her way. But he expected something. A
earlier had bestowed upon Aqua. Instead she just sat there, the
same expression on her face as was always there: calm, reserved,
beautiful. And as he watched her for a moment he thought he had
moment, he forged forward.
"Is it the Ambassador? Do you love him?"
"Richard it is not so."
"What is it?"
"Why does there have to be a what? Why can I not just sit
91
and savor the thought. We are adults, are we not? Not children."
"So the answer is yes?"
"Of course."
And he thought he detected a note of hesitancy as if she agreed
himself. In him she had both, her position as the Ambassador's
wife, and a man to care for. He immediately told himself that he
was imagining things. Attaching old baggage to a new beginning.
But he needed to know, and leaned forward and cupped her face in
his hands and stared deep into her eyes. "Do you love me?"
"Richard."
"Answer the question," he harshly stated.
"Yes Richard, I love you."
dignitaries?"
the human race acts. You. Me. But no when the time comes I will
not miss acting."
Hushing her words, he kissed her full on the mouth, a tender
kiss of warmth and love, and she responded in kind. The embrace
lasted a good five minutes. Passion fired inside them. They knew
she had to go. It was late. But they had to have each other;
92
Richard felt this. Not so much because of the passion building up
inside him, but as affirmation of their love. When his hand slid
under her dress and up her leg, he braced for the expected
protest of, 'No Richard, I must go. It is late."
But protest wasn't forthcoming, only a low moan of pleasure.
Their love making had been gentle, sweet, slow...so unlike
each other arms making plans like two starry eyed kids, and it
was well past eight by the time they stood in the driveway. He
had said that there were of course plans to be made. Two people
who had ties to work and family did not just up and leave without
a word or a farewell. He had to submit a letter of resignation
and at the very least give two weeks notice. Crista laughed when
he explained this and shook her head. She had no plans to make.
Nobody to say goodbye too. Throw a few things in a suitcase was
about all.
As he gazed at her in the splash of yellow spraying from the
single overhead light of the car port, he wanted to say the hell
with it, let's just drive until we reached the Mexican border.
Instead he kissed her, thinking the prim and proper Crista
had changed into a new carefree woman. "Be careful driving."
"Oh, Richard, the only people to fear are the police and the
horrendous country the police and military are not fools."
93
After what had happened to him this afternoon, he carried a
very persuasive argument against what she had just said. But
these were his fears not hers. Still as she drove away, he
life. He feared for her. And he guessed this was love. But love
was a new commodity to him. Unfamiliar.
94
Chapter 13
Minutes after Crista had left, he donned a wind breaker and
rushed out the door, as if a fireman going to fire, to Gus's. The
dog. The people who lived this far from the City Center were
working people and retired early. As protection against thieves,
shutters closed off windows. Cars were locked in carports. Iron
Occasionally you spotted another person walking who returned your
questioning glance in kind.
Because of the possible danger when out at night on foot, he
had when walking to Gus's long ago devised the most expedient and
rehearsed, as he walked, a little speech. A very short speech:
Crista and he were leaving...screaming the news out the moment he
95
entered Gus's was out of the question. Antigua was a closeknit
insanity. The news would gossip its way back to the German
Rosa would use the news as trading material, playing the German
short speech to only Gus, Teresa, Doc, and Sam. They'd be shocked
thought, this would be a night to remember.
"Yes a night to remember," he mouthed out loud. Right then a
hulking shape of a dog hiding in the shadows of the ruins of a
church sprang at him, fangs bared, a low menacing growl escaping
from between its fangs. Stray dogs were a common sight. But
usually they were frightened creatures who, tail curled between
their legs, lurked off. To have a dog jump out at him like this
screeched, "Alto! Alto!"
slowed its threatening advance.
Fear. The man was afraid. Of me? Why. I thought he was a cat.
That's why I jumped out so.
Unhidden by shadows of the ruins, he saw that the dog was a
96
huge black Rottweiler with a head the size of a bowling ball.
Although he wasn't afraid of dogs, its size caused his stomach to
curl up in a knot of fear, and his hand crawled in to the right
also had a permit to carry a gun. Again standard Embassy issue.
But he had refused the gun. He had never fired a gun in his life
and was afraid he would shoot himself in the foot. The mace he
carried because of stray dogs. Rabies were epidemic in Guatemala
considering the size of this dog, he wished he had a gun because
fangs once again bared. Although it would take but a second to
ago while protesting against this or that during his student days
a cop had sprayed a good dose of mace at him and he had gone
screaming in pain with mad thoughts of blindness to the nearest
restaurant and spent a good twenty minutes flushing out his eyes.
This dog, he reasoned, couldn't flush its eyes out. It would just
go blind or mad.
Fear, the dog thought. This man is afraid. He is not like
the other man. His color is even different. He is taller. Pale
skin. And the fear. HE IS AFRAID OF ME. ME!
"Alto," Richard said again. As he spoke he raised his left
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hand, and replaced the fear he felt with a hard firmness.
Wait. Stop. Not fear. I will lower my head. He will be nice
to me. He won't hurt me. Just lower the head like with the other
man. Then he will be nice.
Dog. Docile replaced menace, and the huge black head dropped in
submission. And there meekly stood this huge black beast who
walked away, the Rottweiler no longer a threat. But to be sure,
he glanced over his shoulder. The huge dog stood on the damp
cobblestones, confused by this man's departure.
The streets ahead, like the streets behind, had a shuttered
his thoughts and echoing footfalls all the way to Don Vasquez's
students loitered in threes and fours talking and laughing. The
cafe, the interior brightly lit, held dozens of people enjoying
shoulders. But he walked briskly from there, intent on reaching
altered his course and crossed over to the park. He rarely went
in to the park at night; here the homeless slept, and rats, under
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other would just as soon cut your throat as not. The park's
Colonial street lamps played more toward shadows than affording
sure it was a rat: it could have been a cat. A few feet later a
woman squatted under the branches of a tree, her dress hiked up
around her ankles, urine splashing the grass. He felt like an
intruder and hurried along. But a few feet further, his eyes fell
upon an elderly Indian couple squeezed between two bushes. They
huddled together, wrapped in a filthy blanket. At first he wasn't
sure of what he saw, but as the woman's hand moved beneath the
blanket where the man's penis lay, he was sure and red faced once
again hurried along. After a few steps, he slowed, thinking why
not. Why be ashamed. The park was their bedroom as much as the
bedroom at his house was the bedroom where Crista and he shared
intimate moments.
flickered over his lips, and he crossed out of the park, across
the street to the Plaza and paused along the sidewalk where
General Rosa had gunned down the boy. He wasn't sure what he
expected to see. Blood. The mangled bicycle. The boy. But only
the dirty pavement stared up at him.
99
continued toward Gus's. At he bus station he looped around a few
beggars who hadn't given up for the night the hopes of a Centavos
or two.
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Chapter 14
Gus's hopped. The usual big band music, Glen Miller, poured
from the speakers. All the tables were filled with chattering
happy people. A raucous hum came from the roof garden. Jun lazily
tray in one hand. She smiled at Richard the moment he entered,
not the usual how are you smile, but a happy faced bright radiant
smile; the kind reserved for a friend. Then she touched his
shoulder and spoke. Just four words, "How are you Richard?"
never so much as said hello over the years; he, after all was a
gringo. Before he could regain his composure, she shuffled away
to wait on a customer. He quickly guessed it was because of his
actions this afternoon. He had defended an Indian.
The greeting was rather pleasant, especially after all the
flattering...and as he made his way to the bar he flashed a smile
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at her. She returned the smile. Foster and John and Terry who
occupied a table near the door, waylaid him.
drank from a bottle of beer. A ring of foam circled his mustache.
His tongue deftly sponged the foam up. "How you holding up?"
"It was nothing," he merrily replied.
"A fluke incident?" Terry asked, her forehead wrinkled.
Worried, he thought. Couldn't blame them. Then for a second
he grew angry. Why should they be worried. His lips sucked on the
gun, not hers. The anger faded as quickly as it had come. He was
leaving Guatemala. They were staying.
"Just a fluke. The boy mistook General Rosa for a tourist."
"Yeah," John muttered, and morosely stared at the glass in
his hand. "All this macho shit is over. The Generals know this."
"Right," Richard agreed and looked about and noticed Doc in
his wrinkled suit slouched at the bar talking to Teresa. At the
same time he noticed Alexia and Sam and was delighted. They
shared a table near the bar. Sam, his long gangly legs hung
loosely out to one side. And Alexia, a German woman who was doing
her thesis on nutrition and spent her days monitoring the dietary
intake of an Indian village in the mountains. She had drifted to
Gus's because Gus's was one of the few bars the German community
102
'prattle,' and also their pretentious. She followed this by often
complaining that if she wanted to listen to German prattle she
would return to Germany. Both he and Sam had met her about a year
conversationalist. The moment she discovered they worked at the
Sam readily agreed, and had arranged it. Sam and she had quickly
become good friends and he often wondered about them, but Sam
never offered information, and he didn't pry.
indicating he'd be right over. "I need a drink," he said to John,
Terry, and Foster. Right then and there and for no reason
leave. I have great news to announce."
Foster briefly raised his eyebrows, as if to say we'll all
be here. John and Terry dully nodded.
went to the bar. Although Jun worked the tables, as busy as the
place was he saw that only Teresa worked the bar, and momentarily
wondered about Gus. It wasn't like him to be away on a Saturday
night. At the same time he saw him at a corner table, his head in
his arms...already passed out.
The moment he sat on a stool he inquired about Gus.
103
while setting a glass on the bar. Lifting the Wild Turkey from
the back shelf, she filled the glass neat. "Wants to put the boy
in an exclusive residential boarding school. Tore him up. Made a
reservation for the morning flight to Miami and from there to
Philadelphia."
"Poor Gus," Doc commented, "He doesn't understand. Back in
his day kids went to the wood shed or if the family was wealthy a
A bit confused, Richard implied as much.
Gateway house?."
boy isn't a junkie. At least he wasn't the last I heard."
"They ever get a hold of the likes of us," Doc chuckled, a
raspy tin foil on tin foil sound, "And we'd come out walking
talking zoned out zombies."
"Sounds like a new variation on an old theme," he commented.
picked up his glass and joined Sam.
abrupt departure. He had often seen Gus drunk, but never this
early.
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"His son. Really," she replied, her tongue trapped between
her lips in thought, as if she was trying to figure the mess out.
"Well, I wouldn't make too much out of it," he cautioned,
graduate. Gus will figure this out come morning. This and a hell
of a hangover."
worried, "You know how he loves the boy."
Richard did. Gus flew to the States and visited his son
every month. Gus had also brought him to Antigua a few times.
Richard found him a likable kid. A little overly fond of fancy
which was the last time the boy had visited, life revolved around
such things. At least it did when he, Richard, was sixteen.
Tenderly, he patted Terasa's hand. "Anything else bothering
you?"
"Just those damn Indians who hang around the bus station.
attention. I was. But damn them sneaks, they just appear out of
nowhere. And disappear into nowhere"
"Quit fretting. An order from your State Department."
"Aye, aye, sir," she said and saluted.
105
"How about a refill?"
over. "Have you seen the headlines?"
"No, not yet, busy," he answered. "Why?"
"The Nobel Committee awarded the prize to Rigoberta Menchu."
uneducated, but selftaught Indian woman who had written a book
about life growing up in a village and how the military had come
one night and killed her father, mother and sister. The book, her
first of many, tugged at the heart and tear ducts; although its
accuracy and truth depended on which side was to be believed: the
Indians or the government who maintained that Menchu worked hand
in hand with the Leftist Guatemalan National Revolutionary Front.
She had at one time, but still he leaned toward her version of
the events as opposed to the government's.
"In literature, good," he responded.
"The Peace Prize," Sam countered.
"What!" he uttered, the mere thought incredulous.
Explains a lot."
And it did, and Richard immediately thought: General Rosa,
what a crafty bastard. A few months ago when the Nobel Committee
had leaked the list of potential candidates for the Nobel Peace
Prize, Menchu had been on the short list. State wanted an
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assessment on her chances of winning. Sam and he had spent an
Peace Prize. They had rejected the idea. The rejection was based
on the fact that Menchu, although a spokesperson for her people,
wasn't exactly Gandhi. Photos aplenty existed showing her wearing
pea green Guerrilla fatigues and holding a carbine. But they, he
and Sam, had made the wrong assessment. And right now some high
bastard had put together two and two. The sonofabitch guessed
it. And he begrudgingly admired General Rosa right then...a sly
old fox, and far smarter then he had given the General credit
condemning Black wasn't meant to shift attention away from the
Bernard trial. As Sam had said, it explained a lot. And it did.
General Rosa was either planning a damn coup, or paving the way
for a vicious crackdown on the Indians. The high level suit at
assessment as soon as possible.
"God," he said angrily, slamming his fist on the bar causing
the glasses to shake, "Damn him."
Teresa had set their drinks on the bar. "Who?" she curiously
asked. Befuddlement covered her face. The befuddlement made her
more attractive than otherwise.
107
"General Rosa."
"Who?"
"Nothing to worry about, Teresa," Sam said.
She shrugged, as if to say: hey I am missing something, but
this is okay, and went off to serve a customer who had pulled up
at the bar.
somewhat, General Rosa's actions this morning. By the way sorry."
"Same," he replied, thinking about Crista and himself and
their plans.
Sam nodded. They joined Doc and Alexia. Also at the table
sat Edwardo. On the way, Richard told Sam he had some news of his
own to announce.
"Really," Sam said, taking a seat.
"But it can wait a few minutes.
"You two are back," Doc bitched, "Finished conspiring, huh."
Doc was drunk.
Antigua's local characters, a tall thin stick figure, face gaunt,
reading glasses hanging from a well worn and faded leather, hand
made case via a strap around his neck. He had often seen him
walking around Antigua and seeing a familiar face had nodded a
108
Nor, as far as he knew, had Sam. Doc knew him well but slurred he
was leaving the fucking formal introductions to Alexia. Doc then
scooped up his drink and went over to the bar and engaged Teresa
and the last time he had seen Doc which was while playing chess a
few hours ago. But the introductions were taking place and he was
forced to let curiosity wait for later.
After hands were shaken all around, they settled in to their
all he had spent a year in New York City, a year spent washing
dishes while waiting for a Yankee news organization to hire him,
he had failed to grasp the subtleties of the damn language."
"Si," Sam joked.
"No, speak only English," Alexia ordered.
"Alexia," Edwardo pleaded. But his dark eyes danced, lively,
aware of the game.
"No, Edwardo," she said, unrelenting, "You hide behind your
language. Speak English."
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There were a few more words between them spoken in rapid
Spanish, Alexa's face firm and unyielding, Eduardo’s exaggerated,
as only a true Spaniard can be. This was an old game between
them. Edwardo was old enough to be her grandfather, and she was
soft, yet firm, yet yielding as she bantered with him, but also
her face betrayed love, love for this man whom she had adopted as
her grandfather.
Richard found himself envious of Edwardo, of this love. Of
her too, he supposed. Like Crista, she was German, and like
Crista, the unmistakable German pride showed, the iron will and
willing to openly show love, and perhaps even give love; Crista,
plummeting to the deepest depth, was mechanical...much like the
society that had spawned her. He concluded this while observing
concluded he, like Crista, was also a product of his generation,
and that truly the world belonged to the young.
"Ah the young," Edwardo replied as if echoing Richard's
persistence, "God, what...how you say, women."
women, and often."
110
"At least I do," Richard added, thinking about Crista.
"Yes, it is the same in my country. The world. Women. Men."
He hunched his shoulders for dramatic effect. "Ah," he said and
waved a hand. "So we speak English. Yes, we are speaking English,
no. So. I am Edwardo."
him, as did Sam.
"What country are you from?" Richard asked.
"Ah you, how you say, picked up on when I said, 'Is the same
in my country.' Yes?"
Richard nodded.
"Yes. Argentina."
"Long way from home," Sam remarked.
"Si," he wistfully replied, eyebrows arching.
"Edwardo," Alexia admonished.
cigarette from a pack of Montana's in his shirt pocket and lit
it. "Yes, a long way from home."
A natural break occurred in the conversation when Jun came
to ask if they needed anything. Yes they did, and each ordered a
refill. Richard had to piss and excused himself and went to the
bathroom. After he washed his hands, he stared at his reflection
in the mirror for a few seconds. "Hey by the way, he said, I have
an announcement to make. Crista and I are leaving for New York."
111
No, he thought, too bland. Just come right out and say it.
"Crista and I are leaving for New York forever."
this was the way to go about it.
He returned in time to hear Alexia explain that Edwardo was
a journalist. He was also surprised to see that Jun had already
served their drinks. Sam passed him a glance, the essence being:
"Was," Edwardo corrected. "Long time ago. No more. I quit.
government tells them. You see, the paper mills are owned by the
government. You write what the government says or your magazine
gets no paper. No paper no magazine. My editor send me to see the
Minister of Information. The Minister give me things to write and
a handful of money. I no puta. No whore. I quit. No more."
almost reached over and patted him on the back, as if to say, yes
man, such an act would be an affront. So instead he yelled at Jun
to bring another round. Jun smiled. This was okay, he thought,
help out a little and you get prompt, friendly service.
112
single swallow. "No talk about such matters. They are past, away,
vanished like the wind."
boy. Crista. The damn dog. Gus lying over at the table. Foster
and John and Terry worried. Now Eduardo’s story. Sad. Sad. Sad.
But like all good scripts, this one had a happy ending. At least
for him. He laughed. Now was the time. This was it. Just open up
and announce the news.
leaned close to Doc's ear. As he talked to Doc, people, as if
reading a cue card, filed out of Gus's. Jun disappeared up the
stairs to the garden. John, Terry and Foster slid out the front
door.
"Time to go home," Edwardo said, glumly glancing at Oscar.
"They never close this place," Richard remarked, aggravated
that the Lt. had interrupted his announcement.
"There is always a first time."
No."
But Teresa wasn't pouring their drinks and after a moment,
113
he left the others in conversation and went over to the bar to
see what was taking so long.
"I see you haven't taken my advice," Oscar said, and gave a
upward twist of the corners of his mustache, "to stay out of the
rain."
"This is home to me. A second home."
stopped. I should be home, wife is lonely, but I stopped. I know
how important the C.I.A. is."
This was an old game, and Oscar enjoyed playing it.
"I am the press liaison to the embassy. Nothing else."
still know how important the C.I.A. is. Now, General Rosa, there
is man who only sees importance in the mirror. Such men. Such men
are often very foolish, or depending on their line of work, very
dangerous. You see. You do see. Right now. In this moment. As we
speak. Right now, General Rosa's finest are canvassing the bars.
They are all closed for the night. You see."
unkindly, knowing the police department depended on the revenue.
"Yes. The drunken gringos who have left their passports or
papers at their hotel keep their dollars tonight. But this is
Guatemala. Generals come and go. Police Lt's. stay...as long as
114
You."
exchanged a few words with Sam.
The 'what should I do,' look in Teresa's eyes told Richard
wise route was to keep the news about their leaving to
himself...for the time being.
"Close up," he instructed.
"Better," she replied.
bar, and he asked if she wanted help in putting Gus to bed. She
shook her head, saying she could handle it.
Slouched at the bar, Doc wore a glum sour face.
"Let's go Doc," he said, "we'll go to my place."
"You know she came in town to see you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The boy who General Rosa murdered. His mother came in town
to see you. Otherwise she stays in the village. So does the boy."
"How do you know this?"
"After I left you, I went to a village to tend to a case of
me. I assisted with the boy's birth. assisted with the birth of
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all three sons for that matter. The murdered boy was the
youngest. Just ten. A good woman. Husband killed by the military.
Raised the children by selling handcrafts. Good woman. A woman of
the Lord."
murdered boy and the woman who touched him were the mother and
brother of the boy Ruth wanted him to help.
Blame Ruth. Or better yet, blame God. Or yourself for assisting
in the boy's birth. Or the mother for chasing rainbows. Or just
let it go."
"But you could help? The one son. Is this asking so much?"
possible, "First you praise me for involving myself, now you damn
me."
"Her middle son has already left to join the guerrillas. The
army has her oldest son. She hasn't a son left now. You know what
this is like in a village. No husband. No daughters. No sons.
You know the village system. Each member must contribute. The
mother will wind up on the streets."
"Doc," he said, sitting on the stool next to him, "You heal
nice. All I am is a liaison between the Embassy and the press.
116
Period."
"But Sam?"
"Sam. Jesus, Doc. Let's go home. It's late."
As Doc lifted his skinny frame off the stool, he did so
resignedly.
"Sorry. I guess I want to blame someone. But you are right.
Blame is for idiots, fools and knaves." With that he left Gus's.
Richard considered running after him, but stopped, still a
little stunned by the news and still angry. What did people
expect, he thought, what did they expect? There wasn't an answer
to his thoughts, and he returned to the table in time to hear
Edwardo boast, "Thanks for the offer, but I will walk. I fear
Argentina. The military cares nothing of me. They, like cats in a
house, search for guerrillas, but all the mice are in the
mountains. So I walk. Is good for the body. Is good to meet you
Sam and Richard. We see each other again, no."
His face broke into a smile. He planted a frayed straw hat
on his head, hoisted a stick that served as a cane and proudly
walked out of Gus's. The straw hat was silly looking, what with
edges all sort of sticking out every which way, and on almost
anybody else the hat would have looked dumb. But resting atop
Edwardo, the hat looked dignified. Richard mentioned as much.
"I love him," Alexia replied.
117
"It shows."
"Good," she answered.
turned off all but the lights behind the bar. While they prepared
to leave, she gingerly shook Gus. He abruptly came awake and shot
up from the table and shouted, "What! My son is..."
"Go to bed," Sam ordered.
For a moment Gus wavered, saw it was Sam, smiled sheepishly
and staggered, assisted by Teresa, toward the rear apartment.
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Chapter 15
off. Sam also took note of the quietness around him. Accustomed
unexpected that it loudly stood out. But the Tiendas were shut
slow crawl up the otherwise deserted cobblestones. He nodded to
himself, as if confirming a thought, then unlocked the doors to
the Mercedes.
As they, Richard in the front, Alexia the rear, Sam behind
the wheel, climbed in the Mercedes, the Jeep came abreast and
stopped. To see inside the Jeep was impossible. The Jeep sported
a hard top and the windows were tinted black. The Jeep blocked
down his window and made a motion with his hand for the driver to
move.
thinking the car carried U.S. Embassy plates and as such was
119
considered U.S territory. But as he thought this, the passenger
window on the Jeep came down and Captain Farabundo, a man he knew
well as General Rosa's right hand man in Antigua, stared out. His
heart fluttered.
Farabundo had a fondness for gold fillings. When he smiled
they shone in the dark night. "Sam," he said, his voice friendly,
"What are you doing in Antigua?"
"Move the Jeep Farabundo," he ordered.
"Who is in there with you?" Farabundo asked.
"Move your Jeep."
"Sam," he said and broadened his smile, "I am doing my job.
Searching for guerrillas. Please. You and me. We are in the same
line of work."
"I am in a mean mood. Had a long day. Now this car is
sovereign U.S. territory. Now move the motherfucking Jeep."
"Or what!" he challenged."
"Or I file a report in the morning."
"So file your report. But now I want to search your car to
see if there are guerrillas."
"Sam," Richard urged, "Let him."
"No!"
"Sam, please," Alexia cried.
"No!" he replied, and angrily pounded a finger on the dash,
"This car is American territory."
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Because both vehicles blocked each other, there appeared to
be a Mexican standoff: Sam couldn't move the Mercedes, nor could
Farabundo open his door. Of course, Farabundo had the option of
Machismo.
"Move the Jeep," Sam repeated.
Farabundo had lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Sam's face.
series of numbers. "I just called in my position and used a code
that indicates I am in danger. I have five seconds to cancel the
code. Unless I do so a contingent of U.S Marines always on alert
will roll out and via a Huey gunship lift off from the Embassy
Heliport. Be here in say four minutes, six at the outset. It's
your play, greasball."
Sam didn't believe the threat frightened Farabundo. He did
cigarette glowed as he pulled hard on it, blew the smoke out and
snorted, and issued an order to the driver and the Jeep moved on
up the street.
Sam calmly punched in another series of numbers on the phone
before replacing it in the cradle. He swung a U turn and after a
block went up 6 Calle Poniente.
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Their original intent was to drop Alexia off at home.
Tomorrow was Sunday, and Alexia had to accompany a UNICEF health
polio vaccinations. And they didn't veer from this. But Richard
had expected the ride to her house to be gay, full of chatter.
Instead he was silent as Sam drove through the deserted streets,
as was Alexia. They both thought about Sam. This was a new Sam to
Richard. Tough, unrelenting, and unforgiving. Like this afternoon
while confronting General Rosa. Although he knew Sam worked for
the C.I.A., he had never believed that Sam had engaged in
anything more nefarious than information gathering. Now he wasn't
so sure.
At Alexia’s house, Sam brought the Mercedes to a stop. She
lived a good seven blocks from the City Center. Across from her
house lay the darkened ruins of a church. A single street light
dimly burned on the block. Shadows flickered over the street. A
dog howled in the distance. Wordlessly, she exited the car. They
waited until she was safe behind locked doors before driving on
to Richard's house. And it wasn't until they reached his house
the words to convey his anger. "What is the matter with you? What
the hell is going on? It's not a full moon. What the fuck!"
Sam, in the glow of the dashboard lights, sat there waiting
for him to finish.
122
But Richard was finished and exited the car and rushed into
the house. The first thing he did was pour a stiff drink to calm
his nerves.
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Chapter 16
True anger blocks out everything. Such it was with Richard.
He blocked out the entire day, both the sadness and the joy.
frustration, and selfrighteous indignation filled him. At some
unspoken thought, "You sonofabitch, you lied to me. You're not
a benign arm of the C.I.A. simply gathering information."
During this time Sam sat across from him drinking straight
soft smile. An innocent smile. A patient smile. A smile that said
he would wait for Richard to speak and wait a good long time.
And Sam did wait a good long time. Two hours. By this time
Richard was good and drunk. "You lied," he said finally, and
without anger or rancor, for the bourbon had burned away all such
feelings. Instead a childlike hurt filled his voice.
"I never lied to you," Sam replied.
"You're C.I.A.," he sneered.
"Sure," he readily admitted.
124
"Jesus," he bemoaned, "What a fool I've been."
"Richard," he said patiently, "Who do you work for?"
press, not an assassin."
people."
"Please," he sneered, "You were ready to tonight."
A hand, as if waving off a pouting child. "You work for the
United States Embassy," he spelled out, "As do I. In short we
Central America, Guatemala is a forgotten country. Nicaragua, the
Congressional hearings concerning the IranContra coverup flash
across the screen. El Salvador the same. Panama, hell, the people
Guatemala. Nobody cares back home. Or in the world. You know the
statistics as well as I do. The civil war in Nicaragua incurred
about one hundred thousand lives. In El Salvador the toll for the
twelve year civil war incurred around seventy thousand lives. In
civil war has over the past thirty years claimed over three
hundred and fifty thousand lives. You read the newspapers back in
the States or watch Rather at six and not a word about this. You
know why? The Generals. They run this country with an iron fist.
125
All information comes through the Minister of Information. Hell,
the leftist Guatemala National Revolutionary Front is a joke."
None of this was news to Richard, and it was his turn to
point? And what does all this have to do with what happened
earlier?"
"Like I said," he continued. "We represent U.S. interests.
Now I don't know what this means to you, but to me it means three
things. First and foremost, the safety and secure passage of all
U.S. citizens. Secondly, my finger on the pulse of what the hell
is going on, and last but not least, to maintain a short leash on
idiots like General Rosa. A couple of years ago the man who held
murdered. I don't intend to let such butchery occur on my watch.
And the only way I can accomplish this is to play hard ball when
like Farabundo are like mad dogs and once you allow him to
frighten you, he'll bark in your face every chance he gets until
one day just for kicks he'll cut you into little pieces. And sure
State will file a very angry and very official report demanding a
full scale investigation...but the investigation won't do whoever
is dead any good. End of speech."
Even in his drunken state, or maybe on account of it a lot
126
C.I.A., Richard wanted to believe him. Wanted to because he
refused to believe he could be so wrong about a man. Wanted to
because they were friends. But as he sat there he realized they
weren't close friends. They were working friends. When he stayed
enjoying men: imbibing too much hair of the dog and loudly
closing Gus's or a bar in Guatemala city. Or staying up half the
night shooting the bull, trading Embassy gossip, highlighting the
current dirty joke making the Embassy rounds, or quietly dining
very little about Sam. And Sam him.
"How did you get started in the C.I.A?" he asked, but even
himself to you is a terrible thing. And when Sam threw him a hard
hurt look, Richard shied away and pretended to glance at Aqua.
the whole mess fell apart. I had played the oil game back in
Texas, went bust...blonds and creative accountants. I called in
a favor and was hired as the Embassy information officer."
"Why you?"
"Beats me. Political. Never trained for the job. All I can
127
figure is the heads at the C.I.A. and State attached little
significance to the position. Probably had more experienced men
working the field."
interested.
"In Budapest the ball of string unraveled," he answered, his
eyes clouding over in memory; a painful one. "While working as a
journalist, did you know, or hear of Dick Waterson, Daniel Logan,
Katrina School?"
Richard knew the names, Waterson and Logan. But had never
They were lovers too many years ago to want to remember: when
youth traveled hand in hand with romance.
That Sam had known them surprised him and it showed. "They
are all dead."
Sam's eyebrows arched. "Yeah."
honorable profession."
"Yes. There was also a kid, Peter..."
credentials didn't do them much good."
"No. I was the one that got them into Romania." He breathed
deep, and sighed. "Waterson and Logan came out. Katrina and the
128
kid stayed. I caught hell from State. But I liked Logan and
well. Young. But a gamer."
His voice grew too choked to continue.
"A gamer."
cares about Guatemala."
Richard stared stupidly at the drink in his hand. Just brown
without remorse.
"So what brought you to Guatemala?" Sam asked, breaking into
Richard's thoughts.
more exciting assignment overseas because that was where the real
boredom of lounging at home working crossword puzzles, or sitting
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their glory days in the news business. When he was sure life had
dealt him a sour hand the offer as liaison in Guatemala came his
way. The job was one that no self respecting journalist would
take. Or as Edwardo put it, only a puta took such jobs. But he
justified at the time, and the repetitious retelling of the past
that was never that damn glorifying to begin with.
But he left out the last part. Pride. He had never cut the
mustard, never, unlike Katrina, made it out of Chicago to a post
overseas.
He left out the last because his story seemed, at least to
him, boring, stupid, and so middleclass sad.
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Chapter 17
Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe the remembrance of years
of a life fled from...for both. But for whatever reason they fell
silent and remained silent for a very long time...long enough for
the sun to rise high enough to hide away yesterday's losses and
event, it was finally Sam who broke the ensuing silence.
"You worried about General Rosa?"
"You mean because I saw him shoot the kid in cold blood?"
"Yes."
Richard hadn't told Sam about Ruth, or seeing General Rosa.
"Doc tell you?"
"Yeah," he replied.
"About Ruth?"
"All of it. About the kid also. And Ruth. Nice woman."
"Yes. Hell of a thing to happen. Stupid. Just stupid."
"So you worried about General Rosa?"
probably not. He was just pissed I had interfered. And wanted to
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scare me. Besides, you are right. Let a bully like him push you
around and everyday at the school yard he is there asking for a
quarter or impressing the other kids by strutting his stuff at
your expense."
"I want to pull his chain," he stated.
"General Rosa?"
"Right. General Rosa. I hate the bastard.
"Why?"
"Because the bastard thinks he is king," Sam replied. "You
must feel the same way. Like I said Doc told me why you became
involved. The Indian woman, her son forcibly conscripted into the
Army. The other son taking off for the hills to join the
guerrillas. How she came to town to see you. Not your fault, I
mean what occurred. But you must also hate the bastard."
Hate was probably too tame a word for how he felt about
General Rosa, and he said as much.
every Indian village to the ground if he could. So we give the
Indian woman back her boys. Enroll them both in the American
school. Think of it. Educate them. When the time comes secure a
educated, but Indian, remembering General Rosa and what he did.
Just think of it."
Richard did think. And the fact that he was drunk, both on
132
Aqua's beauty and on whiskey, helped to fuel the obvious
question.
"How?"
Sam leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, "Right
under his nose without him ever knowing he is being manipulated.
General Rosa doesn't know about the Indian woman and the fact
that all three sons are connected. He doesn't know the Indian boy
who was conscripted into the army. We give Ruth what she wants.
We have her submit a request to the American School for the son
who's in the Army. I have the request expedited, rubber stamped
and approved. The director of the school forwards to the Minister
slush pool passes hands and the boy goes from soldier to student.
General Rosa is out of the picture."
"What about the other son?"
"Doc is the key. He works the mountain villages. Knows the
services to them. Nothing fancy. Penicillin. Minor operations. If
Doc can arrange a meeting with Jorge, the main rebel leader, I am
sure I can work a deal for the other boy."
Doc and Jorge! The thought was incredible, comical, absurd.
133
To the Indians Jorge was a mythical figure. Real but not so. A
ghost who commanded the forces of historic righteousness against
evil. In short he would salvage defeat from the jaws of victory.
To the U.S. State Department he was real enough flesh and blood.
The Leftist Guatemalan National Revolutionary unit was made up of
considered the leader. To Richard he was a statistic.
Richard grew excited, but contained his composure. Earlier
thoughts of mistrust resurfaced. C.I.A. Did the C.I.A. finance
Jorge? No. Thinking dumb.
"You're not talking about arms," he said, falling back on
his years at State.
"No, something like that requires State approval. We would
be on our own. But I haven't thought it out that far. Possibly
cash, or a promise to push his cause with State...legitimize him
vain bastard. He might go for the latter, if only to further gain
stature amongst the Indians."
Exhausted from all the thinking and speaking, Sam sighed and
over Aqua, and daylight shadows covered the upper half of the
volcano.
The more Richard had listened, the more the idea intrigued
134
him. He saw it as sort of a way of saying goodbye to Guatemala.
While at the same time firing a shot at General Rosa...something
clouded, he couldn't lay a name to this caution just then.
"If State finds out it's your job? Like in Budapest?"
"Your job too," he reminded.
He almost said, no, I am going off with Crista. Why he held
back confused him. Again caution, he supposed for lack of a
better explanation to himself. But hold back he did.
morning. But realized it was morning. "Later today."
Sam stood and after a long stretch, shaking the kinks away,
stared down at Richard who met his stare. Sam's face, like the
flip side of playing cards, was emotionless.
"Are we foolish?"
"Maybe," Richard replied, "Maybe we should sleep on it."
"Yeah," he listlessly agreed. His earlier enthusiasm seemed
to have vanished, "Well, I am heading home."
"Home," he echoed, surprised.
jump on Monday. Feel Doc out. I'll see you on Monday. However
events play out, Monday promises to be a bitch. By the way, what
was it you wanted to tell me at Gus's?"
135
"What?" he asked, a bit confused.
"You said you had news."
"It was nothing," he replied.
Sam didn't pry. Richard walked him to the car port and
watched as the Mercedes disappeared around a bend in the road. He
went to the bedroom, undressed and lay spread eagle on the bed.
He closed his eyes but was too troubled to sleep. Crista lost was
now found. And her smell lingered on the pillow case, rose
perfume. So lingered too the aura of raw sex: fuck me there. He
found himself growing stiff and excited, but was too tired for
inside and lay still. Against all this, lingered General Rosa's
face and the cold steel gun. And facing General Rosa stood Sam.
For the first time he knew what had bothered him about Sam's
idea. Sam did?? Although they had exchanged life stories, he
still mistrusted his intentions. Was Sam using him? Was State
using? But why him? Because he had gotten involved today? A first
for him.
Stupid. He was thinking stupid. But he answered himself: If
it is so stupid why didn't you tell Sam about Crista? He replied
to himself: Because I was tired. Because I was drunk. Because I
carried an as yet unnamed caution.
Disgusted by his thoughts and mistrust, he stood and went to
the bathroom and took the other half of the ten milligram Valium
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and ground it between his molars, barely noticing the bitterness.
around the bottom of the bottle, and he made a mental note to
pick up a fresh supply, then placed the bottle in the medicine
cabinet and returned to his prone position on the bed. He waited
shallow dream state where the events of the past few days
replayed themselves over and over.
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Chapter 18
ago had dubbed the pipe bombs, woke him.
cloth sack. A fuse was attached to the mouth of the sack. The
sack then was stuffed into a threefoot iron pipe. The fuse lit,
the pipe acted as a mortar and the sack of gunpowder rocketed out
of the pipe and once airborne exploded. Kabooom! It was an old
religious custom and every church in town set them off on Sunday
Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
There had been some Sundays Richard just wanted to go out to
a graveyard and dig up a skeleton and carry the rotting bones to
the nearest church and say: Here, Christ has risen. Now let me
sleep.
But although the 'Jesus Christ bombs' had woken him, he
didn't feel at all like going to a graveyard and digging up a
skeleton. He truly felt like shit. And it wasn't because of the
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pipe bombs...he had long ago grown accustomed to them, and in a
masochistic way actually derived pleasure from lying in bed and
cursing Jesus Christ and every saint that came to mind. What
pounded, eyes throbbed, teeth ached. But of greater concern was
the sharp pain in his right side. He stumbled out to the kitchen
and through bleary eyes and shaking hands sliced several oranges
in half and placed them in the juicer and squeezed until the
glass brimmed over, and, hands trembling, quickly drained the
glass. After the orange juice, he set about scrambling four eggs;
but cooking wasn't his forte: egg shells spilling onto the floor,
couldn't find the margarine, damn couldn't find the pan, damn
Celia. Where was she when he needed her. At god dam church.
Probably lighting a fuse for a god dam, let'sraiseJesusChrist
fromthedead pipe bomb.
Frustrated, he slouched over the sink. A second later the
orange juice backed up and he gagged and threw up in the sink. He
lay his head against the cold porcelain and gasped in air for
several minutes, wondering why he felt so miserable. He had only
had two drinks at Gus's, and although had finished off almost a
timehonored hangover slayer Valium before going to sleep.
But the mere thought of why he had such a terrible hangover
139
enough to move, he went to the bathroom and dealt with
repetitious actions he had dealt with for years. The pipe bombs
around eased the pain in his side, and the familiarity of the
Before he left the bathroom, he decided to take another half a
Valium. The lone half pill in the bottle reminded him of the
mental note to purchase more. He ground the pill under his
empty bottle in his pocket.
He was sure within the hour the pill would do the trick. As
he bathed in this reassuring thought a knock came at the door.
The knock turned out to be Doc. As usual his suit was wrinkled,
looking like it had been slept in and his hair was frayed and
uncombed.
"I don't see the Mercedes. Sam leave?"
words. "Yes. Menchu. The Prize. Rosa. Work."
Absently he nodded. "You look like shit."
"Feel like it too."
"And it smells like vomit in here."
"Is this what you came over for?"
"No. Came by to see if you wanted to go for coffee."
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"Sure," he replied, "Salud?"
Doc nodded, "Let's walk."
striking them, and the ensuing vibration rattling his head were
too much to consider, and he suggested they take the Toyota. Even
as ill as he felt, he noticed Doc eyeing the Toyota. The top was
down, and knowing how much Doc hated riding in a open car...said
obscured the peak.
"Rain," he said, "So let's put the top up."
needed the top down, needed the fresh air, "Those are just fool's
clouds, much like fool's gold."
A visible shudder passed through Doc. Over the years Richard
had come to know the shudder well. Doc dreaded the end of the
rainy season. A long period of dry weather followed and with it
stagnated...discarded tires, rusted tin cans and buckets...scores
water would become black water foul, and the Indians, desperate
for water, bathed, cooked, and drank what they could find. This
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hepatitis followed. Meningitis flew on hepatitis's deadly wings.
young, he would bemoan, and not quickly, but slow, painful, as if
suffering to die was their short but cruel bittersweet destiny.
bringing up the end of the rainy season. "You can't stop the
seasons," he said.
"Yes. Seasons in the sun, in rain, and in death."
"The top down will bring us good luck," he assured. "Be like
waiting for a bus that won't come...just light up a cigarette."
passenger seat.
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Chapter 19
The Cafe Salud was located in the heart of Antigua's tourist
district. As it was Sunday, tourists would be rushing to find a
last minute bargain before returning to Guatemala City. Richard's
condition poor at best, he sought to avoid this rush by
meandering side streets. The cobblestones rocked the Toyota about
seasick sensation in the pit of his stomach and twice he became
so nauseous he pulled over to puke out the window a mucus colored
feeling away only to feel it return a few blocks later.
If Doc noticed, and he did and chuckled inwardly, he kept it
to himself, and spent the ride with one hand holding the top of
his head so the wind wouldn't rearrange and thus comb his
uncombed hair. The other hand drummed steadily on his thigh. By
the time they reached the Cafe Salud, Richard felt so ill he was
ready to return home. Doc could examine him, he thought, maybe he
had picked up dysentery or worse cholera. The mere thought made
him shudder. He reassured himself he wasn't sick. No dysentery or
cholera. The self reassurance wasn't working. Cholera had taken
143
root in his mind. He had cholera. Damn it. But how? The woman.
She had touched him. Or maybe in Lima.
decision to return home by offering a parking space directly in
still felt like shit he would tell Doc and Doc could examine him.
spilled out of the car and bumped into a boy selling straw hats.
The stack of hats the boy carried went flying. The boy
apologized.
Richard heard Doc mention putting the top up and locking the
car. "We'll watch the car from the balcony," he mumbled.
Where Gus was obsessed with big band music and dim lighting,
unvarnished wooden tables, and mismatched chairs. An old grade
Foster served the best coffee in Antigua, and perhaps all of
Guatemala, and rightfully bragged about it.
They took up roost on the second floor balcony. Aqua loomed
far ahead. The cries of street peddlers hoping to catch the last
144
of the weekend tourists rang out below. Richard took it all in,
the peddlers and Aqua, and a half hour later along with three
after all, he mused. But he couldn't accept this explanation. He
had drunk far more whiskey in the past and had never woke up
this out of hand. The decision to leave had alleviated his stress
not added to it. So he added scrutiny to the conversation between
there for his illness.
only half listened.
"A bloody affair, even in a well equipped hospital, but on
an earthen floor, termites, roaches, flies...god awful. And you'd
source. Within moments the ground beneath the woman is awash in
145
though such a small orifice. The babies, large as watermelons,
and god the mess they create while clawing to enter the squalor
awaiting them. Screaming and..."
interrupted him. "Doc!"
disliked when he ran on about such matters, "Gory subject. But
Doctors. Well, this is shop talk for us."
"No, no" he assured, waving a hand, "I want you to take me
to the village the dead boy came from. Want to meet his mother.
Can you do this? Will you?
"So you are human after all my boy."
"Dooooooc," he said in a slow steady tone.
"Sorry, sorry," he said, fussing with his cup, "So wrong of
me. When do you want to leave?"
purchase some Valium. The way he felt about the decision, he
could have used one right now. But if Doc knew he was taking
"Soon as I finish my coffee."
"Fine, fine," he clucked like a chicken, obviously delighted
with himself.
"Yes, jolly fine," he mumbled.
146
"Just so," he cheerfully sang out in an off key baritone.
Richard savored it while Doc happily drummed his fingers atop the
table. He began to think that going to the village was stupid. As
he thought this he found Doc's drumming fingers annoying and was
balcony...his eyes were sad. And the sad eyes surprised Richard.
Guatemala. But Sad? He started inquire as to what troubled him,
but Doc spoke first. "I figured it out."
remained sad.
Richard expected Doc to notice Foster's mood. But wrapped up
in his own joy, he continued. "No, no. I figured out what I would
find if I cut you open."
The lost sparkle in Foster eyes returned and crawled down to
his lips and he laughed out loud. "What, Doc?"
"An upside down Buddha."
Foster had girth and his belly rolled in laughter.
"The Buddha would be stamped, 'Made In Thailand.' But exported to
Guatemala."
The remark, made in jest, was due to Foster's rather lengthy
147
exportation of handmade Guatemalan clothes and jewelry. Foster's
smiled at him. "And what would you find inside Richard?" he
asked.
"Just kidding, Foster," he quickly replied.
"I know," he remarked, but continued staring at him.
Doc took a moment to consider this. As he did, he finished
the coffee and stood, then sat back down.
"Skip it," Richard said.
"A tarnished seeker of truth," Doc shot out, and leaned back
to see the reaction from Foster.
Foster pointed a questioning finger at Richard.
cookie. Inside the fortune would read: do not take kindness as a
weakness."
"I'll work on it," Doc playfully answered.
getting late and I want to be home before dark."
"Where you off to?" Foster idly inquired.
"Truth," Doc sang, "We tarnished seekers,
of truth,
depart,
for there be untarnished truth out there."
"And there be dragons," Richard dryly added.
148
"Amen," Foster replied. "And while you're searching for
truth, be careful truth doesn't find you. In short the town is
sadness that had been there when first appearing on the balcony.
"Because of this I have removed all politically sensitive movies
coward. But one must exercise caution. Still." He shrugged. "I
come close to hating the generals. I work against this hate. But
we are so different."
The reason for the sad upturned eyes, Richard thought. Poor
Health and Love. Foster's little bit of peace on earth. Foster's
yoga beliefs stuffed in a coffee cup. "I am sure it's nothing,"
he assured him.
"Hope you are correct," he responded.
"Ready Doc?" he asked.
But Doc remained silent. Instead he stared at his cup, his
stood. Richard paid the bill and they went downstairs. But
troopers were there, they failed to spot them. There were only
sidewalks.
149
Still, Richard believed Foster. Foster, like the wily Lt.
Oscar, had his finger on Antigua's pulse. But the presence in
Antigua of General Rosa's special forces two days running puzzled
wasn't going to storm the Presidential Palace in Guatemala City
from Antigua. But the Indians. They flocked here from the
himself. He did wonder if Doc had come to the same conclusion,
and if he would pass the news on to Jorge; if he even knew Jorge.
Perhaps Sam had been mistaken.
first thing Monday morning. But decided to leave Doc out of the
picture. "What is the name of the village?"
"Santa Pina. A few miles up the slope from Santa Maria De
Jesus."
village located and how do we get there?"
Richard's apathy concerning the Indians over the years, a disdain
thinly veiled by his little jokes, and digs, was ever apparent.
But if he was surprised by the extent of Richard's ignorance of
150
the locations of the surrounding villages, he hid it well.
"High on the slopes of Aqua," he explained, "We go to Santa
Maria Jesus, from there we hike to Santa Pina. I think it best we
go by chicken bus. General Rosa's elite band of notsomerry men
knows your car well."
Doc's suggestion that they forgo driving the Toyota and take
a chicken bus struck two chords in Richard. The first he filed
for later examination. Thinking of the second, he glanced at the
sky. The thunderclaps above Aqua had spread out over Antigua. And
the air static dry, as it is before a sudden downpour.
"It's going to rain," he ventured. "Maybe we should wait it
out."
"You've never ridden on a chicken bus have you?" he teased.
Speaking harshly, Richard admitted as much. "But that's not
it," he added.
"Come," he said, taking Richard by the elbow and pulling in
the direction of the bus station, "It will be fun. An experience.
rain. Fools gold. So we're just two old fools. General Rosa's
fleas won't bother two old fool's."
Actually Doc was correct. Riding on a chicken bus. Richard
shuddered at the mere thought. But there was no backing out now.
He had committed. So he allowed Doc to steer them toward the bus
station. They were two blocks from the bus station working
151
through the throngs along the narrow sidewalk, when
unmistaken crisp blue uniforms of General Rosa's special forces
and they moved arrogant, cocksure, unafraid of everything around
and four legs spilled off the sidewalk to the harsh cobblestones
in deference to them.
Doc saw them first, and suddenly released Richard's arm,
who, sensing something was amiss looked about, and spotted the
partly because of the rain, but also to watch the soldiers. The
Antigua...even General Rosa's elite prowled about now and again.
official functions, during parades, and always the same feeling
overcame him: this was what it was like to watch the Nazi Storm
troopers march along the wide boulevards of Berlin.
swept illusion. He had no idea where they had ducked into for
cover. And didn't care, and instructed, "Let's go."
"The rain," Doc protested.
"Follow me."
152
roof. The trick was to kitty jump from one side of the street to
the other and slide back flat against a building that held slim
shelter from the rain. As Richard had often gone from Gus's to
the Cafe Salud in the rain, he was experienced at this and was
very nimble and apt at crossing from sidewalk to sidewalk in two
leaps. Doc, because of his age, wasn't as nimble and arrived at
the bus station soaking wet. They stopped at Gus's so Doc could
towel off his hair and arms. Gus wasn't there. Nor was Teresa.
Only one couple sat at a table. Jun worked the empty bar. When
she saw Richard her dark eyes lit up. She gladly produced a
towel.
"See what comes from helping the Indians?" Doc said.
He ignored him and asked her where Gus and Teresa were. Jun
explained that Teresa had driven Gus to the Airport in Guatemala
City. He was going to see his boy.
"Dumb Gus, just plain dumb," Doc muttered under his breath.
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Chapter 20
obstacle that confronted him was how the system worked: paying,
seating, calling out stops. A part of him expected it to be the
same as in the States. You pay and take a seat and the driver
calls out each stop. Washington street next. Jackson street next.
Madison Ave. Twenty Eight and Archer. And he politely, to a man
amount, but the driver ignored him. Doc physically shoved him up
the aisle. The bus appeared to be full, two people to each seat.
And he protested this to Doc, thinking they could take the next
bus. But Doc just grunted and positioned his rear on a seat where
an Indian woman and two children sat who paid Doc no attention
whatsoever and simply scooted over a few inches allowing him room
enough so half his ass occupied the seat while the other half
hung out in mid air. Two rather gaunt Indian men occupied the
seat across from where Doc sat.
"Sit down," Doc instructed.
"I'll stand."
154
"Richard sit. They won't bite you."
the seat so he had to grasp Doc's seat to keep from falling to
the floor. The Indian men saw this and slid over and huddled
close together. He thankfully scooted over a few inches, but felt
guilty about forcing the men to huddle close.
Rain pelted the tin roof, sounding like pebbles. Feeling out
of place, he avoided the other passengers eyes, and gazed at the
front of the bus which was adorned with a collage of stickers and
Protection. Two silhouette stickers of naked women were pasted on
the upper corners of the windshield. He didn't find the little
Then his eyes were instantly drawn to English letters etched in
black on metal casing which was riveted above the center of the
report submitted to your parents if you:
Stick your head or arms out of the window.
Strike the child next to you
Talk in a loud manner
Move about while the bus is in motion
Chew gum
155
Act unruly
Remember these rules.
considering where he was, for a millisecond the rules shocked him
back fifty years in time. He was a child going to school and was
eyes read. The second passed and he laughed out loud, momentarily
startling the Indians next to him. They passed a passive bland
darkeyed stare before returning to gazing straight ahead. Doc,
who had obviously been watching out of the corner of his eye,
glanced fully at him and smiled knowingly, as if to say: Only you
and I speak or read English. Just one of life's little jokes.
A few minutes later, the bus crammed full, Indians standing
in the aisle breast to breast, ass to ass, the driver maneuvered
the bus out of the station. The engine wheezed, as if had it
smoked too many cigarettes and had emphysema, and the worn brakes
squealed as they scraped against metal. At the scraping of the
brakes, a fear gripped Richard. A fear so huge, he grew short of
breath. He sat there trying to catch a breath and force it deep,
but an empty choking cavity lay at the bottom of his lungs. He
willed himself to relax. Just relax. But relaxing was impossible.
The damn bus rattled and pitched, nearly dislodging him from his
perch. And the Indians standing in the aisle brushed against him,
156
made him cringe. He resolved to endure and dug his fingers into
the vinyl seat.
sides, windshield, windows, and roof, of this obstinate machine
for daring to brave its onslaught, he was dimly aware that a man
pushed through the aisle collecting fares. Doc paid for both of
them. He was also aware of the bus stopping often to pick up
Indians waiting alongside the road, and to discharge others. At
some point the two men seated next to him edged past to the aisle
Indian dialect. One of the women held a chicken, its beak stapled
wait it out as best he could. Occasionally the dark stupid eyes
of the chicken would reflect at him in the window, and the woman
holding the chicken would smile his way when she saw him staring
back at the reflection. The poor animal looked miserable, and he
vowed to never eat chicken again...a vow he knew he would never
keep.
The rain had petered out by the time they reached Santa
nerves were frayed, and for the past twenty minutes he repeatedly
had asked himself over and over: What the hell am I doing here?
157
The answer was that insanity led him here. There could be no
other explanation.
He shook away both question and answer and rushed into the
pried the cap off and took a good long swallow. The rum burned
all the way down to the pit of his stomach. But he took another
long swallow for good measure. The second swallow warmed the
chill inside him.
Feeling not quite so shaky now, he stepped outside and for a
full minute enjoyed the crisp mountain air. Almost by accident,
he happened to glance about and gazed upon Aqua. The sight of her
took his breath away. For years she lay a far distance mystery; a
sun lighted, moon darkened enchantress who comforted his moods.
And he had come to accept her presence as much as he accepted the
pillow on the bed at night behind his head. But standing there,
close to her, near yet so very distant, her true beauty hit. And
hard, much like an ocean gust. He didn't gaze upon her so much as
she gazed upon him. During this moment every pore in his body was
part of Aqua: his breath her breath, his arms her arms, his legs
her legs and his eyes her eyes. In short he was her messenger,
arriving from a place she could only gaze upon from a distance.
All along she knew he would come to her one day, and sure enough
she was right: here he was.
"Magnificent huh," Doc whispered as if in a church.
158
He wasn't religious, and hadn't engaged in such beliefs
since a child. But this was a church. A far older and more
majestic church than mere man could build out of brick and
visited in a long time, he understood why the old Indian woman
had gazed upon Aqua while kneeling over her slain son.
"Yes," he whispered back.
"Yes," Doc said, "Well we better get moving. The village is
a good halfhour hike."
They began walking. What there was of Santa Maria De Jesus,
dirt roads, bamboo fences, and huts, quickly petered out. Once
underbrush. Despite his age, Doc was at home here and navigated
the path as nimbly as Richard had earlier navigated the rain and
the overhanging shingles. Contracting the warmth of the rum, the
wet earth soaked Richard's shoes, and because of the altitude the
air was chilly. He wished he had brought a jacket and mentioned
this.
"You should get out more," Doc replied, "Good for the
heart...literally."
Richard elected not to respond. Instead he drank some rum.
As he drank, he maintained a slow but steady pace, and after a
few minutes he asked Doc about the thought he had that had struck
159
him when Doc had mentioned taking the chicken bus instead of the
Toyota. "You commented that it was best to take the chicken bus."
"A trip of the tongue over words," he joked without breaking
stride.
taking a long pull from the bottle of rum, "So don't play it off.
Don't play me for a fool. Or I turn around right here."
"Sure," he replied, again without breaking stride, "I have
contact with the guerrillas. I am a doctor. The Hippocratic oath
and all such."
"And that is all?"
"It is enough. You will tell Sam now."
Tell Sam, he wanted to shout: You old fool, Sam told me!
"No," he replied, "Your business is yours. Just be careful."
"I am a little old for careful."
Falling silent, Doc quickened his pace, pulling a few paces
ahead. Richard knew Doc pulled ahead to avoid conversation. So he
didn't pursue the matter. Instead, he thought about Sam. And Doc.
And himself. He was beginning to feel like the weak link in the
middle of a chain: Doc on one end and Sam the other.
He finished off the pint of rum and tossed the bottle at a
tree. The bottle shattered. Doc glanced over his shoulder at the
noise.
160
"Cheap Guatemalan bottle," he commented.
Without comment, Doc continued walking.
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Chapter 21
they reached the village of Santa Pina. The forest, its trees and
underbrush, had blocked the sun. But once out of the forest, the
consisted of a few dozen huts. A stone well and washbasin lay in
the center of the village. Away from the washbasin, four dirt
huts. A half dozen women, their arms stretching and pulling and
stalks and roses. He knew enough about the Indians and village
crosslegged, talking and smoking.
So this is what a mountain village is like, he managed to
observe. But the observation lasted a second. At first their, his
and Doc's, presence had gone unnoticed. But upon seeing them a
toddler wailed and the women and men stared at them all at once.
162
Slowly the men stood and glared suspiciously, just as slowly the
women dropped their laundry and inspected them, and the children
ran to the women and clutched at their legs.
servitude level: at restaurants, at Gus's, and with Celia. They
often times were slow while serving food or a drink. But usually
hostility in their eyes. And was frightened, aware that he was on
their ground now.
"Do something Doc," he heard himself say.
voice and showed as much by shaking his head back and fourth. But
he didn't vocalize this disgust. Instead he went over and shook
the hands of the men. His lips moved. They glanced at Richard.
Doc's lips moved again, his arm shaking above his head. All the
men nodded at once.
tolerated and was relieved, and consoled himself that he wasn't
so much afraid as embarrassed at intruding on them. The lie felt
hollow and he let it go when Doc returned.
for."
"They don't like my presence."
163
fear the unknown."
Perhaps the men feared the unknown, and the women also. But
children were fearless and quickly left the protective circle of
fearless. Perhaps they know Doc. Had seen him before. And were
responding to him as a known friend. Whatever the case, not a
single one of them was over five. They tugged at his trousers,
the child a piece of candy. As the child's hand closed around the
candy, he or she scampered away like a dog with a prize bone and
in the distance unwrapped the candy and popped it in their mouth.
This went on for a long ten minutes.
Watching Doc, the way his eyes lit up, the gentleness in his
voice, the joy in handing the child the candy, and the all
knew all his hidden secrets, knew why he talked of child birth,
abortion years ago in Cleveland.
Almost on cue, as the last child ran away screaming in joy,
a woman approached them. Richard recognized her as the woman who
had knelt over the slain boy. She, unlike the other women, wore
black. She greeted Doc respectfully by bowing her head. He spoke
164
in an Indian dialect, gently, but firmly, and she raised her head
at Richard.
"I am Chusa," she said in Spanish.
"I am Richard," he answered.
"Yes, Ruth pointed you out," she replied.
words to say.
"Yes," he replied, "And Aqua is returning your sons."
filled with wrinkles.
army."
"You can do this?" she asked, unbelieving.
"I promise it."
Whether by disbelief or out of joy, a joy demanding solitude
and prayer, she turned and shuffled away.
It wasn't until after Doc said his farewells and they were
on their way back down Aqua that Doc spoke. His question seemed
after the fact, or an idle thought. "You said her sons. One is
dead, yes. But one is in the army and the other is with the
gurreles. So? A slip?"
"No," Richard lied, "Her son in the army. I can do nothing
165
about the dead son. Or the son who has joined the gurrelas. But
contact Ruth. Do not use my name. Just tell her to call Sam at
the Embassy and give him the name of the boy who is in the army.
Sam will arrange the rest. Have her call first thing tomorrow
morning."
didn't believe him or because the air at this altitude was thin,
making breathing difficult which in turn made talking difficult.
A cold chilled Richard to the bone by the time they reached
lingered outside a second before boarding and gazed at Aqua. She
told him he had done well. He silently thanked her for a chance
to meet her up close.
Note: His shoes are wet; look forward and backward. endnote.
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Chapter 22
A dog tiredness settled over Richard the moment he boarded
the bus: an unexplainable to him, letmelaymyheaddownand
sleep tiredness. The tiredness chased away whatever inner fears
he may have still harbored about chicken buses. In fact he really
didn't give the bus a second thought and headed for a seat.
Indians were leaving Antigua instead of going to, and the bus
another man. The driver thankfully had the heater going full
blast and the bus was toasty. It was late and darkness had
outside the window while attempting to sort out where the truth
lay in this mess, but the truth, like the trees outside the
window, were all lines and shadows.
his eyes for just a few minutes. But right then the man sharing
the seat held out his hand and introduced himself; Richard did
167
likewise and they engaged in conversation. The other man was a
congenial man of medium build and mixed SpanishIndian blood who
did most of the talking. His name was Marti. Traded in blankets.
Visited the mountain villages buying hand wovenblankets which he
dollars a blanket and sold them to a wholesaler for ten dollars,
the wholesaler in turn sold the blankets for fifty dollars. "Ah,
but this was life. I make a little profit and the wholesaler a
big profit. But better a little profit, no?"
probably like most traveling salesmen a learned trait, kept right
terminal in Antigua, he had proudly shown Richard a fat weather
beaten brown leather wallet stuffed full of pictures: his sons,
four, daughters, three, and wives, two, and ancestors dating back
two hundred years. The crowning glory of the lot was a badly
wizened old Indian looking about a hundred years old with a W.W.
I One singleaction carbine cradled in his hands. The old man's
name was Zeeee. Just Z with four E's. He fought with Poncho
Villa. Did he, Richard, knew this?
"No," he managed to admit.
168
"Is true," Marti explained, "Poncho had promised that when
Mexico was free, he would gather a force of ten thousand and free
Guatemala." He swiped a hand over his eyes, as if brushing away
tears. "But Poncho lost and Zeeee, well Zeeee's heart died."
"What of?" he foolishly asked.
"A bullet."
"Ah," Richard sympathetically said, "Sorry. But you have the
picture."
"Yes. I will take it to my grave. A remembrance. You have
pictures? Of your family?"
"No," he admitted.
"A man needs family," he said.
He started to reply but Marti abruptly stood, said goodbye
and walked toward the front of the bus, then out to the waiting
terminal.
When Richard looked around, he saw that only Doc and he
strangely at him. "Let's go," he repeated.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked, eyebrows arched.
sells blankets."
"The person next to you got off quite some time ago in the
woman."
169
For a moment Richard was sure that Doc was pulling his leg,
but Doc's face said otherwise. He blinked several times, rapidly,
confused. At last he shook his head. "I must have dozed off.
Dreaming. Now can we go!"
"Sure, sure."
field lay, the flickering lights of coal cookfires glowed in the
darkness. Hoping for a last customer or two, candles burned in
the market stalls bordering the terminal, the shadows showing a
sparse assortment of wares...mostly cheap bottles of shampoo, or
drivers leaning on the bumpers of ancient cars hawked a ride into
town. The usual dogs loitered nearby.
At Gus's, Teresa stood behind the bar looking about as down
as Richard had ever seen her. He heard voices above on the roof
garden, young, speaking German. Students. A few people occupied
the tables downstairs. Foster was the only customer at the bar.
The moment Foster saw Doc, he challenged him to a game of chess.
Doc looked at Richard, a glance that asked if he was suffering
from posttraumatic, seekeroftruth depression.
"Go play your game," he said. "A dream. What do you want? A
170
Freudian analysis?
"Freud, he was a quack," he jested and like freshly kneaded
dough on a bakers block, placed his rear on a stool and accepted
the challenge. "I never resist a game of chess."
"Usual," Teresa said to Richard.
Gus will return."
"I know," she replied, but didn't really believe it. Not for
a moment.
Weary, he said a flurry of goodbyes and headed for his car
and home. Evening had brought cooler air, and he felt the chill,
especially his feet where his socks were still damp from walking
home. It was only a little past seven, but already the streets
were, except for an occasional student, or a drunken Indian who
mumbled to himself, empty. Gone were the Indian vendors and the
weekend tourists.
He had reached the car when the empty pill bottle shifted
just wanting to go home, he sighed, and crossed kitty corner to
the pharmacy opposite the Plaza. The pharmacist knew him well
didn't even bother to look at it, and instead reluctantly shook
his head.
171
"What's the problem?" he asked, thinking he was out of
Valium.
these. I am sorry."
too kindly.
"Please. Richard. I am but a small business. The police. I
listen. I do not ask questions."
"To me listen," he said, "Don't shit me. You don't even need
a prescription for morphine in this country."
"Richard. Please."
"Please nothing. Fill the damn bottle up!"
"Richard."
"Fill it!"
"Five. I do this because you are an old customer. But you
tell no one. Richard, okay?"
"Fill it!" he demanded.
Richard, Please."
"Fill it!"
"Ten," he desperately countered.
morning.
He was more than a little peeved when leaving the pharmacy,
172
but cursed out loud when he saw that he had left the top down on
the Toyota. The vinyl seats were wet, and a puddle of water had
collected around the brake peddle. The moment he started the car
he put the top up, hunched his shoulders and revved the engine
for a few minutes before turning on the heater. While revving the
engine, he fished the pill bottle from his pocket and placed a
full ten milligram Valium in his mouth and sucked on the pill,
this was Sunday. The Ambassador reserved Sundays for staying at
Ambassador to answer, he could manufacture an excuse for calling.
The Ambassador would of course see through the excuses. But even
upbringing. Or something.
In the end he decided against it. He would call her tomorrow
and take in lunch.
As he drove toward home, a lukewarm blast of air warmed his
feet. The warm air did little against the chill in his bones, and
he looked forward to a hot cup of coffee.
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Chapter 23
The moment he entered the house the foul odor served as a
grim reminder of how sick he had been earlier. The house, closed
up all day, had the unmistakable odor of damp vomit. The odor
disgusted him, and the fact that the odor was of his own doing
further disgusted him. And he thought: I should go to the kitchen
and clean this mess up.
But as foul as the smell was, the encounter with the dead
the cold damp odor chilled so he visibly shook all over. He
needed a drink, but the bourbon was in the kitchen and he
couldn't face the kitchen just then. He sighed tiredly, wishing
Celia were here, and went to the study and threw four logs along
with a handful of kindling into the fireplace, balled a wad of
old newspaper from the stack kept beside the fireplace and placed
it between the kindling and the logs. Kitchen matches were stored
in a sixinchlong stone box kept next to the newspapers and he
took one from the box and lit it and tossed it on the wad of
newspaper and waited until the flames licked outward. He rubbed
174
hands out at the fire and after a few minutes the warmth
penetrated, chasing away the ghost. Feeling better, he stood and
woodenly went to the kitchen to face a most unpleasant task. The
opened up the windows. A breeze ruffled the curtains. He lit a
burner and put the coffee pot on and afterwards set about
cleaning the mess up. He used ammonia found under the sink and
fifteen scrubbing minutes later the odor still lingered but faint
and now mixed with ammonia.
behind him. He filled a cup with half Wild Turkey and half coffee
and carried the cup back to the study. He had a large oak roll
top desk that he had picked up at an antique store in Guatemala
City. He loved all the cubby holes it had. Little burrows to
cards, and other onceuseful but nowrelegatedtooblivion junk.
He also loved the feel of the wood...a well used worn feeling
Saturday edition of the Miami Herald. It took the full cup of
leafed through the newspaper. The stories were all too familiar
and at last he set the paper aside and leaned back, hands clasped
behind neck, and fixed Chusa in his mind's eye. She only wanted a
175
Although the price was very high indeed. One son dead and another
this was what she would get. But what did Sam want? Doc? General
Rosa?
later. He thought about the Wild Turkey in the kitchen. Mindful
of the hangover this morning, he knew he should leave the bourbon
be. Just take a night off from drinking. But he muttered, the
hell with it, and abruptly got up and went to the kitchen and
returned with the bottle of Wild Turkey. He filled the cup, set
the bottle on the desk and leaned back and steered his thoughts
long and hard toward the events of the weekend. Taking little
sips from the cup, he kicked the events around, placing them all
into leading him to Jorge. Or: Doc=guerrillas. Sam=C.I.A General
Rosa=coup. Conclusion: Sam wants to stop General Rosa and sees
Conclusion: Sam+State intended on using his naïveté, and Doc just
wanted to help out the Indians. Or: State was as much in the dark
176
as he was. Conclusion: Sam was on the level. Or: General Rosa,
the crafty bastard, stood on the sidelines manipulating them like
puppets on a string. Or, and or and or.
He wasn't a spy, for crying out loud, and gave the game up.
The possibilities were just too endless. But he had reached one
firm conclusion. Since he was unsure of the game playing out, he
intended on keeping Crista's and his departure a secret until the
against him.
Buoyed by at least one firm decision, he stood and went up
to the roof. He had carried the cup along and sipped as he stared
at Aqua. A brisk cold wind blew. The sky was clear and a full
moon burned. Silver halos bathed Aqua's surface. The Aqua God, he
thought, has the moon for a light bulb. The thought warmed
him...inside. And he guessed it was because he now felt a part
of Aqua.
playing what game. I am getting out. Crista and me. We will miss
you. And you me."
full ten milligram Valium in his mouth and went to bed. The sheet
and the blanket blocked out all possibilities except sleep.
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Chapter 24
Richard wasn't good at these sort of things, spy things, but
while he slept all seemed to sort itself out, and awoke Monday
morning with a clear vision of what to do. Celia was quiet as she
elsewhere.
An hour later he left for work. As he drove to the Embassy,
chicken busses...and took this as a good sign that the right path
lay before him. Once in his office, he went quickly through the
stack of work that had piled up during his absence in Lima. Aside
from a stack of mail, and the usual requests for information from
stop by his office as soon as he arrived. Another memo outlined a
winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Yet a third memo was from the
Please phone to confirm.
178
He consciously set all three memos aside and removed a white
sheet of paper from the desk drawer. The paper was for his letter
of resignation and bore the Embassy letterhead. During the ride
thought. (For a few brief moments he had considered forgoing the
outlining the reasons for resigning, the second instructed State
be given two weeks' notice while also agreeing to help break the
new man in...brief him on past, present, and future files, the
third ordered all letters of resignation to be submitted through
secretary, who in turn forwarded the letter to the proper office
at the State Department in Washington.
As much as it pained his conscience to do so he had to break
with procedure. After all procedure was all well and good. But he
possible...from Sam, General Rosa, and the Ambassador. And if he
followed procedure, Sam would know about the resignation within
the hour, so would General Rosa and also the German Embassy.
Retirements, or resignations, or outright dismissals traveled the
Embassy gossip wire quickly. The Ambassador, an astute man, would
179
figure Crista was leaving with him. So would General Rosa. Sam
government drone would receive the letter. Read it, and layer
department at State. This method would take at least two weeks.
By this time Crista and he would be settled in New York. He did
feel guilty about not staying to break in the new man. Show him
the little coffee shop a block away, the bakery up the block
where wealthy Guatemalan women lounged hoping to meet and marry a
foreigner, introducing him to the bar scene: the rat joints and
the class joints.
The letter took a good half hour and when it was finished,
Lastly, he added the date. To give himself a few extra days, he
the letter in an envelope. He removed one from the middle desk
paused a moment before sealing the envelope and stared at it as a
man might stare past the past to the present to the future. He
expected a collage of emotions; or as Shakespeare said: Parting
sorrow...just a willingness to seal the beastly thing and lay it
180
in the out basket on the desk for the mail boy to deliver to the
mail room where the letter would be added to a diplomatic pouch
thoughtlessly.
Crista. He had expected the maid to answer, as was protocol, but
Crista herself answered, a crisp and simple, "Yes?"
She always answered like this and it annoyed him...usually.
"Hello," he said.
"Richard."
"Yes, can you talk?"
"Of course. The Ambassador left for the Palace to speak with
the President."
Although curious, he resisted an urge to question her about
what the Ambassador and the President were meeting about. He
had, so far, resisted using Crista as a pipeline to the German
Embassy and didn't intend to begin now.
"I wanted to phone you last night."
"Richard love, you should have. I was alone."
his name sent tingles up and down his spine. Always before when
addressing him, she had used just, 'Richard.'
"Sunday. You know."
181
"Yes. But yesterday was different. The Ambassador dined at
the Palace. I feigned a headache and stayed home. I called you
three times. But the house was empty. At eight I went to bed."
"Alone," he joked.
"Richard."
"American humor."
"Yes, American humor. I will understand never such. American
humor."
"Or fast foods."
"No."
"It is what America excels at," he replied, "fast foods and
humor."
"Fast foods, yes," she replied, "But humor, I am not so
sure."
"While in New York City, we will go see Saturday Night Live.
You will change your mind."
"Saturday night what?"
"Never mind," he chuckled, "Speaking of food, can you break
away for lunch?"
"Yes, but why not come here? We can lunch on the balcony."
maintained the garden. Just Tulips. Red. Pink. White. And the
182
prized jet Black. He disliked dining on the balcony. Or
engaged in sexual relations in years, he figured they must have
at one time, and had done so on the king sized bed. But he wanted
to see her, and readily consented.
"Make it a late lunch. Say two."
"Yes, Richard love," she replied, ending the conversation as
she had begun it. Short. Crisp. But with the word 'Love.'
meeting with the British liaison to the press and called his
office. Thornburg's secretary answered. Mr. Thornburg was out. He
explained who he was and that he needed to reschedule the meeting
for next week. She sounded disappointed. Mr. Thornburg was so
looking forward to discussing the Black issue. (Voice official,
Thornburg squeezing into her...and since he, Richard, knew they
begged the poor man until he consented. Oh, Thomas, I even used
the word squeezed. I was thinking about us...a proper ear to
cheek blush.) "No."
"Oh," she replied, typical British resignation in her voice,
183
"I guess next Monday at noon it will be. Thank you very much and
goodbye."
because he disliked Thornburg. Thornburg was so god dam proper,
GrahamGreencharacter British that dealing with him was akin to
Richard's hands.
He found Sam sitting at his desk staring at the door. He
had entered without knocking, and at first Sam failed to notice.
When he did so, his eyes blinked trice, doing a triple take.
"Woolgathering," he said by way of explanation.
"You're wearing a polyester shirt," Richard joked.
"Funny. Very Funny."
"American humor," he replied.
"No shit."
"No shit."
woolgathering."
"And?" he asked.
And before Sam answered, Richard rallied all his years of
observation as a journalist...minimal as they were...and studied
him. The other night they were drunk. Booze stimulated the
conversation. Conversation stimulated by booze is often forgotten
184
the next day.
"I set the wheels in motion," was all he said.
"Oh," he replied, disappointed. If Sam hid behind a veil of
secrecy or a hidden agenda, he failed to detect it. And at this
failure that there was disappointment in his voice, at least to
him, was evident.
"You want to know about Doc?" Richard asked
"Not now. Ruth and Doc can keep," he replied, "We have a
larger problem. Menchu is in Guatemala City. Flew in this
Rosa. Amnesty International has scheduled a rally at the Palace
against the Bernard verdict. State wants a complete analysis of
the situation and wants it yesterday."
"Than we have little time to waste," Richard replied, "Some
fool scheduled a press briefing for noon."
He nodded, "I know. The Ambassador's secretary scheduled it
Menchu. Shouldn't be too difficult. Menchu is hot...now. Bernard.
Black. They are yesterday's news."
"Thornburg is pressing for a meeting."
"Fuck the pretentious bastard," he replied sourly.
Antigua Sunday."
185
"Shit," he murmured, "What the hell is the bastard up to? A
coup? Or a crackdown on the Indians?"
State was obviously inconclusive."
"I sent out an update last night. Should cover things for a
few days anyway, at least until we have time to figure out what
the hell is happening. I have feelers out. Give them a day or
two."
For a moment Richard considered sharing his observation
yesterday while with Doc. That General Rosa was planning a crack
down on the Indians. But was unsure now. Besides Menchu occupied
the spotlight for the moment and for the next hour and a half
they discussed how best to deal with her. Sam removed a bottle of
the whiskey, they lounged across from each other, legs crossed.
To recognize her and the Peace Prize was saying that the U.S.
other hand, to completely disregard the award, went against one
of the most prestigious awards in the world. Also against the
claim of atrocities committed by the Guatemalan government. They
both knew well enough that these two views represented opposite
seen as siding with Menchu or the government. About ten minutes
186
possible avenue, each one leading back to a choice between the
two extremes.
"Fuck it," Sam exploded in exasperation, "Just flow with the
questions. We will estimate damage control later and then attempt
to smooth over any hurt feelings."
"Shit," he replied, just as exasperated, "Black, yes. Even
four hundred years of Spanish persecution. I can't spin control
such a force. State won't like this."
"Fuck State! Fuck Rosa! Fuck em all! Just do the best you
can do. Give the press what they want. Rosa is killing the
Indians. Has been doing so for years. Give it to them. Just lay
the whole mess out."
Much to Richard's surprise, Sam stormed past him and out of
the office. He expected Sam to return shortly and sat sipping the
drink. When the seconds passed all too quickly, he found himself
involuntarily staring at the office door. He waited a full five
minutes before realizing Sam wasn't returning anytime soon, and
that he had to face the press alone. A part of him dreaded the
prospect of facing them. A few were intelligent people who were
aware of the politics involved. But most were kin to piranha, and
would gladly eat him alive.
187
But he could handle the press. That was his job. It was Sam
who worried him. He mentally reworked his earlier assessment of
Sam. Sam was on the level. This was no longer a game between
State and Guatemala, nor between General Rosa and the Indians;
but between Sam and General Rosa.
asking him to stop by his office as soon as possible.
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Chapter 25
elopement, as she jubilantly had christened it. New York City was
the perfect place to begin a new life. She'd pack a single
underclothing, and toilettes. Outside on the street a taxi would
sit waiting for their escape to the airport. The word escape
rolled nicely off her tongue, and she liked its sound and invoked
role of host, escape the woman on the pedestal.
clothing in New York City.
Yes, she exclaimed, new clothing for a new life. Yes, she
exclaimed again, new clothing for a new life. That was when she
stood and glided across the balcony to the bedroom, and as if
riding on air, to the bed. Slowly her clothes tumbled down around
189
her ankles until only the white sheen of her panties shone
against her skin. Her nipples pointed and hard, throbbed. She
gently commanded, "Come to bed my love."
nakedness that aroused him. He had seen her naked many times
before, and her body had become more familiar to him than his
own. There was a tension about her, a passion that had been
absent until now. A wild, free passion. A caged bird now uncaged
and flying high...testing the newfound heights of her freedom.
And he managed to think: so unlike the old Crista, before passion
won out over such thinking and he went over to her.
"Lay still, my love," she declared.
She rose up on her knees, face bearing down, tongue trapped
undid his shirt and spread it open laying his chest bare. She ran
skin. When she reached the clasp on his trousers, she unbuttoned
it, then teased the zipper down. He was sure she intended on
sucking on him and, breath held, waited. But she teasingly paused
moment she slid her mouth over his stiff cock. He lay still
expecting more of the same, but she straightened up and reached
one hand behind her and tore a hole in her panties...and the
190
sound was like a piece of paper tearing in a silent prayer laden
church. She placed both hands on her buttocks and lowered herself
until his cock rested against the warm folds of her ass.
"Fuck me Richard my love," she hoarsely whispered, "Fuck me
there like before."
Despite his inflamed passion, he hesitated.
"You puritan bastard!" She prodded in German," Fuck me! Fuck
me!"
The woman above him unfamiliar. A stranger. And for a second
he longed for the old Crista, crisp, cool, in control. But she
did command, and she plunged down instantly breaking through. An
animal cry of pain...painful pleasure escaped her lips.
forward so the nipples of her breast lightly brushed against his
chest. "Plunge my love."
deep, her passionate cries fueling each renewed thrust.
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Chapter 26
It was half past four by the time Richard returned to the
Her smell loitered around him: he tasted and breathed her. And
lay in the background. Finally in disgust, he left the office. He
stopped at Sam's office and saw the note he had left earlier
had over his thoughts. The note indicated that Sam hadn't
returned since storming out of the office. To shrug off work like
a slacker was uncharacteristic. Sam usually burned the midnight
oil, dissecting every scrap of information and adding two plus
most obscure meaning or intent.
compound where the Embassy apartments were. He knocked on Sam's
door. No response. He knocked again, this time hard enough to
send a tingle of pain though his knuckles. Still no response. He
192
tried the door and as expected found it open. Sam never locked
it, saw no reason to. The Embassy was a heavily guarded fortress.
He went from room to room. Everything was in order except Sam
wasn't there.
There were several haunts that Sam frequented in Guatemala
City, but the most likely was the European Bar. The bar was a
magnet for mercenaries, soldiers of fortune and Embassy security
the bar, but quickly decided against this. Sam obviously wanted
to be alone or would have returned to the office or at the very
least called and left a message for him.
By the time he left the Embassy, rain battered the roads. He
followed along behind them, thoughts occupied by Sam and Crista.
cool calm Crista had transformed; to be sure she remained cool,
but now with abandon...a cool, precise abandon. A contradiction
escape from life spent as a trophy. As for Sam. He was baffled,
193
wondered. Did he care? Soon he was out. He was gone. So what did
it matter if Sam was playing a game or was losing it?
said aloud in exasperation, and pounded on the horn at the buses,
"Damn it I need to know! It is my job to know."
Or was it because Sam was a friend?
God, he didn't know.
and the drivers in anger or annoyance flashed their high beams at
him. He noticed not without satisfaction that after flashing his
high beams the headlights on the bus on the right went out
entirely. Probably a blown fuse, he thought.
The rain beat down harder than ever by the time he arrived
at home. As usual Celia stood at the carport waiting. Muddy water
splashed at her feet. He pulled in and shut down the engine.
"Lt. Oscar waits in the study," she said right off.
Although he was surprised by this, he nodded as if he had
expected him.
"Shall I hold supper?"
"Yes," he replied, "But bring me a drink. One for the Lt.
also."
"And Sam called. He will be at Gus's. He will wait."
At this he was unable to hide surprise, and Celia smiled.
194
Something she rarely did around him. He shook his head at her
and grinned and went to the study. A fire raged in the fireplace.
Oscar sat on the chair at the desk, his legs crossed, a cigarette
dangling from his lips, his head tilted toward the fire to one
side in thought.
"Better watch you don't singe your mustache," he joked.
The Lt. tilted his head toward Richard. "American humor?"
"No," he replied, "Russian."
"Funny. Russians funny. Yes."
change. No?"
"Yes. Things change. Except in Guatemala. Here things stay
the same always."
"So you've told me many times," he replied, "What brings you
out on a night like this?"
The explanation waited while Celia entered carrying a tray.
She handed each of them a glass, paying a little extra courtesy
to Lt. Oscar. After she departed, the Lt. mentioned he knew her
family. "Fine girl. Very religious. Good thing she worked for
Richard. Other gringos, you know...use their maids. Both gringo
women and men. The stories I could tell. Curl your hair."
"Lt. Oscar," he interrupted, "This is all well and nice. But
you didn't come here in the pouring rain to talk about Celia and
her family."
195
"No. I am on my way home and decided to pay you a visit.
Such an esteemed citizen."
"Lt. I am not on your route home. You live completely on the
other side of town. Or did you forget?"
"You see through me, no," he said, furling five fingers in
the air, "You gringos are too smart for old Oscar."
"Smart, probably no, impatient, yes."
"Yes impatient." He straightened up in the chair and paused
to sip on his drink. "I really am on my way home. Truth. On my
deceased mother's grave. I had business in Santa Maria De Jesus."
The Lt. paused, and laying deep in those dark eyes Richard
sipped the drink, thinking two can play this game.
visit it?"
"I visited there on Sunday," he replied, "I've heard for a
long time how the weavers there are the finest crafts people in
all Guatemala. Thought it was time I saw for myself. Why leave
all the fun to the tourists?"
He shrugged indifferently. "I can't speak for the tourists.
My visit, police business. A woman murdered by her husband. Not
fun. No. He hacked her to death. The husband used his prize cane
cutting machete. The village, very small and poor, has only one
196
police officer. The fool had arrested the husband the previous
night for hitting his wife. You know we never do this here in
Guatemala. We never arrest a man for hitting his wife. Not the
Guatemalan way. So I asked the fool officer why he arrested the
man for hitting his wife. You know what he says?"
He shrugged, sure he soon would.
"As you know the movie channels are gone, but CNN remains
and in Spanish no less. The fool officer never watched CNN in his
life. He always watched a movie when returning home at
night...even though they were in English and he didn't understand
a word. But no more movies. So to keep from listening to his wife
story about a town in the United States, Madison, Wisconsin. Know
where it is?"
"Yes. In the Midwest."
"Good. I don't know this and the fool officer doesn't know
this. But the news story is about how the police in this town,
the fool officer takes out a worn EnglishSpanish dictionary he
'progressive.' The fool likes the meaning of the word. He wants
to be progressive, like the police in Madison. So he arrested the
man for hitting his wife."
197
The Lt. shook his head in disbelief.
"The next day when the man is released, he goes home. He is
angry. His machismo is wounded. His friends laugh at him. He gets
without mother or father. Had this fool officer just let matters
be, the next morning the man would have apologized to his wife
and gone to work. There is a lesson here, no?"
"More Russian humor!"
"No," he dryly answered. "Sorry."
his dark eyes on him. "To become involved is stupid. Like the
C.I.A. in El Salvador. Here."
replied and knew straight away he had screwed up. But he told
himself the slip didn't matter. Lt. Oscar knew. General Rosa
knew. It was just a game they all played.
"Yes, well, I must go. The wife. She worries so when I am
late. Besides Sam waits for you at Gus's. Gus flew to the
States." He stood, gave the curled ends of his mustache a twirl,
and smiled. "Why?"
"Gus has his reasons."
"Yes. By the way. Chimmaltenango."
198
"What?"
"Go to Chimmaltenango for your prescription. The pharmacists
dangerous pharmaceutical drugs. The town is only a half hour by
car."
"Why?"
He shook his head sadly, "Our youth are being corrupted. The
Central Plaza. The park. Much drugs sold there."
He wanted to say bullshit, but held back. The Lt, in his
way, was doing him a favor. "I'll do that."
"Good. What you do is your business. And thank you for the
better. I have nothing against you. I like you. You are the only
Antigua not good enough for them. But this is my town and I want
a peaceful town. You understand?"
He did and said so.
As the Lt. left, shuffling, and far more shrunken than his
five feet two, he felt sorry for him. The Lt. truly loved Antigua
and wanted it to thrive. But he was caught between a rock and a
hard place. And he understood this because the Lt. had cleared up
a few things for him. General Rosa, a creature of habit, either
used the guerrillas or drugs as an excuse to take control of a
town. General Rosa and his special forces now controlled Antigua.
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Chapter 27
The rain had stopped by the time Richard left for Gus's to
meet Sam. He drove slow, methodical, searching for the presence
of General Rosa's special forces. But it was well after nine and
hours, appeared to be at ease. A single soldier stood out front,
lamps in the park were off, casting the trees and shrubbery in
ominous shadows. Even the bus station was its usual self. Dogs
scrounged for food. Tinny American music blared from the Tiendas.
This calmness surprised him and he wondered more than ever
what General Rosa was up to.
At Gus's he parked behind Sam's Mercedes. From the speakers
without shouting. Although it was Monday, an off day for bars in
the regulars, Alexia, Foster, Sam, Doc, and John and Terry had
gathered shoulder to shoulder around the bar. They all appeared
200
subdued, especially Teresa. She wore a long face, bottom lip
tourists. But the subdued atmosphere at the bar had affected them
upstairs were dark, indicating the roof garden was closed. The
lone empty stool at the bar rested next to Alexia, and he sat on
it.
"Celebration?" he quipped.
"American humor?" Alexia stated.
"Something like that!" he testily answered, growing tired of
the question.
"Sorry," she replied.
"No need," he assured.
"American honesty," she joked.
"A question?"
"Bad night," she explained.
He leaned across the bar and stared at everybody at once.
"Somebody want to explain the merry mood?"
"The military," Doc declared, "have relocated all the Indian
peddlers to the Convento de las Capuchinas. Chain gangs from the
city prison have begun tearing the Central Plaza Park apart. They
have already removed the beautiful old concrete benches, not to
mention cutting down a dozen or so trees."
He muttered, "So that's why the park was dark." Then he
201
said, "Already?"
"Imagine it," Foster replied.
He tried to, but at first it was unimaginable. Just getting
an answer to a yes or no question from a bureaucrat in Guatemala
them, subdued yes, but very baffled by the turn in events. Teresa
set a drink in front of him and he took a few thoughtful sips.
The Convento de las Capuchinas was a hulking, roofless shell that
had been all but destroyed by an eighteen century earthquake. All
that remained were the stone walls and underbrush. Oddly, it was
Capuchinas was located on the corner of 2 Calle Oriente and 2a
Avenida Norte; which was midway between the bus terminal and the
Central Plaza. The stretch between the two served as the main
area. And had anybody but General Rosa instigated the affair, he
would have applauded him. The location was ideal for the Indian
peddlers who couldn't afford a shop of their own.
But instead of applauding the move, he shook his head: What
the hell is General Rosa up to?
"I hate this," Foster commented, "The park is beautiful. The
benches over two hundred years old. Why change it?"
202
Soon Doc, and Alexia joined in. The park was beautiful. The Plaza
attracted people from all over Guatemala. The conversation moved
parties ranged from Lt. Oscar to the mayor, to the army.
He motioned to Sam, pointing at an empty table. Sam nodded
such a crescendo they were not missed. The moment they were
"Overload," he explained. "Like I said earlier, I had sent
out the fucking update to State when you told me about General
Rosa's special forces patrolling Antigua on Sunday. I just burned
out trying to figure out why. Menchu. Bernard. Black. I hit the
passed about. I even stopped at the University. Zip all around.
Now this. It's all too much. It just doesn't figure. General Rosa
is doing the Indians a favor."
against General Rosa?"
Sam reacted as if he had socked him in the face. His head
shot back, and his eyes clouded over, as if filled by pain, or
anger or both. "You think I bullshitted you the other night? Just
booze talking? Using you to get at General Rosa? Is this it?"
No. Yes. Fear. I am afraid, Richard thought. He seemed to be
203
always afraid now...and could remember a time when he wasn't way
back..."Well, yeah, the thought had vaguely crossed my mind," he
admitted.
"We call it a draw," he murmured. "We give the woman one son
and let the other take his chances." He had spoken into the
table, but now he lifted his head and faced Richard. Hard. Cold.
Unfeeling. "I could hate you."
His words hit Richard hard. Hard as Richard's had hit him.
And for a long moment he stared at his glass. Teresa had lousy
timing. She changed the tape and put on Andes flute music.
Usually the simplicity of the music calmed him. But the whistling
flutes and the hard driving drums seeped into his soul, sending
emotions asunder. He saw the boy lying on the pavement. Listened
to the mother thank him for saving her son.
"I..."
"You what!"
"Apologize."
"Me too," Sam said.
"We go for the other son. Agreed?"
"No more bullshit?"
"Just the boy. No bullshit."
"You won't back out?"
Breath held, Richard sat motionless.
204
"I retract that," he said.
"Fine."
"You talk to Doc?"
wouldn't have called you."
"Perhaps we better call it off," Sam expressed.
meant, no. But your assessment on him is correct. He knows the
guerrillas." He explained the ride to Santa Maria De Jesus. The
onward walk to Pina. And the trip back down and his observations.
He only omitted the rather strange conversation with the blanket
General Rosa certainly knows."
"Of course," Sam replied.
"General Rosa hasn't arrested him. Why?"
"It's a mystery to me. And State. Rumor says Doc has an
angel placed high in the government. A very important man."
"How do you know this?"
"A file exists on Doc. The file goes back a long way. But
there's no mention of who the angel is."
"You've seen it?"
"Sure. Part of my job. Seen your file also."
205
but he had nothing to hide. Besides as Embassy information
clearance for all Embassy employees. But why Doc? As far as he
citizens living in Guatemala. So he asked.
nothing to do with it. My predecessor, Bush. Bush held the post
for almost twenty years and came from the old school and saw
spooks in his sleep. He maintained a file on every permanent
they still lived in Guatemala, the files were, well, filled with
silly stuff. But Doc. Now there is an interesting file. You know
why he came here of course. The abortion. And after going to the
village with him, you figured why he's always talking about child
birth and lives in a tin roofed hut on the outskirts of town.
Lives alone too. Has for thirty years. But when he first arrived
here he was young, and as such had carnal desires. Once a week he
chose the same girl. An Indian girl. She became pregnant. The
baby could have been any john's. But Doc, the guilt over the
obsessed, that he was the father. To make a long story short, he
delivered the baby...a boy. The girl, the mother, barely fourteen,
206
hemorrhaged. Doc wanted to perform a blood transfusion, but, well
she died. He blamed himself...but thirty years ago in Guatemala
there wasn't even a blood bank. Anyway, Doc wanted to raise the
child but the girl's grandmother took the child and disappeared
into the mountains."
"Jesus," he muttered.
"Yeah, bitch huh."
"Explains a lot."
"A hell of a lot."
"Do you think he will help?"
"If he trusts us. And there is no reason why he should."
"Now?"
"Later, at your house or his."
A few more words were passed before they rejoined the others
at the bar. Since they both worked at the U.S. Embassy, Richard
expected a comment or two about what they were discussing alone,
about at the bar. But the debate on the Plaza raged, indicating
their absence had gone unnoticed; except by Alexia, who passed
him a questioning glance. As he reseated himself next to her, he
said, "Embassy business."
"Oh," she replied, "You weren't talking about me?"
"German humor?"
207
"Of course."
"Are you still angry at Sam?"
"About the other night?
"Yes."
"No. I thought it over. I have spent a year in Guatemala,
long enough to know that the army and the police are here to
create disorder, not solve it. Sam took the correct action.
Farabundo is a bully. Bullies must always be stopped. So no I am
not. And you?"
Her maturity surprised him. He had assumed her to be about
properly."
She swiveled her head and looked behind her at the street.
He detected a wistfulness in her gaze and said as much.
"Yes. I leave Guatemala in a week."
reason why he should be. They only knew each other through Gus's,
and although had shared a few drinks and conversation really knew
very little about each other.
"So your research is complete?"
"Yes. I return home and write my thesis"
"You will teach."
"Oh no," she said, scrunching up her face, as Crista did,
208
"Yuck."
What he said next escaped without forethought. "Parting is
such sweet sorrow."
"More sorrow then sweet," she replied, then shrugged, "I may
not see you again."
"Why?" he replied, surprised, "You said a week."
"Yes I know," she answered, "But I want to spend a few days
at the coast. Monterrico. Ever visited there?"
He had not and admitted as much; wasn't even sure what part
of Guatemala it was located in...but kept this to himself.
"Very beautiful. And deserted. A place to think."
"And when you return?"
him."
So she wasn't seeing Sam, he immediately thought. He shook
his head and thought how little he knew about her.
She held out her hand and he shook it. Her fingers long, her
clasp was firm. In case they never saw each other again, he
wished her well. She did likewise. He was about to add, 'yes
took her spot. "I was just telling Sam that since you and him
worked at the United States Embassy you should investigate this
mess."
209
confused, he asked, "What mess?"
"The park. Wake up."
sprang out. Richard had a moment to reflect on Foster's sad eyes
of yesterday before the second passed and the happy instructive
is it me? Or have I been blind all these years?
Richard's thoughts.
Richard motioned Teresa for a refill while appearing to mull
the request over. "You're really serious about this?"
"Darn right!"
Teresa smiled at him as she filled his glass.
"I never get to spend much time in the park," she commented,
"What with the bar and Gus."
"Nor does Foster," he commented in return. But the response
was perfunctory. He watched Alexia come out of the bathroom. She
saw Foster had occupied her stool, and took the same stool Foster
supposed Alexia was saying goodbye to Sam.
210
"That's beside the point," Foster replied, "The Plaza, the
park is beautiful. Why destroy it?"
Things change, Richard wanted to say, but said instead, "I
have never seen you so worked up before. Hell even losing the
movie channels didn't bother you this much."
replied.
Before Richard could think of an answer, Doc rudely wedged
between them. "Let's go to my place."
"What's the rush?" he responded, annoyed at Doc.
"I suggested it," Sam, leaning across the bar, said.
"Think about what I said," Foster instructed.
Richard, surprised by such a quick turn in events, absently
nodded as one does when trapped. He finished the drink and stood.
Foster stood and joined John and Terry. He reached over and
touched Teresa's shoulder and told her to cheer up. Gus would
return soon. She nodded, but the glum look on her face told
another tale. Sam and Doc were at the door by this time and Doc
called out to hurry up. By the time he reached the door they were
on the sidewalk. He paused for a moment, unsure he wanted to go
through with this.
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Chapter 28
A fight played out in front of a Tienda across from the bus
station...a good three hundred feet from where Richard, Doc, and
Sam stood. The two men, etched in the shadow from the light
before conceiving the bastard child.
fight...they were a common occurrence...and instead discussed a
problem of their own which involved the three cars. None of them
said that the solution was simple. Each of them drive their own
the Plaza and view the park and would meet them shortly at Doc's
house.
wanted time. And wanted to prove to himself that he was taking
the correct path. Sam was right.
212
One by one they filed away. Doc's Ford Galaxy first, the
cobblestones, Sam's Mercedes smoothly following.
Richard sat, the Toyota idling, while waiting. A few minutes
later he spun a Uturn and went up 4 Calle Poniente. He slowed to
a crawl while going past the Armory. The same soldier stood
outside, only this time the carbine rested against the Palace
wall as did the soldier, and appeared asleep. Richard continued a
slow crawl circling the Plaza. The usual dark shapes huddled in
blankets slept under trees. It occurred to him that he was about
days...more than he had done during the past several years.
off and exited the car and went into the park itself. The
darkness that earlier had from the confines of the car shielded
the changes, faded, exposing gaping holes where trees used to
root. Ruts also lay in the ground where the concert benches once
sat. Startled by his presence, rats scurried searching for hiding
places that were now gone. One particular rat, about the size of
bench was gone and just rested its red eyes glowing up at him in
wrapped in blankets would, come first light, track and catch the
213
larger, yet slower pursuer. A cook fire made out of thin branches
month enjoyed...he didn't know this for sure but had heard the
stories.
Although he never believed them, the stories were true.
car, would bring a moveable feast.
The darkness all around, he sat in the confines and warmth
of the car wondering what the hell General Rosa was up to. His
thoughts worked way around to: And why should I care? Because I
had promised an old Indian woman? Because Sam and I had made a
deal? Because Sam and I were friends?
The last thought wormed into him, and out of frustration he
took the pill bottle from his pocket and sucked on a full ten
dissecting, reasoning, adding...at last he viciously turned the
key and the ignition caught. He shifted into first and headed
for Doc's house.
214
Chapter 29
Leisurely they had sipped on rum and discussed General Rosa
and what his intentions were for about an hour when a bird,
sounding like tiny pebbles, scampered over the tin roof. Sam and
Richard sat on opposite ends of the bed, using the wall as a back
rest. Sam's long lanky legs ran off the end of the bed with shoes
almost touching the floor; he tilted his head in the direction of
the noise. Doc rested on the oak chair, its back to the desk so
he faced them. He held a bottle of rum steady in his hand, filled
his glass, and set the bottle on the floor and checked the watch
on his wrist, and nodded as if confirming an appointment.
"Buzzard," he commented, "I leave scraps of meat out. Like
clockwork he arrives at midnight."
"A buzzard?" Richard asked.
him Buzzard. He first appeared about a week ago, such a racket it
woke me. I came out to see what it was...nothing but darkness. So
landed on the roof I trapped him in the beam of a flashlight. The
215
light momentarily hypnotized him, and he froze. A large black
raven. I laughed and said, 'hey stupid, the only food on the roof
open cape, he glided away. But he returned the next night. So I
began to leave a few scraps of meat on the roof for him. I guess
he figured he had found a sucker."
"You are a strange man," Richard remarked.
But you are a strange man, Richard thought, looking around
back at how many times he had wondered why Doc chose to live like
this. He now wondered why he hadn't seen the answer long ago. The
plywood desk. The stacks of correspondence. The boxes filled with
letters and notes from as far back as nineteen fifty. The answer
had rested in all this. He had been too blind to see it.
He caught a glimpse of Doc's yellow cagey eyes studying him
from across the room. Penetrating eyes. Yellow penetrating eyes.
And he suddenly knew that they all knew why they were there. Sam
and him. And Doc too...those yellow cagey eyes of his eyes taking
them in for the past hour weren't fooled for a moment.
"You didn't take me up to Santa Maria De Jesus just to see
the boy's mother. Did you, Doc?" he expressed.
A skeptical smiled crossed his lips. "Would you really have
216
called out the Marines, Sam?
Richard. But only for a moment. Doc knew the Indians. The Indians
knew everything that went on.
"Farabundo will never know," Sam responded.
"You know Sam," Doc announced, "I could never read you. When
I first met you I thought: Sam doesn't seem at all like the
C.I.A. type."
"I am not. I am the Embassy information officer."
"Sure. But indulge an old man, please. For the sake of the
conversation."
position. "For the sake of the conversation."
"After a few months, I thought: Sam. A new breed of C.I.A. A
few more months went by and I thought: No. Sam is too straight
forward to be C.I.A. No bullshit in him." He wagged a thin finger
his glass at Sam. "Your doing, Sam, of course."
"State's doing," Sam rebutted.
Richard expected further from Sam, but he had said what he
wanted to say and sat studying Doc.
217
thought: At last the U.S. is leaving the peepers and paranoid
confronting General Rosa...Richard is renowned for never becoming
involved, one could even say he was the last of the, 'the
Well, Richard stunned me to say the least."
"Doc," he said, "I am sitting right here. I am not a third
person. Don't address me as such."
"Quite right, Richard. Sorry. You, you dumfounded me when
you asked to see the dead boy's mother. At first I thought that
all the Valium you were taking had addled your brain."
Richard's eyes did a slow roll toward the ceiling, as if to
say: Are there no secrets?
Doctor, when you and Crista reach New York City, I suggest you
withdraw slowly...Valium is a muscle relaxer and the heart is a
muscle and sudden Valium deprivation can cause cardiac arrest."
"Are Crista and I going to New York?"
"Damn Indian maids. Talk talk talk...like colorful parrots."
it!"
"I am," he said and placed a hand over his mouth and yawned.
When the hand fell, he snatched the rum bottle from the floor and
deftly rolled the chair over to the bed. He lay the bottle on the
218
floor and leaned so his elbows rested on the mattress. "So you,
Richard, suddenly want to help. But do you say, 'have Ruth call
you?' No. You say, 'have Ruth call Sam,' and give me a cockand
bull story about how you don't want Ruth knowing it is you who is
helping." He nodded, "And I almost bought it. I mean, it fit you.
The man who never involves himself, involved himself by staying
behind the scenes. Like I said, I almost bought it. But I thought
on it for a bit. Sure you were angry at General Rosa for the
little incident with the gun. And Crista, you and her running
away. It fit. But it wasn't you. So it had to be Sam. So I asked
myself what did Sam want? What did the C.I.A. want? To embarrass
General Rosa? Sure. But yanking one Indian kid out of General
back where I started. A lot of questions and no answers. So you
two tell me."
seeing spooks where there are none. You're right, Richard and I
planned on springing the kid from the army. But State's out of
the loop. It's just Richard and me. And we want to spring the
other son also. The one who joined the guerrillas. And we want
you to put us in contact with Jorge, the rebel leader for this
region. That's what I am up to, Doc."
"My God," Doc exclaimed, flabbergasted. "Surely you..."
"Cut it out Doc," Sam coldly ordered. "You sat there and
219
boldly impressed us with your vault of little secrets and
thoughts and also the breadth and width of your intellect. I am
impressed, but don't in turn play me for an idiot."
Doc gave an ugly smirk. "The file. I had heard there was one
on me. That bastard Bush. Had spies everywhere."
"You evade the question."
his eyes nestled on the floor: helpless, old, a very old man.
"And if I say no? My resident visa is revoked. Sent back to
States is worse. This is my home, these people my people."
Richard. He said this. Doc looked up at him. "Simple? The C.I.A
wants to destroy me. Simple. Yes. Simple."
"Damn it Doc," Sam shouted and leapt off the bed, "I am
going to tell you this once more. State is out of the loop. If
leaving for New York. But my ass. Now if you want to help, fine.
If not just say so and that will be the end of it. You were all
so damn fired up to help the one son. Well what about the other
son? He's dead. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day but
eventually General Rosa's troops will line him up and shoot him.
You know the statistics. Ninety percent of the rebel recruits are
killed within the first six months."
220
Richard had to admire Doc's resiliency. A moment ago, the
thought of his little world torn away had devastated him. But as
he looked up at Sam, the old fire was back in his eyes. "Just for
the sake of the argument?"
"Like me and the C.I.A."
"Well if I could reach Jorge, and I can't of course, but if
I could why should he release the boy? What's in it for him?"
Sam strode along the path of boxes to the makeshift desk and
toyed with the edges of some papers there for a moment before
picking one up. "To Jan Vine. Springfield, Illinois. Concerning
The Child Project," Sam recited, reading while facing the desk.
Borrowed. Rooms: 1. Walls: Wood. Roof: Tin. Floor: Dirt. Water:
on." When he turned, the paper held in his hand, a full broad
smile covered his face.
two of them.
"I hear Jorge's an arrogant bastard. Machismo from head to
221
toe. Like General Rosa."
"So they say," Doc replied.
"Wants to be an important man."
"He is," Doc proudly replied.
impresses these, but so does the Cadillac pimp and drug dealer
in East Harlem."
Sam shrugged. "Comparison. But the two, the pimp drug lord
and Jorge long for the same thing...legitimacy"
"And you can offer this," Doc cynically replied, "Only the
State department or the C.I.A."
Sam flung the paper aside and covered the distance between
them in three steps. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the
arms of Doc's chair. His face contorted, angry and hard. "Listen
you pompous ass, in Guatemala I am the State Department!"
At that very moment, Richard had taken a full swig from the
rum and, realizing Sam's admission, almost choked.
"So you really are the C.I.A," Doc stated back.
reports I send to Washington are taken as gospel. And I am tired
of people thinking I am lying. You got that Doc? You hear me! You
follow?"
222
"So many babies to deliver," Doc murmured, "So many. Did you
know that sixty percent of Guatemala is under eighteen? So many
babies. Sometimes ten a day. The dirt. The flies. The blood. The
always come. And the blood. The blood. So many babies."
His body had slumped over, his murmuring head resting on the
bed, the skin slack, pale, but still he murmured on about the
babies.
"Doc!" Richard said. He scooted to the foot of the bed and
slid off to the floor and stood. "Doc!"
"So many babies," he whispered, "Come back Tomorrow. Please.
So many babies. And the dead ones. The umbilical cord, the life
chokes life out of them. But still the blood. They struggle to
darkened, deathblack dead face. Go home now. Leave me. So many
babies. Go home. So many babies. Go home. The blood. If you could
only see the blood you would understand. The blood. Not red at
all. Almost purple..."
Doc's voice had fallen into a haunting whisper. And Sam and
Richard fled the hut. It was nearly one in the morning and the
air was so dark even the fan leaves on the banana trees were
leaves, and partly due to guilt and shame they followed the dirt
223
path to the front gate. Poco yelped along at their heels. A two
Disgusted, Sam kicked it away and opened the gate. Richard closed
the gate behind them.
cleansing breath. Goodbyes. See you tomorrow at work. Goodnight.
home. The picture of Doc muttering under his chin, his skin slack
and pale, rode with him. He assured Doc he would be okay come
morning. Not to worry. No harm would come to you or your papers
or your babies or your hut...your life. Doc grunted, yes, yes, I
am an old fool who worries too much.
Richard told himself that saving one boy was enough. What
more could he do? What more could anybody do? Doc agreed.
It was well past two when the headlights sprayed across the
house. Celia had left the light on in the car port. He tucked the
car away for the night and went to the kitchen and fixed a drink.
Drink in hand, he climbed the stairs to the roof. He positioned
two chairs across from each other and stretched out as best he
could. A chill was evident. At first he considered turning on the
electric grate, but was too tired to move. It was just as well
because the bourbon and the sight of Aqua soon warmed him.
224
He awoke to the first light stretching out like bunting over
Aqua. His right side ached and half asleep, he tumbled more then
walked down the stairs to the kitchen and sliced four oranges in
half and hand squeezed the juice into a glass. Most of the juice
spilled through his palms to the counter top. He gulped down the
halffull glass and set it down in a puddle of orange juice. He
trudged to the bathroom and ground a ten milligram Valium under
his molars and went to the bedroom, fell on the bed and quickly
slipped back asleep.
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The clanging of Celia banging pots and pans in the kitchen
more hours. He looked at his left wrist, but the watch wasn't
called out to Celia for the time.
"Noon," she yelled back.
Power outage, he thought.
confirming his thoughts.
"I figured," he yelled back.
"Miss Crista send boy with note," she yelled.
"Bring it to me," he yelled back.
"You want note you come out of the bedroom."
Her refusal brought the first smile of the day. She never
226
against such behavior. He got out of bed and went to the shower.
As the water beaded over him, he thought about what Doc had
stated the previous evening. "The damn Indian maids, talk talk
talk...like colorful parrots." He found this difficult to believe
about Celia, and dismissed the notion out of hand. She took her
religion and her position as head of the house very seriously.
There were many ways Doc could have learned about the Valium and
about Crista and him leaving. And yes, the Indian maids talked,
but Celia wasn't one of them.
And finally and at last, as he went to the kitchen, thought:
And what did it matter anyhow?
"Do you want breakfast on the terrace?"
because he had decided to leave Guatemala. He really didn't know
light. She stood at the stove, back to him. She wore a powder
blue blouse and white skirt and her black hair fell almost to her
waist. By western standards she wasn't attractive. She had bronze
skin, smooth, and was short and plump, but this was the nature
of most Indian woman...bronzed smooth skin and short and plump.
The Indians seldom applied makeup or went on diets; their time
was spent working leaving little time for such vain foolery.
She knew him as well as anyone: habits...what time he ate
227
just the way he liked it, and more importantly his moods, when to
about her, her thoughts. He knew that she was nineteen, and
looked fourteen. Worshiped God. Had so far remained unmarried. He
also knew her family but only because she invited him to her
vegetables and home baked cake...a feast they had to work and
save for all year to serve.
Yes, Crista served one part of him, and Celia another. If
only he could take them both to New York.
"Yes, I will dine on the terrace."
"Of course," she responded without turning from her chore.
"I have already set the table. The note from Crista is there
also. The electric grate is on."
Of course he thought.
He had never taken the trouble to sit down and spend a few
moments just chatting with her and decided now was the time.
"Dine with me."
"You have a nice visit?"
"Pardon me?" he replied.
"Santa Maria De Jesus."
thought, she had overheard Lt. Oscar the other day. He briefly
reconsidered Doc's words. Quickly rejected them.
228
"Very."
"I am sorry," she said. "But I cannot dine with you. It
would not be proper."
"Just this once?"
"No. Besides you want to know about the Indians. You are
curious."
"Yes."
A soft sigh. "Go to church."
"Celia."
"It would do your soul good."
with me."
"Is not proper."
"Damn your proper."
"No," she firmly responded.
He knew better than to argue. As he went to the terrace, he
reference and give her a hefty severance check.
The sky over Aqua lay overcast and cloudy. He paid scant
attention to Aqua or the threat of rain. Instead his eyes strayed
to the folded piece of paper nestled between the salt and pepper
table. She had cooked a cheese omelet and he spread the note
229
open, reading it while he ate.
Dearest Richard:
Although I long to stretch out, my head nestled deep on your
chest, I have other obligations today. The Ambassador arranged an
attend. So in spirit I send these borrowed lines:
How do I love thee
Let me count the ways
From the breath and width of my soul
I love thee?
Crista.
The entire page was typewritten including her name, and he
couldn't help but smiling at this. So Crista. Yet so unlike her.
The old Crista would never send a poem. This Crista would...but
harshly. Love was a new and exciting experience for her. For him
too, he reminded himself. And wondered how she found the new
Richard. Did she find this person strange, yet at the same time
similar; as he found her? He made a mental note to ask her.
He reread her words, and was basking in their glow when the
phone rang. It was Sam. He expected him to say: Why aren’t you
instead.
"Actually yes," Richard replied, "I feel like Doc lifted the
230
responsibility of the other son from us. You?"
"Angry. Just angry!"
"Are you angry at me?"
"You mean about you and Crista? No. I knew. Maids talk talk
talk...as Doc so ineloquently put it. I figured you were playing
it low key to keep the Ambassador from discovering."
"I was," he half lied, "You think he knows?"
craftiness works in reverse. No information comes out, but very
little goes in...at least along the help grapevine."
"So why are you angry?" he inquired.
"Doc. So selfrighteous. Pisses me off. I wanted to save the
other son. Without Doc's help...well fuck it."
"Let it go. He's a crazy old coot. A likable crazy old coot. But
a crazy old coot nevertheless."
"I suppose," Sam replied, resignation in his voice.
"Anything going on?"
yesterday's news. Ditto for Bernard. You know how it goes."
He knew. Sam had a framed quote in his apartment clipped
231
from the 'Book Of Laughter,' by the Czech writer Milan Kundera.
The quote went as so: "The Bloody massacre in Bangladesh quickly
groans of Bangladesh, the war in the Sinai desert made the people
forget Allenda, the Cambodian massacre made the people forget the
everyone lets everything be forgotten."
Black ate Bernard, Menchu ate Black, and already all three
were forgotten. He wondered if the Nobel committee knew this when
year after year they awarded their grand Peace Prize.
"So what's on the burner now?"
shot to the head. For years Reagan's State department insisted it
control the situation. You know, the usual: that happened on the
last watch. I don't know why State doesn't tell the truth and say
they blew it. But as much as I hate to say it, gruesome as it may
General Rosa is up too."
"Gives us time," Richard replied.
"Thanks," he answered, "But you're out of it. I intercepted
232
your resignation to State. As of now you're officially on leave
until the final papers are processed. A going away wedding gift.
Spend your time packing, kissing Crista, walking around. Enjoy.
You earned it."
The letter, note, poem from Crista lay before within touch.
He thought: later I will call her and tell her we can leave
right away.
But for now Sam waited on the phone. Richard waited in his
mind for something to say, the proper words, words to convey what
he was feeling: words of regret, but something more...a few days
ago, hell yesterday, he had distrusted Sam and now he realized a
true friend lay on the other end of the phone.
glum as always. Be there by eight."
His voice had grown husky and he pushed the disengage talk
switch on the portable phone before Sam could respond.
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hollow rested where his heart lay. Yesterday he had rejoiced at
the mere thought of leaving...and yesterday he was afraid and the
day before that and... But today was different. Things change. My
how things change. Such a marvel a day makes. The fear? Gone. The
There...but. But his emotions were torn asunder at the thought of
leaving his house and job and friends. Sad one moment, happy the
next. Twice he caught his hand reaching for the phone to call
Crista. A happy call. Joyous. Crista love, we can leave tomorrow.
She would be overjoyed. Maybe even shout out. But she was at the
Palace with the Ambassador.
To keep from thinking, he busied himself. A halfdozen times
really. Little things that were once useful, but had become
either obsolete or replaced by a new, improved version. A three
234
discovered that most of the names and phone numbers written
within had moved back to the States. A polished rock. When the
desk had been delivered he had discovered the rock hidden away.
For two years he had used the rock as a paperweight. He retired
the rock when Crista, as a Christmas present, had presented him
other things. Many other things.
Except for the rock, he dumped all the years of accumulated
junk in the wire trash can next to the desk. In a rare moment of
poetic license, he put the rock back in the hiding place where he
desk. And perhaps the next person who used the desk would
discover it and use it as a paper weight. Perhaps after a while
person would put the rock back in its hiding place. Perhaps the
next person who bought the desk would discover it and use it as a
paper weight. Perhaps not.
After a while he had to go, get the hell out of the room,
the house. But go where? It was too early to meet Sam at Gus's.
But he had to get out. Where? Anywhere. Just walk. Say a silent
farewell to the town.
235
housewives slowwalking a toddler or two. Men buried beneath the
and slacks, or blue blouses and skirts. The crumbled ruins of
activity buzzed on the sidewalks surrounding the Central Plaza.
He crossed over to the park and headed for the center and
the stone fountain. The darkness of the previous evening had
shielded the extent of the changes and in the light of day he was
appalled by the destruction. A good twenty percent of the trees
were cut off at the trunk. The bushes surrounding the park were
circles finally giving way to a pool were each in turn dry. The
four bronze naked women whose breasts fed the fountain seemed
rather sad. Perhaps the sculptured women were sad because the
park lay void of the usual children selling handcrafts and shoe
shine men. But dozens of Indian men had replaced the latter. The
undergrowth surrounding the park's periphery. The work was hard,
overcast and cloudy, as it had during breakfast, but the air was
236
hot, humid, sticky...indicating the change between seasons, late
to be sure, was soon to arrive. The flies and mosquitoes seemed
to sense the change also. They were bolder, less afraid and more
numerous. Several times he involuntarily slapped at a mosquito or
fly. Soon, he thought, if he wasn't leaving, he would be cursing
them with every four letter word in his vocabulary. Then he
thought of Doc. The coming black water. Hepatitis. Dysentery. He
envied him...disease and death made up his life and without them
Doc would have withered up and died long ago.
said hello. She appeared older than the last time he had seen
her: her face was hollow as if she hadn't slept much, and a gray
tiredness ringed her eyes.
"You look tired," he commented.
"Yes," she replied, "I haven't felt up to snuff the past few
murdered. Worst of all is the silence. You know? The silence. But
I promised you. I did go to confession though. My faith allows
this. This was okay wasn't it?"
"Ruth," he said, "There is nothing you could, can do. But
Death is silence."
237
Ruth said, "I wanted to thank you."
"No need."
"Yes, I wanted to thank you. And apologize. You see I blamed
you at first. Or I tried to. But in the end the blame lay at my
feet. Had I not convinced Chusa to come to town, none of this
would have happened. You ever read Don Quixote?"
"Long time ago in school."
harder."
"Vaguely," he lied.
"I felt so much like Don Quixote..."
needed a release, remained silent.
"...Like a knight. Can women be knights? I don't remember.
But probably not. knighthood sounds so male. Anyway, I wanted to
be. But the master, you can't win over a master...that is why he
is the master."
"You saved one son."
"Oh yes, I know this now. But at the time. At the time! Now
I know. The Father told me so."
238
For lack of anything else to say, he said, "It is the
Guatemalan way."
"I wanted to thank you," she replied and shuffled away.
impression that she hadn't heard a word he had said. But he
really hadn't said anything worth hearing, so what did it matter?
She had confessed, once in church and now to him. Her soul was
cleansed. All forgiven.
He crossed the street. The construction in the park had not
deterred the vendors who sold food cooked over makeshift stoves
lined up on cardboard boxes, sold them one at a time for twenty
but they were nowhere to be seen. He did see Lt. Oscar. He stood
within the shadows of the door to the police station. The Lt.
watched the men work in the park, his handlebar mustache looked
frayed, the upturned ends listing in the wrong direction.
As if reading Richard's thoughts, the Lt. raised two fingers
on both hands and gave the ends a neat twist, and once again the
ends twirled upward.
There, Richard thought, is a proper handlebar mustache.
He continued walking aimlessly around the square, searching
for a familiar face: Foster, John, Terry, anybody; spend a second
and say hello and exchange gossip. Tell them about him and
239
Crista...and why not, what did it matter now? But nobody. But of
course they had things to do, he thought.
Foster was there. Sit on the balcony. Chit chat. Tell him about
leaving. After all what did it matter now? Foster would be
pleased that he would be the first, well discounting Sam and Doc,
to know.
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told him so. Told him he was taking advantage of my good nature."
the bar and had sat there nursing a drink for about an hour while
listening to Teresa complain about Gus.
knowing that at least Teresa would be there. He would tell her
the news, watch the joy for him explode across her face. The
moment he walked in he noticed that the tape player was silent.
the pounding of feet on the sidewalk. He had made the mistake of
asking about the music, and Teresa, longing for an ear, had
company he carried along two fifths of Ouzo. Richard didn't need
to be told about the Ouzo. He could hear Gus up there cursing.
Loud. Obnoxious. Mean. Hopefully soon the Ouzo would have the
241
desired effect and Gus would pass out on the table and sleep off
whatever ailed him. Which was obviously his boy.
"Give him a day."
gentlest man I ever met in my life. You wouldn't know this by
watching him rage all day at every little thing. But late at
from poets like Browning, Thomas, and others. Sometimes he reads
from books, whole chapters at a time out loud. That booming voice
of his becomes soft, mellow, peaceful. Like he's found a place, a
safe clean place...and I am part of his safe clean place. It's
all he wants, you know. A place where the past doesn't call on
him."
"Did he say anything at all about his son?"
"Has a letter from him. Waved it in the air. But wouldn't
show me the letter. Just went upstairs and started drinking. He
wasn't even upset when I told him about two more chairs being
stolen."
While Teresa spoke, the ranting and screaming upstairs had
died out. "Maybe he's asleep," he ventured.
more. I'll move out. I've had it."
Little locks of brown hair fell over her forehead. She shook
her head, tossing the locks this way and that way, highlighting
242
she meant it. But as she excused herself and went to the
storeroom, he knew she wasn't trying to convince him but herself.
She loved Gus. Gus loved her. In a strange way they were made for
each other. Gus the seething raging poet, and Teresa, gentle slow
together. Find Gus's the same. Gus. Teresa. The music. He laughed
same of Crista and himself.
Teresa came out of the storeroom carrying two bottles of Jim
Beam. Placing them on the bar, she asked what he was laughing
about.
"Nothing."
She ran a towel over each bottle. "You always say that."
empty. "Refill, please."
"Only if you go up and check on Gus."
Gus was quiet. So he agreed, and slid off the stool and
walked up the stairs. Like a wounded bear, Gus lay slumped head
against a table, his shaggy beard resting in a pool of Ouzo. The
letter from his boy lay on the ground. Richard moved his head so
from his lips...but he slept on. Richard picked up the letter.
Gus, Gus, he whispered. He folded it and stored it away in Gus's
243
weren't his business.
stool, she worriedly inquired about Gus. "Fine. Have a hell of a
fine."
"Maybe I should put him in bed."
Her eyebrows arched, as if asking for help. Gus was a heavy
man and he had no intention of straining his back trying to cart
him down a dozen stairs. "Let him sleep. In a few hours, we'll
drag him to bed."
bought a new pasta machine. He's so sad. Do you think anybody is
happy? I mean most of the time Gus and I are happy. But is
anybody truly happy?"
Bar talk, or the famous sucker question. He started to tell
her about him and Crista, first chance he had had, and how happy
Edwardo sided up at the bar. "Is Alexia around?" he inquired in
Spanish.
"No," he answered, "Left for the coast."
"Good, I can speak Spanish. But I am an innocent victim. English
man, no?"
244
"Yes," he answered, grinning at his antics.
"So I have a rum. Teresa a rum. No water. No ice. No glass
if you don't want to wash it. Just bring the bottle. I drink it
all."
"Silly," she answered.
glass. Ah, but a rich man, he needs but a glass, a poor man
requires a bottle to wash away life's heartaches."
Much to Richard's surprise she set a bottle of Ron Botran on
the bar.
your veins."
"Edwardo," she said. She leaned forward planting her elbows
on the bar and fixed those deep brown eyes of hers on him. "You
it."
faking it." Although his hands lay on the bar he raised one
finger, a gesture so Latin Richard almost laughed out loud. "You
see."
Teresa had a good hearty laugh, a laugh incapable of false
hood. And she threw her head back and gave a good example of it.
They enjoyed watching her so much they didn't see Doc and Sam
245
until they were almost upon them. Richard attempted to hide his
off the stool and held both hands welcoming wide. "Doc! Sam! What
a delight!"
"You're full of shit," Doc replied, "You about as delighted
to see me as a snowman a blazing sun."
"Doc, Doc," he cajoled, and pulled one shoulder back in mock
injury.
"Enough foolery," he ordered, "You are obviously in good
spirits because you think you are home free. Your obligation
just yet. I decided to take you up on your offer of last night. I
want to see the kind of metal you and Sam are made of."
demeanor, would be an understatement. Even Teresa admonished Doc.
"Doc what's got into you?"
Edwardo had seen too much of life to be confused or amazed.
in...digesting the events and the vocal tones.
upstairs. "Teresa, have Jun bring Doc and me a drink. Please."
"Sure," she answered.
Without further word, Sam trailed behind Doc up the stairs
to the roof garden.
246
"And another for me," Richard said, "And Edwardo, I leave
you in Teresa's loving hands. Later."
rumors. The guerrillas. These fools who kill a soldier or two and
run to hide in the mountains. The Doc, he has a fire burning in
his stomach. Let it go. If it true you have reason to celebrate,
stay and help me finish off this bottle of Rum. I am but a small
man. The bottle is big. Take two men. You say yes, no?"
"Thanks Edwardo," he replied, "But I have to hear what Doc
has to say."
"Ah well, I will work on the bottle while you are gone. I
save you a little."
from where Gus snored. He straddled the chair opposite Doc so he
could study him. He was angry. As much as he felt sorry for Doc,
he wasn't going to take any more of his shit. Last night was
enough.
"What's on your mind Doc," he said right off, "more secrets?
About me? Sam? Huh? There are no more. Crista and I are leaving.
I pop a valium or two to help me sleep; it's this Godforsaken
country...damn country makes a man fear even fear. And Sam is in
the C.I.A. And Gus over there is a drunk because he's a poet at
heart and has a kid who's an asshole. Now do you want to start
247
muttering about babies and blood? Go ahead. I don't give a damn
anymore."
"Richard," Sam soothed.
"No, no, fuck him!"
"You know, Richard," Doc said, "I never liked you. Too
unemotional. Too indifferent. At first I thought it was an act.
But as time went by, and I got to know you better, I realized you
weren't acting at all."
Richard stood to leave. "I don't have to take this shit from
you."
"Richard," Sam said, "Sit."
But he remained standing.
"Please. Time is short."
stand at a moment's notice. "Tell me now what the hell is going
on. And Doc, no more comments from you or I am out of here...Sam
not withstanding."
"Doc," Sam ordered, "Shut up for five minutes or I am out of
here also."
three glasses on it. Sensing that she had intruded on a heated
conversation, she murmured on about wanting to check on Gus as
she placed the drinks on the table. The moment the drinks were
placed on the table she went over and bent over Gus. She stood
248
and awkwardly pronounced him stone drunk and sleeping. She
grinned sheepishly and left the roof garden.
"We're going to meet with Jorge," Sam announced the moment
Teresa was gone.
"The hell you say!" Richard incredulously replied.
"Doc arranged it," Sam stated.
"I..." Doc started to say.
"Just shut up Doc. Just shut the fuck up!"
Why Doc didn't resent Richard and lash out for speaking so
harshly, was a mystery. Instead he nodded, not meekly or out of
defeat, just a simple nod, then sipped on his drink while fixing
yellow eyes on Sam.
"We leave in fifteen minutes," Sam said.
"Where?"
"The coast. A town called Monterrico. Fifteen kilometers to
the north lays the Mexico, fifteen Kilometers. to the south lays
trap, and he has to make a run for it, he stands a fiftyfifty
chance of making either border. Home free...so to speak.
"Ever hear of the place?" Doc sneered at Richard.
aware of Guatemala's boarders. So stuff it."
"There are several chicken buses that can take us part way.
249
Three changes in all. The first in Guatemala city," Sam
explained, "But there is only one direct bus that leaves from
Antigua. And even this bus drops its passengers at a dirt road,
at a sort of town called La Avellana. From there we have to take
next morning for the return trip at ten. The trip takes about
three hours. We're suppose to check into the Ocean Hotel, a cheap
dive. But it's on the beach. There we wait patiently for Jorge to
contact us."
Even Richard, who had only ridden on a chicken bus once, was
affair. After dark the buses were open game; bandits, guerrillas
and the military prayed on them and the passengers. But he said
nothing of these fears, instead he asked, "Why? After last night
why should we do this? Why believe Doc? Maybe Jorge wants to
kidnap us? We do work for the Embassy. Give him leverage."
"I don't trust Doc," Sam, a visible strain stitched across
his eyebrows, replied. "And I rather this had worked out last
night...trust between friends. But this is the way it played out.
So if it's a trap, so be it. If so Jorge is wasting his time. As
hostages, we're small fry." And according to State, expendable.
But Sam kept this to himself.
"You failed to answer my question. Why?"
250
"Because I promised. Call it a Texas thing, or Machismo with
honor. Choose which one suits you. So I am going. I would like
you to tag along in case it blows up in my face. Like I said, I
don't trust Doc. So how about I say please real nice."
"Why the hurry? What's the rush? We can leave tomorrow?"
"Doc arranged it. Even came to the Embassy and took me
outside and explained about the meeting. Insisted I leave my car
"You two are talking like I am a third person. Like I did
last night," Doc complained.
"That's right Doc," Richard coolly replied. "Remember, I am
the one who is indifferent. You are the savior. Sam, I'll go. Do
I have time to call Crista?"
"Probably," he answered, "But you better not. We'll be back
in the morning."
"Doc," he said, "While we are gone you can do a good deed by
taking care of Gus. I realize he isn't Indian. But he is a human
being."
attack on his character. But the effect of Richard's last words
were apparent on him. The skin around the eyes grew ashen, and
the yellow rims stared out blankly as if lost.
251
Richard expected Sam to say he was being too harsh on Doc,
but Sam, expressionless, stood. They left Gus's for the bus
terminal. On the way they stopped at a leanto with bottles of
Shampoo, bars of soap, and toothpastes and toothbrushes lined up
purchased a tooth brush and tooth paste. As they were in a hurry,
they didn't bother to haggle, and the kid working the stand,
about nine and wearing a frayed teeshirt that read, 'Vote For
Lyndon Johnson,' overcharged them by double. A broad smile ran
across his young face as they walked away.
just for you. You my friends now. You come back I always here.
Day and night. I never sleep. Special prices just for you."
"Vote for Johnson," Sam threw over his shoulder.
The kid yelled, "Special price just for you. Mr. Johnson.
Special price for him also."
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The chicken bus was a blood brother to the one Richard and
Doc had taken to Santa Maria: the rosy beads for good luck
hanging from the rearview mirror, the stern rules in English, a
miniature statue of the Virgin Mary replacing Jesus, Bart Simpson
replacing Bugs Bunny. The bus also was stuffed full, three
Indians to a seat and the aisle standingroom only, and the usual
assortment of chickens with blankeyed, stapledshut beaks. Sam
edged and shoved his way to the rear in search of a seat, while
Richard got lucky and managed to barely squeeze on a seat with
three slender Indian women on it. Almost from the moment they
Antigua, gears meshing and springs groaning while turning onto a
dirt back road that veered away from Antigua. The dirt road was
littered with ruts and every half second the bus jounced so
Richard had to lean inward to keep from sliding off the seat.
Events had moved too quickly for him to gather his thoughts
and he swiveled his head attempting to find Sam and shoot a few
253
questions his way. Sam's sixfeetplus frame was a good five
inches taller then the average Indian. But he couldn't find him
in the sea of people crammed toward the rear of the bus; not even
before, the closeness in the bus made him uncomfortable. He felt
penned in and also fumed inside, and chastised himself: he had to
be the biggest idiot in the world. A fool. All he had to do was
call Crista and in the morning they were off, gone, this insanity
behind him. But no, here he was heading to god only knew where to
meet a man the Guatemalan army would give their balls to capture.
God damn it to hell.
He still fumed when an hour later, the bus turned again.
This road was also dirt and so narrow that the lush jungle
things happened that unnerved him. They had been riding in
darkness for about a half an hour and the night had brought with
it cool outside air. The cool air blowing through the open
windows had helped to ease the crushing closeness inside the bus.
But suddenly a tropical heat invaded the bus. Hot and humid, the
heat assaulted the sweat glands, and perspiration beaded on his
arms. He was still penned in by people and was unable to move
his arms more than a few inches in any direction. He wore a long
sleeved shirt and careful not to elbow the woman sitting next to
him or the man standing with his knees pressed against his leg
254
managed to roll the sleeves up. But it didn't help. Sweat
reeked of perspiration...a sticky foul odor akin to the odor in
the kitchen the other night. The heat and the foul odor emitted
by everybody on the bus made him nauseous. The second thing was
the noise. A thunderous rattle and hum of parrots and birds rang
out. The rattle and hum was so unnerving he wanted to stand up
and scream. But the bus was too crowded to stand. He breathed in
deep, choking on the foul air, and wedged a hand in his pocket
soothed silently: Just relax.
accustomed to the rank air in the crowded bus and to the rattle
soothing vibration. A few minutes later he felt calmer, and for
the first time settled in. He watched the other passengers and
began to notice an ethnic change taking place. They had started
minutes and one by one or sometimes in twos or threes the Indian
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took on a Mexican flavor, and soon held mostly men, rough
characters, leathery, sunburned, bronzed faces shielded by straw
cowboy hats, faded jeans and leather belts sporting huge brass
changes also were apparent in the occasional village outside the
window; more Mexican in flavor then Guatemalan. The men loitering
wore dresses, or blouses and skirts and suggestively laughed at
the men talking to them.
At some point the jungle vanished, and Richard couldn't say
when because he had drifted off. He was jolted awake when the
bus hit a deep crevice in the road. He came awake thinking they
had hit a tree or worse: guerrillas or bandits or the army were
attacking the bus. He automatically glanced out the window. Flat
open land lay outside. A full moon highlighted cane stalks. When
the breeze stroked the stalks, they wavered, resembling people
stretched for miles upon miles.
"Jesus, what an eerie sight," he remarked.
"Sure is," Sam commented.
He looked away from the window at him, surprised. First of
all because Sam sat next to him...legs hanging out in the aisle,
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and secondly because only a few people remained on the bus.
"When the three Indian women edged by you, I jumped forward,
almost knocking over an old man, and took the seat. You just sort
of instinctively moved over without waking."
"A quickly acquired habit on these buses," he replied.
"An inherent traveler's habit period. Planes. Trains. Buses.
The mind and body lean with the curves. I was watching you when
the bus entered the stretch of jungle. The sudden heat. Your face
turned green. The guy standing next to me commented that this was
probably your first trip to the lowlands. I said it was. Feeling
better?"
"Lowlands, huh," he said in response. "Well it is beautiful
out there."
"Yeah. I traveled this way many times. The first time was a
long time ago. Just a kid, eighteen. Came over the border from
the Mexican side. Three of us. We were young and full of jumping
hormones and came looking for pussy."
"Find any?"
"Give me a break."
He grinned and glanced out the window at the fields. His
nerves were a bit frayed, either by waking suddenly or by riding
bottle out and chewed on another Valium and was in the process of
replacing the bottle when Sam asked for one. He was surprised and
257
showed as much.
Valium. So give me one. My muscles are all cramped up. I'd rather
have Bourbon, but I'll take anything right now."
winced while crushing the tablet between his teeth.
"Much longer?"
"God I hate the taste of these things," he said and handed
the bottle back. "About ten minutes."
"You too, huh?"
"Yeah," he remarked, "If Doc's on the level, all is fine. If
not, we're in deep water."
"Why we going?"
"Because we said we would, or because we want to save a kid,
or because we want to meet the mysterious Jorge or because we are
fools."
"I vote for the latter," he replied. "By the way Alexia
might be at Monterrico. Told me the other night she intended on
spending a few days there before leaving for Germany. Shouldn't
be a problem though. Probably staying at a different hotel."
replied. "There are only three hotels; all dives. The hotel we're
meeting Jorge at is the best of a bad lot. The place is owned by
an American woman who spent time in the Peace Corps. She married
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a Guatemalan man. The beach at Monterrico is unspoiled. She
considering Monterrico is so close to Mexico's wealthy tourist
Never panned out."
"You seem to know a lot about her."
"The files. She's in there."
"So what you're saying is we might run into Alexia; if she's
there?"
A worried silence came over Sam and his brow deepened and he
stared straight ahead.
As the bus continued its journey, Richard too found himself
Alexia was just one more mishap; unfortunately she was an
innocent. But there is a point beyond caring. Tiredness seeps in.
Doc, Ruth, Gus, Alexia. He pushed them away as the bus pushed on
when they were in New York City when the bus, brakes screeching,
sudden stop rattled him...he jerked his head and looked out the
single sweep a dusty oasis entrenched in the middle of nowhere.
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What there was of it consisted of a river bank where a good dozen
thatched huts, and a tienda. An overhead bulb burned inside the
tienda. A few men sat inside drinking rum.
They and an old man were the only other passengers left on
the bus. The old man moved ahead of them, slow, as if tired after
a hard day's work. After the long ride Richard's limbs were
cramped, and he mentally urged the old man along...to no avail.
At last the man cautiously stepped off the bus and continued his
slow pace toward one of the huts.
Tienda. A few seconds later when he returned, with a man, pale
crescent face and dirty coveralls, followed him. The man reeked
of rum.
"He will take us to Monterrico. Double the price."
"How much is double," he asked, not really caring.
"Two Q."
"Forty cents," he muttered.
"Each," Sam replied.
The man untied one of the dugouts and, one hand flying up in
planks built a foot up from the hull lined both sides of the
dugout. Sam and Richard took opposite sides and stared past each
260
other. To keep from thinking at all, Richard followed the
reflection of the full moon on the water.
If the man was drunk, his actions didn't show it. He stood
steady at the helm and using an eightfootlong pole guided the
dugout along the waterway. The man knew the route like the back
of his hand and quietly steered the dugout up one channel and
four at the pier to steady the boat. They climbed off. Sam paid
him. The man, without so much as a thank you, guided the dugout
out back along the waterway.
They stood on the pier. Mosquitoes buzzed. Richard brushed
at the air, at them. The heat, stifling, hung in the air. He gave
up on the mosquitoes and mopped at his brow and the hand came
away damp.
"This is hell," Sam said.
Was there resignation in Sam's voice? An attitude of defeat?
Richard couldn't tell, so he asked, "What's wrong?"
"I hate this place. Hated it the first time too."
"Why?"
"Look around you. Take a good look."
Sam's voice held a command, the first time he had ever used
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such on Richard. But he wasn't annoyed by it or angry, and did as
were closed. They were built of wood, and in the light from the
moon he saw how rundown they were. The wood splintered off in
Tienda on his right something moved, and at first he thought it
was a dog, but as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, saw it was a
pig, a huge fat pig. The pig sauntered out, and roamed up the
street, its snout brushing against the dirt road like a vacuum
cleaner.
"Hundreds of them," Sam dryly commented.
"Where's the hotel?"
"About four blocks up."
Richard sniffed in deeply, expecting to smell salt air, but
dust clogged his nostrils and he coughed.
"Lets go," Sam said. "It's cooler there. The ocean."
There were no street lights and the moment they stepped away
from the pier total darkness engulfed them so only the vague
Richard looked up for the moon, but palm trees blocked out its
light. Sam maintained a steady but slow gait. After a block their
eyes adjusted to the darkness and the buildings took on a sandy
substance, grainy in nature, as did the pigs, unmistakable rotund
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known what they were.
Still he was cautious, unsure whether pigs were dangerous or
not. For three blocks he searched for signs of human life, but
Antigua, the residents probably retired early.
A few moments later they came upon an open Comador where men
sat at tables eating and drinking. The smell of the sea was
strong here. Seeing the men eat reminded Richard that he hadn't
eaten since breakfast, and mentioned as much.
"From here there will be a half dozen or so tiendas. Buy a
candy bar or a bag of Tamale chips or anything prepackaged," Sam
Me, I am buying a liter of rum."
"Jesus Sam," he echoed, already frightened enough.
"Trust me on this. Come morning you'll see."
Richard declined further comment. And true to Sam's word, a
half dozen Tiendas lined the next bock. There was also the ocean,
inches away from the counter as did Sam. Sam purchased a liter of
Rum. Richard followed suit, adding three bags of Tamale chips.
The woman had cold dark eyes and it was obvious she didn't like
serving them. When they left, she just grunted at Sam's thank
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you. He added in English, 'Bitch.'
"The entire town is like that," Sam remarked.
"Why?"
embankment leading down. The smell and sound of the ocean, strong
and pungent, cleansed the dust and dirt of the town from their
lungs. The embankment sloped, and they slid down and landed on
sand. Richard took a few steps and looked behind him. The town
had vanished, engulfed in its own darkness. The ocean faced them.
Unencumbered shoreline stretched endlessly in both directions.
Richard muttered, "What a contrast."
"Yeah," Sam replied, jerking a thumb behind him, "Heaven and
hell. Let's go, we're almost there."
Richard asked Sam again why the people were so strange.
explain it. You saw the men. All drunk. They drink all day. The
women, beaten, both figuratively and literally. Doesn't make any
sense. Back in the States people crawl all over each other to
live in such beauty."
They had walked a good three hundred yards when Sam stopped.
264
ahead, and Richard looked to where he was pointing. At the
entrance to a hotel, a light shone.
"That's it. I hope Jorge is there so we can get this over
with. I want to get drunk."
Stones were set in the sand leading to the hotel, and they
followed them until they entered a courtyard. A golden retriever
ran up to them barking. Sam patted him on the head and the dog
reading a book. Her shoulder length hair was tied back bun
away persistent mosquito’s and flies. A beefy man wearing only a
blue bikini swim suit lay in another hammock. He stared at the
ceiling while puffing on a huge cigar. The smoke from the cigar
kept the mosquito’s and flies at bay. Several salt eaten green
tables and chairs bordered the wall of the veranda. A man sat on
slacks, white poppin shirt.
"Jorge," Sam announced.
Richard knew this instinctively, but was taken aback by his
fair skinned that he could pass as white or at the very least a
Spaniard. And even in his sitting position, Richard could tell he
265
was in good physical shape: a chiseled face, dark intense eyes
and lean but muscular forearms. But truth be told it was the
other man who worried him.
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Chapter 33
For Alexia their arrival amounted to an eyeopener. "What?"
she uttered, sitting upright in astonishment.
"Ah you brought rum," Jorge announced, merrily, happily,
cheerfully, as if a party was planned.
down the beach. Satisfied they were alone, he turned and smiled.
Richard knew it was a silly thought, but he noticed that Jorge
had a full set of sparkling white teeth.
"I have waited a long time. I thought you wouldn't show."
"Long trip," Sam replied.
"For you, yes. For me, no. But time is short. We walk.
Drink. Talk."
"Just you and me?" Sam inquired.
"Two people," Jorge replied, and tightly clenched his fist,
"Two people become one. Three, like the father, son and the holy
ghost...a body cannot hold three."
"I don't like it," Richard countered.
267
now. Yes? No?"
darkness and safety. Here on the veranda a light burns. I'll be
all right."
"By the way I paid for two rooms for you. My treat."
Together they went out to the beach. Richard leaned over the
veranda and watched them until the deep ocean darkness swallowed
them up. He still didn't like it, but there was nothing to do.
When he moved away from the veranda, Alexia stared
inquisitively. The man smoking the cigar hadn't budged an inch,
his gaze never straying from the ceiling while Sam and Jorge had
talked. The man worried him, and he motioned toward the table and
chairs that Jorge had vacated. Alexia deftly slid off the
hammock. A host of mosquitoes and flies followed them. He set the
rum and the Tamale chips on the table. The ocean breeze was cool
but still the air was humid...heavy and sticky. But even so he
rolled his shirt sleeves down to protect the skin from the
faced the man on the hammock. Silly really. If the man had a gun
and was one of Jorge's men and decided or had orders to kill them
there wasn't a damn thing he could about it. He had even left the
mace at home.
Alexia took a seat facing him. "What are you and Sam doing
here?"
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He had no idea how to answer that. Hey, Sam is meeting
Jorge, the guerrilla leader the entire country is searching for.
No. A lie was in order. No. Vagueness. He decided on vagueness.
"Embassy business," he explained.
He fully expected her to pry further. But she accepted the
further inquires would be made.
"Who's the guy?" he asked while prying the cap off the rum.
For a moment the cap wouldn't budge. But he wasn't in a mood for
resistance from a damn cap and yanked it off with such force it
flew over the wall of the veranda out to the nothingness darkness
beyond. He grinned foolishly and offered the bottle to her. She
shook her head at his antics, took a sip, made a face...wrinkled
up nose and lips...and handed the bottle back. He busted open a
bag of Tamale chips and ate a few.
third smoother yet, and after that you feel nothing."
"I am sure," she responded. "But I still like it Cuba Libra
fashion."
"Could go to town for a few Cokes."
She made the same face. "Too ugly."
He nodded. "The guy?"
She glanced in his direction. "Antonio. Italian. Spent the
past three weeks here. Recovering from malaria."
269
"Was he here when you arrived?"
followed with, "and I arrived early this morning."
worst, and relaxed, not much but enough to ease the butterflies
in his stomach. She noticed this and lay a comforting hand on
his. The gesture was real and made him think of Crista. Again the
differences between them sprang to mind. This wasn't the time and
he elbowed the thought away. "How many other guests are there?"
"Just us two. And now you and Sam. And that man Sam left
with."
"He won't be staying. Another?" He offered her the bottle,
"And have some Tamale chips."
"Why not," she replied, and took a drink. Still she made the
same face while handing over the bottle. "You are wrong about the
second one."
He chewed on a few more Tamale chips and washed them down
with a long hard pull. The Tamale chips and the rum filled the
hunger pains...a little anyway. He smacked his lips and set the
about the third."
"Let's test your theory out." She grabbed the bottle by the
neck and took a large swallow, compressed her lips and looked at
him...waiting. At last she smiled. "Good."
270
"So, are you relaxing here?"
unfastened the rubber band. She shook her head and her hair
filled out and fell to her shoulders. "Much too hot during the
day to wear it down."
"Not much to do here, I imagine."
slapped a mosquito. "They don't bother you."
"Sometimes no, sometimes yes," he replied. "Light a
cigarette. Sometimes it helps, sometimes not."
She said she was trying to quit but kept a pack with her,
and excused herself and went to her room. While she was gone, he
leaned over the veranda and searched for Sam.
offered.
He stared at him inquisitively.
"It is simple," he said. He struggled to stand. The hammock
closed in and he finally fell off and stood and walked over. "In
bocca al lupo."
Spanish.
when two men take a bottle and walk off in the darkness it means
271
came here to reach. My name is Antonio."
Cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, he held out a beefy
hand. Richard grasped it. The return grasp was both firm and
friendly.
"Join us," he offered. "Rum?"
Richard. "But I must refuse the offer of a drink...painfully so.
I am recovering from malaria."
He busted open the other bag of Tamale chips. "Then have
some Tamale chips."
"Thanks."
"Catch it here?"
tablet...and the Virgin Mary mosquito visited me and presto. Only
should have seen me five weeks ago. Huge. I lost over a hundred
stone. But the worst is over."
Richard reached for the bottle, then hesitated.
leaned his head back and puffed on the cigar until the end glowed
and blue clouds circled above him. At last he grasped the cigar
between thumb and forefinger. "Keeps the mosquitoes away."
"One liked cigar smoke," he joked.
272
Antonio laughed, a huge throaty sound rolling up and out
from his gut.
Alexia returned and charmed Richard with a smile. She had a
soft youthful face, pretty, but not overly so, but in the dim
lighting and the music of crashing waves the smile made her
considerably and he thought that it could just be the rum.
"Yes, no," he remarked, stroking his chin.
"I will smoke anyway," she announced. But she waited. And
for a while they fell silent each enjoying the crashing of the
waves and the occasional bolt of heat lighting. During this time
Alexia and Richard took turns at the rum and the Tamale chips.
Antonio puffed on the cigar chasing away the lone brave mosquito
or fly. The rum added a soft red glow to Alexia’s cheeks and she
head back and creating a cloud of smoke. Soon they made a contest
of it. The cigar against the cigarette. But Antonio said this
smoke two cigarettes at once. She agreed.
Richard leaned back and watched them, their antics amusing
enough to make him forget Sam and Jorge. When the air around them
273
cancer, Richard was about to pronounce a winner when Antonio
ceremoniously lay the cigar aside.
"She wins, no?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Wait here," he said and stood and went to a room bordering
the veranda.
"Wait ti'llyou see this," she said and lifted the bottle.
She took a good long slug before setting it on the table.
"I want to show you this," Antonio announced coming out of
and lifted his eyebrows to show as much.
"That is nothing," he said and handed Richard a bright red
card. On it was a photo of him. Heavier, to be sure, taken before
the malaria had eaten the pounds away. The fine print identified
Richard's spine. How could he be so dumb?
"Is fake, of course. As are the passports...except for the
Italian one."
The chill fled, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Why?"
died and I grew bored. So I came down here. I liked it. The
passports allow me to cross borders without hassle. The military
card, well in Guatemala...you know what I mean."
274
He said he did.
military card, "I go to bed. The malaria or the doing nothing all
day. Makes me tired. Good to meet you."
He said likewise and they shook hands and he was gone.
"Quite a fellow," he idly observed.
"Like Edwardo," she replied.
"I can see the character resemblance."
"You think I was too hard on him...you know, forcing him to
speak English?"
He hesitated.
great journalist once."
"I think maybe he's just old and tired."
"But this is my point," she heartily exclaimed. "He lies to
said, "Sorry. I get all worked up. It is the German in me."
"I never thought Germans to be particularly emotional," he
replied, thinking of Crista, "Analytical, yes."
also."
He raised a half hand as if to say: okay.
"Do you like the American flag?" she abruptly asked.
The question caught him off guard and without thinking he
275
automatically answered yes.
"I love Germany but I cringe at the German flag."
America." He paused and laughed.
"What's so funny?"
America also. It would be like you saying you loved Europe, when
"Yes, yes, I understand," she passionately replied, "I feel
the same way. Germans. They all see only Germany, the flag. I am
sickened by this."
"Because of the Nazis?" he cautiously ventured.
Germany. When the wall fell he was very excited. He had plans to
return and help rebuild Eastern Germany. But, well he is old, and
the old cling to ideals much like the young."
As before at Gus's, he was struck by her maturity. "How old
are you?"
"Twentyeight."
"I thought twentyfour."
"Thanks. And you?"
"Fifty six," he answered.
"That is..."
276
A long moment passed while she searched for the right word.
"...A nice age."
"And thank you," he kindly responded.
Alvaro. Remember?"
"Sure."
"He owns a restaurant in Antigua. A small place. Lately we
fight too much. He complains about everything. Things like I use
the wrong knife when cutting onions. I think he come to Germany.
But something is broken between us. Now I don't know."
"These things happen," he replied.
"Yes maybe you are right."
"Broken things can be glued."
"Maybe."
You are very beautiful, Alexia, so very beautiful. And the
waves are out there singing for us. And we are alone. Let's...
"Trust me," he said, ignoring his thoughts, "They will work
out."
"Yes. Well...I am drunk and I better go to bed. I see you in
the morning."
"Maybe," he answered, "We leave early."
reminded of Crista.
277
"I will see you at 'Gus's,' before you leave."
"Yes, please do," she responded, her face once again soft
and young.
She entered the room next door to Antonio's. Her departure
left him alone...feeling alone, and probably for the first time
in years. A quarter of a bottle of rum remained. He lifted the
bottle and drank it down in two gulps. As he set the bottle down,
he lied to himself and said he had done the right thing. He was
fifty six years old. He was in love with Crista. Alexia was in
love with Alvaro. Than he told himself all sorts of things and
was still doing so when Sam appeared next to him. Sam was alone.
Richard wasn't sure whether it was the dim lighting or what,
but Sam's face was sunken in and drawn. "How did it go?"
"The boy will be home by morning."
"Thank God."
across the table.
will eat you alive."
rooms bordering the veranda. Richard sat for a while enjoying the
end of it while listening to the singsong ocean waves pounding
the surf. The mosquitoes annoyed him. But he was drunk enough to
ignore them. Clouds had moved in, blocking out the moon. Beyond
278
the bootblack night, distant bright flashes of heat lightning
ease.
At last he picked up the key and glanced at the number on
the plastic tag. The room was next to Alexia’s. The room was
whitewashed, a combination cubical toiletshower, and a thatched
roof. He noticed right away the roof was a common roof shared by
all the rooms. A light glowed from Alexia’s room. He shed his
sprouted out lukewarm water. He let the warm spray cascade over
him while brushing his teeth and watching the pale stream of
maintained a safe distance from the meager spray of the water.
Suddenly Alexia’s light went out.
"Goodnight Alexia," he whispered.
"Richard," she whispered back.
"Yes."
"Fiftysix isn't so old."
"It's not that."
"What?"
"I too have somebody."
"Do you love her?"
279
"Yes, but like you, I am unsure."
"Unsure is worse than not knowing, no?"
There wasn't an answer to that.
overhead, untied the mosquito netting above the bed and let it
fall pyramid fashion over the length of the bed. He slid under
the netting and lay there, staring at the roof. The ocean breeze
was cool against his wet body. But in no time at all the heat
quickly evaporated the water before squeezing more water from his
sweat glands.
lying to himself. It was the heat. The unfamiliar sound of the
ocean waves crashing against the shoreline. But still he couldn't
familiarity of his house, bed and Aqua. But these were all lies
or excuses. It was Alexia. Next room over. He was a man. She a
woman. The ocean. The beach. Here. Now.
At last he crawled out from the netting and fished the pill
taste.
Once back under the netting, he was asleep within moments.
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Chapter 34
During the night the tropical heat sweated every ounce of
rum, and everything else both pure and impure, out of Richard's
system and he awoke feeling better then he had felt in a long
time. But the heat did nothing for his clothes and after
wearing them...but did. He found Sam on the veranda along with
mopping the tiled floor. Antonio was showing Sam his collection
of passports and military card.
"Seen Alexia?"
dead sea turtles."
"What?"
"The turtles emerge from the ocean at night to bury their
eggs in the sand. The natives kill the turtles for the eggs and
them."
"Alone," Richard asked?
281
A sorrowful look.
replied to the look.
"Is so."
He leaned over the veranda searching both directions of the
beach for her. There wasn't a soul out there. Miles upon miles of
black sand stretched out only giving way to the crashing of
waves.
"One morning she walked all the way to El Salvador. I think
she went that way.
"Hunting sea turtles?"
Antonio gave him an expression as only an Italian can, sad,
downturned lovebegotten eyes.
"Have I got time?" Richard asked Sam
"We have to go. The bus," reminded Sam.
"God damn I hate this fucking country," he angrily retorted.
"Hate it to hell and back."
"I will tell her you looked for her."
"Please do."
meet you, Antonio."
"Likewise," He replied.
They each shook Antonio's beefy hand.
"In bocca al lupo," Sam said.
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"For men such as us there is no other way, no?"
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Chapter 35
The moment they entered the town, the ocean breeze died out
and a high blistering sun plastered their clothes against their
body. The pungent odor of rotting stench pigmented the air.
Richard looked around for the source of the stench and saw
shadows and shapes of last night became reality. Sam's assessment
of hundreds of pigs was incorrect...there were thousands of pigs
barbecued. They roamed at will, rooting and pissing and shitting
on the dirt streets and sidewalks and inside the tiendas and
comedors. Joining the pigs were dozens of bone thin dogs, and
filthy chickens.
food, and Richard expected to be hungry, the combination of the
stench and the heat stifled such desires.
"Ugly."
"What?" Sam asked.
284
"Alexia called the town ugly."
"Wrong adjective. Repulsive."
A few minutes later they boarded a worm holed dugout for the
from the sun and a wet breeze splayed, cooling them. An inch of
water sloshed around the bottom of the dugout. They curled feet
under the benches to keep them dry. A halfdozen men sat along
that had the faded lettering on it: Untied States Food Aid
Program. The pail was filled with ice and Cokes. They both bought
one. The kid offered a straw, Sam accepted, Richard declined. The
Coke tasted good. Cool. Refreshing.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, the town more than
the boat drifted away until it was just gone, lost in the winding
That cover lifted, the water bloomed like a peacock spreading his
feathers...before them lay utter magnificence: Lush Mango groves
flotilla of blue flowers which took Richard's breath away. As the
285
rejoined flower to flower as the boat passed.
Such was the utter beauty that had Crista or Alexia sat
"Magnificent," he murmured.
"And between this and the ocean lies hell. God's little
joke, I imagine," Sam offered.
But Richard was too stunned by the sheer beauty to answer.
chicken bus and on the way toward Antigua that he asked about
Jorge. The bus was the same bus that had carried them from
purchased at the tienda two more cokes and a large bag of tamale
chips. As the bus wasn't very crowded yet, they shared a seat.
Sam munched on a Tamale chip and took a moment to swallow before
answering.
"Arrogant. Sure of himself. A very dangerous man. I neither
liked him nor trusted him."
"But he went for the deal?"
"He haggled. He said he could not order a man to go home.
His men were revolutionaries not conscripted soldiers. They were
free men, not prisoners. How could he do such a thing. No, he
would not. So I explained about the mother. The one son murdered
286
little, saying he understood such matters. A mother needed her
sons. Especially in her old age. A son was all a mother had. But
revolution. Did I understand? A revolution. Sacrifices had to be
what was one man more or less? He nodded, and said, yes it was
true, one man more or less. But?"
"I realized he wanted me to convince him. In short he wanted
me to beg, without actually begging. So I played him. His
machismo. I told him that recognition of him and his cause would
do far more for the revolution then one unskilled foot soldier. I
beach, very serious, very somber, his hands clasped behind his
back. At last he stopped and turned and smiled. We had a deal."
"So it's really over," he said with relief.
Sam shrugged, "It's never over."
But it was over for Richard. He had had all he could take.
As the bus continued toward Antigua, he began once again to plan
his departure in earnest; what to take back to the States, what
to leave Celia. And was still doing so when the bus stopped
stars.
Sam muttered, "Shit."
287
As Richard blinked, shaking away the stars, three men
lead.
"Keep cool," Sam instructed.
passive, head down. The two men who accompanied Farabundo carried
machine guns. That they had known Sam and Richard were on the bus
became apparent when they stopped at where they sat and pointed
the machine guns at them. "Follow us," they ordered.
building inside him and dwelled on how General Rosa knew they
were on the bus. Only Doc and Jorge knew. But he was only allowed
a moment to think. Farabundo ordered harshly, "Now! Move!."
Richard expected Sam to resist, to curse Farabundo. Go fuck
troops off the bus. They seemed to be at the junction between the
flatland and jungle. A green troop carrier blocked the road. The
the highway. He thought to call out to them, but the thought lay
workers would not help. They had been cowed by hundreds of years
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of oppression.
The two soldiers ushered them into the rear of the troop
benches were bolted to the floor, facing each other. They sat on
one side, Farabundo and his men on the other. The gears mashed
and the truck moved, laboriously at first. As the truck gradually
picked up speed, Farabundo grinned at them. Not saying anything,
just grinning, those obnoxious gold fillings shining.
"You're making a mistake," Sam asserted.
Farabundo grinned broader.
"So is your boss General Rosa."
doesn't make mistakes. And you don't have a phone to call out the
Marines."
"Really," Sam coolly replied.
Farabundo resumed grinning.
The truck had picked up a good head of steam by this time
and bucked while going over ruts in the road. They all had to
clutch the underside of the benches to keep from sliding from one
end to the other. All during this time Farabundo maintained his
because he hated that damn grin and Farabundo knew it, and
continued to grin because of this. What Farabundo didn't know was
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that Richard knew for him to grin for so long, especially with
the weight of the gold in his mouth, had to hurt. But the longer
long he developed a painful crick in his neck. But he refused to
dumber one.
It wasn't until the truck came to an abrupt halt and the
engine went quiet, that fear renewed its assault in Richard...up
the canvas flap commanded his total attention, and he stared at
the canvas covering the rear of the truck and wondered what lay
Rosa was unstable. The little sideshow, the gun at his lips, had
proven that much.
Never quite believing the old shoe that seconds could last a
lifetime, Richard learned, just as he had learned that there was
a physical price attached to the shock of self discovery, right
there and then that seconds can last a very long time indeed, and
during the few seconds it took for the flap to open the fear of
what lay out there almost paralyzed him. The moment the flap was
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thrown open, the fetid air escaped and cool crisp mountain air
entered. His fingers ached from gripping the bench, and the crimp
throb...but because of being cooped up like this, his sense of
smell was heightened and he recognized the mountain air and know
several times before his vision cleared well enough to see...his
car parked off to one side. He knew then that they would leave
there alive. And the knowledge that he would live, he and Crista,
he and Crista in New York City, made him dizzy and light headed
and he giggled at the second thing he saw. The giggles grew until
he doubled over in laughter, sides hurting.
fear caused the outburst, or pain, or hunger, but most probably
it was the absurd object.
"What?" Sam asked, an infectious involuntary grin creeping
across his face.
finger at the object.
"You've never seen it before?"
His head shook: no.
plained.
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There was no need for Sam to explain this. Richard had heard
of it, even seen black and white grainy pictures in the local
newspapers. But he had never really seen it, not up close. But
there it sat a hundred meters away. Two soldiers stood at rigid
attention beside the absurd object. They were men, Indian, and of
average height, but even if they stood nine feet tall they still
would have been comically out of proportion when measured against
boots. Like a grotesque joke, the steel sculpture grew out from a
size of a small helicopter. Peaking out from beneath the helmet
were a pair of green army boots about the size of a Sherman tank.
drama.
instantly apparent when he angrily grabbed the machine gun from
laughing!" he ordered.
General Rosa. That's your job. Right? So do it."
straightened upright without so much as a trace of a smile on his
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face; which didn't take too much effort. Farabundo wasn't General
Rosa. He would shoot. Kill.
A jeep waited, smoke trailing from the exhaust. Richard had
General Rosa. Maybe later. Next week. Month. In his bed. A knife.
Yes. He lowered the gun. "In the jeep," he ordered, "The rear."
They complied. Farabundo climbed in next to the driver and
fence. Razor sharp barbed wire curled above it. Soldiers loitered
along the route. At last he veered away from the fence, and
headed toward a bank of trees. The trees quickly turned into a
loomed ahead.
"Rosa's headquarters," Sam said in English.
"I figured," he replied, "What do you think he has in mind?"
"A deal."
As the Jeep came to a halt outside the house, Sam wondered:
what kind of deal? What did General Rosa want that they had?
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"Bienvenida a mi casa, Hombres," General Rosa greeted.
Although he stood on the porch waiting for them, he had been
lounging, and wore bathing trunks and a whitetee shirt. He was
as large as Antonio, but unlike Antonio, General Rosa's body was
taut, muscles firm.
"What do you want?" Sam, speaking English, demanded.
"Talk."
will," Sam responded. "Plain stupid."
it. Instead he motioned to Farabundo. Farabundo issued an order
to the driver of the Jeep. The Jeep backed up, and in a cloud of
dust shot forward heading toward the forest.
"Come in," he invited, "I have something I want to show you.
Something that will change your mind."
That General Rosa had expensive taste was evident the moment
they entered the house. Either that or he had a good decorator.
Richard opted for the latter. He insisted, as he said a good host
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does, showing them the house room by room. He pointed out the
the glass panels, from there the gun room; a polished oak cabinet
holding various rifles and handguns, onto the three bedrooms, the
master bedroom where he winked and pointed at the king size bed,
"Sin amor." And on and on.
While giving them a grand tour of the house he had appeared
friendly, almost graceful even...his strutting machismo gone. But
finally Sam had had enough. "Get on with it, Rosa."
finger. "Follow me. We go to the den and talk. Man to man."
Sparsely decorated, the den held a black leather couch, two
black leather easy chairs, and a desk and chair. Two young Indian
boys sat huddled shoulder to shoulder on the couch. They shared
appeared confused and frightened. One wore an Army uniform, the
other peasant clothing. Wearing just white shorts, Jorge, a glass
in one hand, lounged on one of the easy chairs.
"Surprised?" General Rosa asked.
It wasn't really a question, but had it been, Richard would
have overwhelming responded: YES! But to Sam, Jorge's appearance
answered the question on how General Rosa knew they would be on
the bus. But Sam ignored Jorge and instead glanced at the kids.
"You two are the sons of Chusa?" he asked in Spanish.
295
Meekly they nodded.
"I thought as much," Sam muttered and directed his attention
on Jorge.
"We speak English," General Rosa ordered while perching on
the edge of the desk. His voice had held a harsh command.
Although a part of Richard was confused, there was also a
part that recognized following Sam's lead. So he stole a glance
"Sam," he said.
"We had a deal," Sam, voice emotionless, stated.
"Shut up," General Rosa commanded, "You are a fool!"
"We had a deal," Sam repeated in the same flat dead tone.
For a man of his build General Rosa was surprisingly spry;
struck Sam across the face with the barrel of a revolver.
Rosa's hands were empty and the next they held the gun. But he
didn't have time to dwell on where the gun had come from. Like a
rock Sam dropped to the floor, blood pouring from a large gash on
the right side of his face. He bent over to help Sam. Two loud
space. The air was riff with the acrid odor of spent gunpowder.
Half bent over, one hand on Sam's shoulder, he glanced up at the
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source of the noise. General Rosa glared down at him. Jorge sat
impassive. It was then that he saw the boys. They had slumped
sideways one against the other. Blood gushed from their temples.
The blood mesmerized him and he thought: Doc, you are right,
uncontrollably he started to tremble all over. Dry heaves racked
his body. He doubled over and clutched at his stomach.
"Pollo Puta," General Rosa sneered.
Bent over, gasping for air, he managed to gain a smidgen of
self control and sat, legs up against his chest, arms around
legs. "Why General Rosa?" he gasped.
By this time Sam had stood. He wiped the back of his hand
against his cheek, sponging away the blood. The moment he removed
his hand a new stream of blood appeared. "Jorge, we had a deal,"
he coldly replied.
Jorge yawned. "You are such a bore. Deals come and deals go.
We make a new deal."
"We had a deal," Sam repeated.
General Rosa said. "You now have a deal with me."
"Jorge and I had a deal," Sam repeated. And even to Richard
he sounded like a broken record.
continued, and laughed cruelly, "He is the enemy of the people.
It is good for the people to have an enemy. Good for Jorge. Good
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for me. Good for Guatemala. Jorge controls the peasants. I
control the upper class. Everybody is happy. You see?"
"I see nothing," Sam replied. "We had a deal."
In one long stride General Rosa stepped forward and pointed
the gun directly at Sam's forehead. Sam bore through General Rosa
at Jorge. "You're not going to shoot me. Or Richard. So put the
gun down."
lines. "We will have a new deal or I will shoot you! I am in
charge here! You are not! You understand?"
and handed it to Sam. To stem the flow of blood, Sam pressed the
handkerchief against the gash on his forehead.
voice, "Anger. No good. We make new deal. I tell you what I want.
You listen. All right?"
"Sure," Sam replied in a steady voice.
Movie Channels."
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Incredible, Richard thought and blurted the word out.
"What?" General Rosa asked, the word unfamiliar to him in
English.
He uttered, "You did this for movies? Movies!"
"You expected Rosa to ask that the U.S. restore Guatemalan
aid?" Sam commented.
"Yes, no, hell...movies!"
"I care nothing about the money the U.S. has cut off because
of this stupid Bernard thing."
generated millions of dollars monthly. The money funded not only
General Rosa but Jorge.
"For movies," he muttered.
"You will talk to State," General Rosa said to Sam, ignoring
Richard.
"I will certainly talk to State," Sam replied.
Richard was appalled at the mere thought of Sam interceding
with State on General Rosa's behalf. And he shot Sam a hard look,
ready to protest. But Sam stared at General Rosa but was actually
staring at Jorge. Jorge sat, silent, a soft smile on his face.
The reality of Sam's cold hard stare slapped Richard in the
face and he thought: Sam is staring at two dead men. At first the
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thought thrilled him. He tasted the sweet dish of revenge. Just
Both human beings. What was he thinking? Had he become like them?
Like Sam?
He stood, legs wobbly, and walked out of the room. General
Rosa let him go, and why not. They were within the compound.
driving rain fell. He stood in the rain, clothing drenched within
moments. It felt good, almost clean. He wanted to go home. Pack
a few bags. Pick up Crista and leave Guatemala forever.
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Chapter 37
How long did he stand in the rain? Long enough for a good
size puddle of water to gather at his feet. Eventually Farabundo
pulled up in a Jeep. Sam and General Rosa came out and stood on
the porch. Somebody had taped a white gauze bandage over the gash
General Rosa smiled. Sam walked to the Jeep and got in. Richard
Toyota. Wordlessly, they exited the Jeep and climbed into the
straight ahead at the highway, afraid to look at Sam or speak to
him. Afraid of what he might say. What he might accuse Sam of
planning.
They were about eight kilometers outside Antigua, when Sam
whispered something Richard failed to catch. "What?" he asked.
"How does Jorge get in and out of the compound undetected?"
Richard shrugged, thinking what did it matter.
301
continued in a whisper.
"What?"
Probably has a Jeep waiting."
"What the hell you mumbling about?" he angrily asked.
"Thinking out loud," he replied.
planning.
He drove on, the rain pounding at the car.
helicopter raid? Marines? No. Just one man. You or somebody else.
You. What did you tell Doc? State was out of the loop. You were
on your own.
Water dripped from where the convertible top met the wind
from standing in the rain, but still unconsciously he brushed at
the water on the steering wheel.
Will you lay their bodies next to the dead boys? Four bodies
on a couch. Just four people chatting. Or leave them where they
fell?
"I need your car," Sam said.
So you can drive back and kill them.
"Why?" he asked.
"I left my car at the Embassy. I need a change of clothes
302
and some sleep."
clothing."
"Richard!"
"What!" he screamed.
"Nothing. I will take a taxi."
house a few minutes later. Celia must have heard the car drive up
because she stood outside the car port, an umbrella in her hands.
"Take the car, Sam," he said.
As he got out, Sam slid over behind the wheel and drove
away.
inside. It's raining. Come inside. When the Toyota was gone, he
followed her inside. She held the umbrella, shielding out the
rain. Once inside, she ushered him toward the bedroom.
"You are all wet. You change clothes. I will fix you a drink
and some food. Men."
belonging to a puppet to the bedroom and shed the wet clothes as
if shedding skin and climbed under the covers. The bed became a
sort of sanctuary and the covers a shield from General Rosa. But
even in bed, warm, and shielded, he couldn't shake the image of
the two dead boys nor Sam driving away in the car. The bed
303
creaked and Celia sat there on the edge. She had fixed a glass of
stayed.
"People will talk," he feebly joked.
She lay a hand on his forehead. Hot.
help the sick. You stay. Rest. I bring some soup."
Sleep was the drug he sought, not bourbon or soup. And he
escaped into it. If he dreamt, he awoke without memory of the
dreams. It was dark outside. Rain fell, beating on the roof. The
lamp on the bed stand burned and Celia sat on a chair reading a
bible.
"What time?" he hoarsely asked.
"Eight."
He came awake in blinks. His right side ached. As did his
head. "Celia. Orange Juice and aspirin."
Without question, she stood and left the room. While she was
gone, he stared at the ceiling mentally replaying the events of
the day. General Rosa and the dead brothers wouldn't go away. The
brothers were dead, and dead was dead. And General Rosa, alive,
an unslayable beast. And Sam. State. Out of the loop. Sam was
acting outside the loop. He could stop him if it wasn't too late.
Call State. Report what had happened. But would they believe him?
No. Sam was C.I.A. But Sam had said that Doc had an angel in the
304
government. A very important man. Who? General Rosa? Jorge? The
from him who his angel was. Then he would find the angel and
press the bastard into calling State to stop Sam. A part of him
said the hell with it, let Jorge and General Rosa go down.
Certainly they deserved it. And...
It all seemed so impossible.
Celia returned. She handed over a glass of orange juice and
two aspirin. He washed one down with the other. She patiently sat
on the chair waiting for him to finish the orange juice.
"Crista called. I told her you were sick. She coming."
"How long ago?"
"About ten minutes ago."
She should be here soon, he thought.
"Go home, Celia," he said, "Call a taxi. Take the money from
my desk. Go home."
"But you are sick."
"Was. Better now. Go home to your family. And thanks."
A doubtful look on her face.
"Unless you want to see a naked gringo."
She wordlessly left the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later he had showered and dressed. Although
his side still ached, the throbbing in his temples had eased
305
somewhat. Celia had emptied the contents from his wet and dirty
clothes onto the nightstand. He took two Valium from the bottle
Crista's Mercedes. It wasn't raining so much as misting. A thick
mist. The mist hugged Aqua. He thought about Doc. Where to find
him. At this time of night, Gus's seemed the likeliest place.
suddenly cursed. What the fuck! What the fuck!
Finally he could wait no longer and decided to walk to
Gus's. Crista had a key and she could let herself in. He went to
Still hopeful, he ran to the window and cursed once more before
leaving the house.
street and sidewalks muddy. The streets were deserted and not
even a stray dog wandered them. As he walked, head down against
the mist, little gobs of mud clung to his shoes until by the time
he reached the Plaza, they were covered with mud. Except for the
usual dark masses huddled against each other asleep, the Plaza
was void of people. Even the steel door to the armory was closed.
The only sign of life was a threadbare light shining out from
the window of the police station.
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completely void of people. Gus's was closed. He pounded on the
door, wondering what the hell was going on. No answer. He pounded
harder, shouting out Gus's name. The cry echoed along the street,
detached, a voice riding the falling mist.
taxi as he went. He walked all the way and was soaked by the
glass of Bourbon. He kissed her, a light brush across the mouth.
As he backed away from her, he swallowed the bourbon down.
"Let's go," he said and set the glass on the floor.
"Richard, you are all wet. Come inside first."
"No time," he replied. "I need to go to Doc's house. Sam has
my car. I will explain on the way."
Efficiency her forte, she didn't argue. He drove. The mist
became a steady downpour, making it difficult to see the road. He
explained as they went. About Doc. Sam. General Rosa. Jorge. The
dead brothers. And the movies. Most of all he ranted about the
word. By the time the story was told, he felt drained, almost as
if, he imagined, a Catholic felt after confessing. And he envied
Celia and Ruth their faith. Above all else, they had that. He had
nothing.
Crista sensed his distress and laid a comforting hand on his
knee.
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No, not nothing, he thought, he had Crista.
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Chapter 38
Crista had never visited Doc's hut and exclaimed the moment
they walked in, "Doc lives here?"
Richard stood by the bed surveying the room. There had
out between the bed the desk and the door. Doc was gone. Richard
nodded, and sat on the bed. But Doc was his only hope, and he
stubbornly refused to believe it. "We wait for him."
The bed creaked as she sat next to him. "Richard."
come we can leave. For good. Fly out tomorrow. Just pack a few
things. Underwear and such. Bear with me Crista."
really saying anything. Crista kissed his lips, stopping the flow
passion began to burn. She gently pushed him back on the bed and
kissed his forehead.
309
"Poor Richard," she murmured.
She kissed his nose.
"So tired. Just lay there."
Slowly she undressed him, whispering and murmuring all the
while. We can't leave tomorrow. In a few weeks. Three maybe four.
But let's not worry about this now.
When he lay naked, she straddled him and deftly shed her
dress. It cascaded around her ankles and she kicked it out from
under her.
"Tomorrow," he insisted, staring up at her.
"Hush Richard," she murmured and lay next to him.
"Crista," he said, "We leave tomorrow."
She rolled over on her side so she faced away from him and
brought to bear her ass against his cock.
"Crista?
"Fuck me Richard. Fuck me in the ass."
"Crista," he said, but found his body instinctively sliding
closer and closer until the folds of her ass closed around his
cock.
"Fuck me," she whispered in German, "Fuck me Richard!"
He entered her.
"Oh yes Richard!"
All at once a suffocating desire to get up and run gripped
him. Just run, legs pumping up to chest, until he was far away
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from right now. But he couldn't run. Crista lay next to him. He
clutched the pillow behind her. He was trapped. The feeling to
flee was replaced by an urge to hurt her. The urge overwhelmed
him. He could smell it. A primal urge to cause her enough pain
to hear her cry out: Stop!
ceiling beams and above them the corrugated metal roof. A bird,
perhaps Buzzard, sounding like tiny pebbles, scampered across the
roof. He withdrew from within her, sickened.
"What is the matter," she said not asked.
just an act. Isn't it?"
folds of her ass against his cock.
Your whole life is an act. Tell me I am wrong?"
"No Richard," she said pulling away. She rolled over and
faced him. "You are right."
He leaned up on one elbow and slapped her with such force
her head rocked back.
"Yes Richard, hit me again," she, voice husky, replied.
Disgusted, he stood.
"Go home, Crista," he asserted, "Go home and find somebody
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else to offer you penance. Or go see a shrink."
"You are such a little boy," she said.
"Right," he scornfully replied, and started dressing.
"Richard, don't do that. Come here."
Ambassador."
"You really are a little boy," she snorted. She stood and
pulled the dress up over her. "I will go home to the Ambassador.
He is a man. While you and Sam were out playing save the Indians,
the Ambassador was actually doing something constructive. This is
the difference between you and him, Richard."
Puzzled, he asked her what she meant.
surrounding Plaza and the park will be beautiful when finished.
wrought iron and polished wood benches. The overgrowth cut out,
and maintained to avoid further overgrowth. The fountain restored
to its original grandeur. The Ambassador is doing this for the
many German tourists who visit Antigua. This way they can feel at
home."
from telling her story fell away. And he saw how she would look
when old. An embittered woman.
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"You're right," he replied, "The park will be beautiful.
woman, her name is Alexia, who might differ with you on the park.
You see, the park is for the people, not just the German
tourists. The children selling hand crafts. The bums. The drunks.
The lovers. For everybody. Even the homeless."
"Go home Crista."
"Yes, I go."
"By the way," he said, "I am a fool, I admit as much. Just a
boy. An American little boy. But don't underestimate Sam or other
discover what by now General Rosa has discovered."
"You talk crazy now."
"Yes. I am crazy right now."
"Goodbye Richard."
"More acting," he said, "Go. Go. Go."
She did, leaving him alone with Doc's clutter. He sat on the
bed, drained. It seemed like he didn't have the energy to go on.
He lay back. Only for a moment. Soon, he would get up and start
the long walk home.
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Chapter 39
was dreaming him. The Lt. kept saying, a hand poking: wake up,
Richard, wake up, Richard.
After awhile, he realized he wasn't dreaming and slapped at
mustache grinning. "A dog in the morning."
checked his watch. Eight. He shook his head while sitting up.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The Lt. shrugged his shoulders. "I've been here for an
hour."
"An hour!" he echoed in surprise. He stood and ran a hand
through his hair. "Doing what?"
"Searching through Doc's desk. I found this." He held out a
sheet of paper for him to read. He reached for it, but the Lt.
pulled his hand away. "Not so fast Richard. Do you know what has
happened?"
"I could guess," he said, and sighed.
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"General Rosa and Jorge. Both dead," He said, "The official
government version is they killed each other. General Rosa is now
an honored hero of the Government. Jorge is now an honored hero
of the people. Two heroes."
"And Sam?"
"Sam? What does Sam have to do with two heroes. Sam is the
U.S. Embassy information officer, no."
"Yes," he lied.
"Ah," he said, and waved the paper out before me, "This
paper says otherwise. Doc wrote it."
"You going to let me read it, or just talk."
He shoved the paper at him. "Here, read read."
It was in Doc's scrawl, and like most doctor's, his writing
window. The letter was addressed to Sam.
"Jorge is dead. So is General Rosa. Sam, either you or your
Jorge was tortured before he was killed and you found out he was
my son; or maybe you knew this all along. How you must loathe me.
I had a bastard son who was no better then General Rosa; worse,
at least General Rosa never pretended to be anything but what he
protected him because he was my son but also because he allowed
me to save the children. I don't expect you to understand this. I
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do expect you to come for me. But I am old and for the few years
I have left the mountains are now my home. So you will find
nothing but this letter.
Sam I want to hate you, but can't. In murdering my son you
have lifted a great burden from my shoulders."
Doc had signed the letter.
He handed it over to Lt. Oscar.
"Now what?"
They stood inches apart. He took a pack of Payasos from his
mocked Richard. He laughed and took out a cigarette, lit it, with
his hand shaded the match and lit the edge of the letter. As the
seconds the paper burned leaving a charred mess. He stamped on
it, grinding his shoe back and forth, laughing. "Guatemalans love
the sense of the dramatics, no."
"Yes," he replied.
"You look sick. Come Richard. I take you home. Celia nurse
you. Nursing men is what Guatemalan women are good at, both in
spirit and body."
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Chapter 40
A month later Richard sat on the terrace eating breakfast. A
clear blue sky spread over Aqua. He hadn't left the house in
this time and had spent a full three weeks in bed with
from the unwashed neck of the Coke bottle...the Coke he had drunk
without a straw. The first two weeks he was feverish and slept,
only waking to use the toilet or to have Celia spoon feed him
soup. Slowly he healed enough to sit up, and spent the time
resting and catching up on long overdue correspondence. Letters
to friends in the States and such. Sam had called several times,
but he had Celia tell him he wasn't home. Sam finally stopped
calling. He knew that sooner or later he would have to go to the
Embassy and clear out his desk. He would see Sam there, and
didn't have so much as a clue as to what he would say to him. He
had expected Crista to call, but she never did. A part of him,
the part where a piece of his heart bitterly rested, lay fallow
and sad.
His only companion during this time, aside from Celia, was
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Lt. Oscar. He stopped by every evening for conversation and
great pomp and ceremony, was declared a national hero. Posters of
ghettos. He too was a hero.
He had also done a great deal of soulsearching. But he did
this soulsearching without the aid of Valium, or for that matter
selfinduced stress or boyish beliefs. Doc. Sam. Life. And had
decided to stay in Guatemala a while longer. He had the severance
pay from the Embassy so money wasn't the question. When he told
Lt. Oscar this, the Lt. Replied, twirling the ends of his silly
mustache for dramatics, that Guatemala, like a beautiful woman,
had him in her grasp. Richard had smiled a condescending smile at
him. But perhaps he was right.
He had first made the decision while ill. But slowly as his
mind cleared the thought had become rather frightening. He was
fiftysix years old. What would he do after the severance pay ran
out? He quickly realized that he could live well enough off his
combined pensions. But was just living enough? Or would he in the
end become what he had tried to escape from when moving here?
Would he become an American version of Edwardo? Sit at Gus's and
bitch or glory the old days. Would he don a frayed straw hat and
318
local character that people gossiped about during polite cocktail
conversation?
The thought worried at him, gnawing. Relief came in the form
departure from the Embassy, and had stopped by when he was well
enough to sit up and offered him a job in his export business.
When he was well enough of course.
But out of everything he had feared and thought about over
the past month, it was Doc who came to mind as he stared at Aqua.
He was somewhere up there. The rainy season had ended. A hot dry
climate had moved in. The black water would follow. The
mosquitoes. Malaria. Cholera. He wished Doc well. He, out of all
of them, had found, as Teresa had put it, his safe clean place.
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