Читать книгу The Risk of Returning, Second Edition - Shirley Nelson - Страница 19

The next morning at the school, before meeting Catherine, I made it a point to connect with Carlos Méndez. We conversed in Spanish in the office, while he beamed at my progress like a proud parent.

“I must show you off tonight at a little party I am giving,” he said. Friends of his from the States were staying at the Buen Viaje, a local inn, and were joining him in entertaining some other U.S. visitors. He was inviting students. I promised to be there, politely.

I told Catherine about the language breakthrough next, expecting her to come up with some kind of an I-told-you-so. Instead, she gave me a high-five. But that was the extent of the celebration. We reviewed verbs most of the day. She had listed them on a pack of three-by-five cards. She shuffled these over and over and fanned them out in her hand. I was to pick one, blindly, and use it in a sentence. I had two minutes only for each sentence, completed and corrected. We did this all morning and again after lunch, until I couldn’t stand any more. I reached over and gathered the cards together in a swoop, lifting them out of her hands. “I’m tired,” I said.

She didn’t seem to mind. “Good. I’m tired, too. I’ve got to turn in your progress report to the office.” She wrapped the cards in a stretchy blue headband, then began packing up her bag. “You’re getting an A plus, in case you’re wondering. Hey, we’re done here. Finished.”

She stood and so did I. “You mean this is it?” I said.

She said sí, then “done” again in several Spanish versions, clearly amused. It was turning out to be much too abrupt. I was caught off-guard by a sense of incompleteness, that we still owed each other something. Not sex, nothing so recognizable. “Well, then, can I buy you a drink?” I asked, not very smoothly. “A parting glass—like?”

She hesitated, then said “No, I shouldn’t,” and I remembered her husband. “You’re not going to the party?” she asked.

“Oh yeah. I forgot. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t either, but I must.”

“I promised Méndez. But just in case I don’t, well—.” I held out my hand. She took it in a quick firm shake, then shouldered her big tote bag and walked toward the office door.

“Listen,” I said, catching up to her. “Escuche! You’ve been a good teacher. I’m grateful. I hope you know that.”

“Well, you’ve been a rather unusual student,” she answered. “Which, of course, is what I predicted, isn’t it?”

“Must you always be such an insufferable know-it-all?”

“To the bitter end,” she said, and turned into the office with a wave.

The Buen Viaje was an upscale inn, sprawling across a couple of acres of land at the southwestern end of the city. I walked there in a watery blue twilight, aiming directly toward Volcán de Fuego, watching a final finger of the sun as it caught the bottom of a cloud circling the mountain. It had rained briefly and stopped, and the air was full of the sweet-sour smell of ripe vegetation. On a muddy side road a dozen kids played pick-up soccer with a half-deflated ball, shouting curses as it splatted into the puddles. I observed them with a little pang—barefoot, filthy, falling, every man for himself.

I was arriving late, a reluctant guest. The parking lot of the inn was full of cars and the lobby was crowded and thick with smoke. I found a door leading to the exterior, a large grassy courtyard and two illuminated swimming pools. A marimba band played near a lighted fountain.

I looked for familiar faces and spied them, students and tutors, standing near the sliding doors of a first-floor suite, along with a dozen others I didn’t know. Carlos Méndez came to meet me and introduced me to the co-hosts, his friends Angela and Norman Harris from Long Island, a couple perhaps in their fifties. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and she a long skirt in the same plaid. They were owners of an international import company, Méndez told me. “And Señor Peterson is one of our star pupils, an English professor from Massachusetts,” he added.

“Oh-oh. I’d better watch my language,” said Harris, laughing as if he’d coined the joke.

In the suite another two dozen people had gathered around a long table packed with party food. Little U.S. and Guatemalan flags had been stuck on all the platters. I poured myself a scotch and ambled back outdoors. I saw Catherine on the other side of the patio, in conversation with a couple. I recognized her first only by her height. Her Yankees cap was gone, her hair down, hanging in waves around her face, abundantly. How had she managed to get all that tucked into the cap? She was wearing an ankle-length skirt of blue woven cloth tied at her waist around a lacy blouse cut low on her shoulders. She had excellent shoulders, I noticed, now that she had tossed the white shirt. I saw no one near her who might be her husband. It was all gringos.

I slipped through the crowd, stopping at the edge of one cluster after another. Everyone was speaking English, and in nearly every case the topic of conversation was some aspect of tourist life in the country—the exchange rate, when to pay a bribe, the safety and danger of travel. I gravitated to a couple of guys standing apart. One was Hank Stenning, the pony-tailed student I saw every day. The other, stocky and hot-looking in a tightly buttoned shirt, introduced himself as somebody Tornquist. He was “with coffee,” he told me. Who was I with, he wanted to know.

“Myself, I guess,” I said. He seemed puzzled. He was more than a little oiled already. I switched attention to Stenning. He didn’t look like he was “with” anybody either. He picked up on the conversation I had interrupted, telling Tornquist about a water project in the western hills, where he was headed next. “We find ways to connect remote communities with the nearest water suppwy,” he explained.

“Suppwy?” echoed Tornquist. Then he caught on. “Well, who pays you for that?”

Stenning was amused. “No one.”

I backed away and eased myself around the guests, headed for Catherine, curious to observe the transformation up close. “Hola,” she said, when I reached her.

“Are you with someone?” I asked.

She laughed. “How about do I come here often?”

“How about what are you drinking?”

“Papaya juice.”

“Right.”

“It really is.”

We raised glasses to each other. “You look very nice,” I told her, hoping I didn’t sound surprised.

“Thank you. I thought I’d better clean up for the fufurufus.”

“The what?”

“The nouveau riche.”

We drifted to the edge of a group of about a dozen people dominated by the couple Catherine had been talking with earlier. “Who are they?” I asked. She shrugged. “Cindy and Bob. They’re from Ohio. He sells fertilizer here. Shall we be nice and listen in on the conversation?”

“You be nice. I’m always nice,” I said.

Bob and Cindy were telling the story of a couple who had been recently robbed as they were climbing Volcán de Pacaya. “By two masked gunmen muttering something about the gods of the volcano,” said Cindy.

“It was stupid to go climbing alone,” someone inserted. That raised the question of who was responsible for crime in the country, and everyone had an answer: guerrillas, local police, Indians, and jealous wives. Laughter.

“We’re okay as long as we stick close to the touristy places,” said Cindy. “That’s what the State Department says.”

“Well, if you want my theory,” said Bob, “statistically there’s no more danger of being robbed or killed here than in any city in the United States. But the Tourist Commission wants us, and they know one way to get us is to convey just the right sense of danger.”

Tornquist, who had moved to the group along with Stenning, had a theory too. Since he was “literally from Missouri,” in the ten years he had been coming to Guatemala he had made it a practice never to take at face value anything he heard. “So help me, I swear to God the country operates on rumor and hearsay. Take away rumor and everything comes to a halt. Rumor is the machinery that powers the whole country, okay? It brings international loans, cancels foreign debt, builds hospitals.” He paused, and took a sip of his drink. A wave of cognizance passed over his face, as if he’d just realized he was onto something. He was standing on a rise of ground and it appeared to give him a podium. “You see what that means?” he said. “It means there’s no war. Not here. It’s just a rumor. Okay?”

“True,” said someone. “The war is over.”

“No, I mean there never was a war.” Tornquist said. “I myself have personally never seen a single sign of actual war. Ten years and twenty visits and I never have, I swear it.”

An uncertain chuckle passed through the group, not sure how to read him.

“So,” said the guy named Bob, “All those M-16s we’re seeing are just toys?”

“Excellent observation,” Tornquist said. “Ever see one fired? Ever see anyone shot?”

He was even drunker than I’d thought. Catherine, standing on my left, made a gesture with her hand that I took to be a dismissal and turned to walk away. I was more than ready to go myself.

“Speaking personally,” said Tornquist, “I have never seen a dead body in this country. Personally, I have not.”

Now Catherine turned back, and drew in her breath as if to speak. “Be nice,” I whispered. She did the suppressed smile thing and elbowed me gently. And she was nice. “Oh, you know, you are so right,” she said to Tornquist, in a warm voice I hadn’t heard her use. “Mister—? I didn’t catch your name. Never mind. You’re right. That’s exactly what a lot of people here believe. There is no war.” She smiled, one that was also new to me, light and girlish. “But then, of course, it depends on what you want for a war. I mean, we aren’t talking about two armies meeting with bayonets in a peach orchard, are we?”

“We certainly are not,” said Tornquist. “There never was a war here. It’s all fantasy and rumor, like I say.”

“Or maybe it’s the socio-economic condition of things,” said Cindy.

Stenning, on my right, choked noisily.

“Except, oh wait a minute.” That was Catherine’s new voice again. She had struck a thoughtful pose, fingertip on her chin. “If it’s fantasy, we do have a little problem. I mean, four hundred villages destroyed, a hundred thousand people murdered. And the disappearances, so many. We do need to account for those somehow, don’t you think?”

“Oh, something happened to them all right,” said Tornquist. “Runaways, unfaithful husbands, unpaid debts, all the reasons people usually disappear. That’s my theory.”

That drew another run of laughter, but with distinctly less spirit, and a couple of people slipped away. “Let’s go,” I said to Catherine. Not that she should go anywhere with me, even across the lawn, but I think she might have, until Hank Stenning spoke.

“That’s not a new theory, in case you want to know. It’s what an Army officer here said to some women who asked what happened to their husbands. And he wasn’t kidding.”

“So, who’s kidding?” said Tornquist. “I’m serious. A non-war has been propagated with American tax money. We paid for a war and didn’t get one, and you can bet our money is lining somebody’s pocket.”

“Oh, we’ve got a war, for sure,” Stenning answered. “A war by different means, so they say. One body at a time.”

“Except in a Mayan village,” said Catherine. “Then you don’t count.”

I looked at the sky. A sudden cloudburst struck me as a really good idea, the kind that sends everybody flying in different directions. It didn’t rain, but two other things happened right at that point. The marimba band—this is the truth—began to play “God Bless America,” and Angela Harris, the hostess, arrived with a tray of miniature tacos.

“Just off the comal, everybody!” she announced brightly. “Get them while they’re hot!” She thrust the tray in front of Catherine, who waved it away. And now she wasn’t nice any more. Maybe it was Angela’s cheeriness that did it, or even her plaid skirt, for all I know, or maybe the music. Or the papaya juice. When Catherine addressed Tornquist again, her voice was steely.

“You know what, mister-what’s-your-name?” she said. “Rumor is too easy. Let’s talk about lies instead. Tonterias.”

“What?” said somebody.

“Intentional misinformation,” said Catherine.

“Bullshit,” said Stenning, with a big grin. It came out as “boo-shit.”

“Such as,” said Catherine, “there is no war in this country.”

“Or this country is now a democracy,” said Stenning.

“No longer a military state,” said Catherine.

“Reports of human rights viowations are greatwy exaggerated,” said Stenning.

“And there is no pursuable evidence of genocide,” said Catherine.

“Genocide! What genocide?” That was Bob, I thought, who stood somewhere behind us.

“Check it out in your travels,” said Catherine. “Try Agua Fria. You might find a mass grave. Or a well, stuffed with murdered people. Or Rio Negro. Over four hundred residents assassinated there, mostly children.”

“Oh!” interrupted Angela. “Oh, but! Isn’t this a wonderful place? There’s so much to see. What about the hot springs in Zunil? Has anyone been there? Or the ruins of Tikal in Petén?”

“And if you go to Petén,” said Catherine, her voice rising, “search for the village called Dos Erres.” She rolled the R’s with a flair. “You won’t find it. It was wiped off the map by the Guatemalan army.”

“Not the army. Guerrillas did that,” said Bob.

“Is that so. What’s your source?” asked Catherine.

“My boss, the U.S. of A. We stand behind the army here. That’s good enough for me.”

“Which means you are sanctioning murder.”

“Murder? Watch your tongue, lady. I call that remark criminally libelous.”

“Well, at least I’m not criminally naive.”

Now a couple of the women began to sing loudly, along with the marimbas—From the mountains, to the valleys—. Others joined in, and over that racket Bob and Catherine began shouting at each other. I stood there like a silent partner, “with” her but not wanting to be, and not wanting to forsake her either.

I could barely hear them. Bob called her a babbling bitch and she told him he was nothing but a puppet, without brains or balls, like most American tourists. I got that much. After that, their words were lost to me. They went at it, back and forth, until the marimbas suddenly cut off, the singing stopped, and into the interstice sailed Catherine’s elevated voice, mid-sentence, all by itself, loud and clear: “—And by the bloody Guatemalan butchers and their fucking U.S. money!”

Across the green terraces heads whirled our way. She looked down. I looked up, at the sky.

The marimbas instantly began to play once more, this time—I swear again—the Guatemalan national anthem, a melody my bones identified. There was a flurry of action at the door of the suite and all eyes turned to where Carlos Méndez were emerging with a party of several men. Méndez looked short next to the person beside him, a large, slightly balding man in a green silk shirt.

“It’s Zondo!” said Tornquist, and he and Bob hurried over to greet him. Méndez held up his hand for silence. The band came to a ragged halt, and now it was his voice that projected across the yard, beckoning everyone to come meet his “long-time matey, leader of the Buenas Nuevas party, Elizondo the great!”

Well, well, here he was before me, the “ubiquitous” politician. He was a remarkably handsome man, I noted, if quite a lot too chesty. His smile looked genuine, a little abashed, as he waved aside the flattery. “And what a lovely looking bunch you all are,” he said, holding out his hands to us one by one, working his way through our group, greeting several people by name. I recognized that voice, the good baritone I had heard on the radio. He spoke English with a flat American accent. Someone commented on it. Oh, sure, he had learned English at Notre Dame not so long ago, he replied. He got an A in English, but failed miserably at U.S. football.

Later I wasn’t sure I witnessed what I thought I did. He was standing in the group just four feet away from Catherine and me. He turned as he finished speaking, saw her and did a second take, or so I perceived it. “Cat?” I thought he said, in surprise. Just that. If he was speaking to her, she didn’t answer. She was walking away. It was over in an instant. Stenning was asking Elizondo a question. “What’s the Good News party? Is that the same as the New Jerusawem of Ríos Montt?”

“Well, since you asked,” said Elizondo. He laughed. “If, with all due respect to our former president, you refer to national unity and high moral values, then yes, I believe Guatemala can certainly be the New Jerusalem of the modern world. But there is much more to that, of course.”

“Never mind the much more, amigo,” prompted Méndez. “Multitudes are waiting to greet you.”

“He knows me too well,” said Elizondo. “So I will just say this, quickly. There is now a fragmented Guatemala, as you know. There is the land of the tourist. There is the land of the campesino, the Indian. Of which I am one, by the way. Yes, part Kaqchikel. Proudly. And there is the land the world sees from a distance, the one of internal conflict.” He was using his hands, gracefully. “But there is another Guatemala, made up of people like you, who work hard and strive to live with honesty and human kindness, pursue art and music and intelligent conversation. I want that to be the whole new Guatemala. There is no excuse for poverty and illiteracy. I want to see every citizen in this country enjoy the wealth and well-being God intends for us all. That’s our best strategy in the battle against evil. We can become a mecca of peace and prosperity, the Switzerland of the southern hemisphere. We’ve got the mountains, haven’t we?”

He chuckled, as if embarrassed by his own largess. Méndez said, “Hear, hear,” giving him a good-natured sock on the arm and hustling him away. The group followed and Stenning and I were left standing together. “What did you think?” he asked.

“Political stump.”

“We’ve been snookered,” Stenning said. “By Méndez. He denies us the right to tawk powitics on his turf, then he springs this guy on us at a party.”

“Is he important?” I asked.

“Did you notice the bodyguards? He’s rich as heck, I’ve heard. He owns a bunch of businesses and runs a big charity. A favorite of the business crowd.”

“That’s where Méndez comes in?” I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to go. I was scanning the lighted areas for Catherine. I should say goodbye.

“It’s the churchy stuff that bothers me,” said Stenning.

Had I missed something? “Méndez?”

“No. Zondo. And his mentor, former President Ríos Montt.”

That name again. “I heard Ríos Montt was a good guy.”

“Depends on the source.”

I was tired of Stenning. We were moving back toward the suite. I thought Catherine might have gone inside but she wasn’t there either. Maybe she had already left. So be it. Stenning poured wine at the drink table and handed me a glass.

“Hey, that’s your tutor, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Where?” I asked, glancing around.

“I mean the one who took on the powers-that-be out there. She’s right on target. You know that peace agreement cooked up here two weeks ago?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Endorsed by the UN, but President Reagan rejected it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to your great country and mine.”

“Skoal,” I said.