Life During Wartime (27 page)

‘Now this sorely tempted the hunter, for he was poor, his home a hut of thatch and brushwood, and though he provided his family with enough to eat, like all men he sought to improve the lot of his loved ones. But he resisted temptation and once again refused. His face twisted in rage, the conquistador’s ghost reined his horse hard, making it rear, and galloped off, dwindling to a
point of darkness that flashed as red as a star in the instant it disappeared.

‘The hunter was pleased with himself, and that night he played happily with his child and embraced his wife with fervor, certain that his assistance to the king would bring him great good fortune. But the next day as he took aim at a deer, he heard a pounding as of iron-shod hooves, and out of nowhere appeared the conquistador’s ghost, riding straight at the deer and sending it leaping away into the cover of the brush. Laughing wildly, the ghost reined in his horse and vanished in the same manner he had the previous day. The hunter did not sight another deer and returned home empty-handed. There was food in his larder, however, and he was sure his luck would improve. But for two weeks thereafter, each time he made to kill his quarry, be it deer or tapir or agouti, the conquistador’s ghost would ride out of nowhere and give the alarm. Doggedly, the hunter persisted, but by the end of two weeks his wife and child had become ill from lack of food and he had grown desperate. He had no lunch to carry with him on his hunts, but he continued his habit of siesta, and on the fifteenth day after he had helped the king, the conquistador’s ghost waked him from a dream of skulls and said in a voice like ashes, “Let me enter, or I will haunt your days until your family dies of starvation.”

‘The hunter saw that he had no choice, and he let the conquistador’s ghost touch his breast with his sword, at which point he fell into the dream of the labyrinthine palace. The ghost galloped down the corridor, and when the hunter waked he found a gold coin lying in his palm. His first impulse was to throw the coin away, but remembering the plight of his family, he took the coin and bought food. That night it did his heart good to see the color return to their cheeks as they lay with full bellies under the stars, but he felt shame over what he had done, and he wondered if he would ever feel otherwise.

‘The next afternoon he dreamed again of the palace, and to his amazement the king came to the front of the dream, begged to be released, and told him the secret of opening the doors of a dream. The hunter was delighted to have this chance to atone for his weakness and did as the king instructed. But moments later the
conquistador’s ghost galloped from the depths of the palace and demanded exit. Gleeful, the hunter locked the doors of the dream and went about his business. But during his siesta the following afternoon, he fell into a nightmare of such vivid torment that under ordinary circumstances he would have waked screaming. He did not wake, however. Demons flayed his skin, insects with steel pincers fed each other morsels of his flesh and tweaked his exposed nerves, and still he slept on. And in the background of the dream he saw the conquistador’s ghost looking on and smiling, resting his arms on the pommel of his saddle. At last the ghost cantered forward and said in a voice like ice, “Give me passage, or I will make you dream your own death.” And again having no choice, the hunter opened the doors of his dream and let the ghost sally forth.

‘When he waked he found another golden coin in his palm, and he was so unnerved that he went to the nearest cantina and drank himself insensible. He understood that he had been chosen by the spirits as the ground on which to fight their ancient battle, and he could only hope this particular engagement would be brief. But the next afternoon the king once again begged entry to the hunter’s dream, and when a brief time later the conquistador’s ghost came into view, the hunter complied with his demands and, his heart full of remorse, accepted another golden coin. First months, then years went by. The hunter constructed plots against the conquistador’s ghost, but for each the ghost had a remedy. He grew wealthy due to the daily payments, and his family’s future now assured, he considered suicide. But his moral imperatives had been seduced by comfort, and he reasoned that if it were not he whose dreams served as the battlefield, it would be some other: how could he burden anyone else with this terrible conflict?

‘Then one day as the king fled the dream, he said to the hunter, “Friend, thank you for your years of service. I am leaving now to find a new dream, for the conquistador has delved all the secrets of the palace and I can no longer elude him.”

‘Stricken by guilt, the hunter asked forgiveness, but the king told him that there was nothing to forgive, that the hunter had provided him with the best hiding place he had ever had. He
sprinted off into the jungle, and soon the conquistador’s ghost emerged from the dream. He, too, spoke to the hunter.

‘ “Of all the hunts I have known,” he said in a voice that rumbled like a volcano, “yours has provided the most intriguing of all. I am sorry to see it exhausted.”

‘The hunter trembled with hate, but limited himself to saying, “I am grateful I will never have to lay eyes on you again.”

‘The ghost’s laughter filled the sky with dark clouds. “You are an innocent, my friend. That which is fallow will one day be fertile again, and that which is valueless will grow to be priceless. Sooner or later you will dream a new dream, and we will return to have our sport within it.”

‘“Never!’’ said the hunter, ‒I would rather die.”

‘“Die, then,” said the conquistador’s ghost in a voice of flame. “Perhaps your child will have the gift of dreams.”

‘The hunter was staggered by this possibility, and knew that he would do anything to spare his child this doom.

‘Again the ghost laughed, and lightning flashed across the sky, its forked values defining the thousand forms of terror in the language of the gods. “Here!” The ghost tossed a golden coin studded with emeralds at the hunter’s feet, a coin worth a decade of its usual payments. “I commission you to build me a new dream, one more elaborate than that of the palace. When I return it had better be ready.” And with that the ghost rode off in pursuit of the king, its steed leaving a trail of hoofprints from which an ineffable smoke arose, signs clear enough so that any spirit peering down from the heavens might take note of them and follow.’

Garrido butted his cigar, making a nest of sparks on the limestone. He seemed to be waiting for a response.

‘Coulda used a hair more dialogue,’ said Mingolla. ‘But not bad.’

Letting out a hiss of disgust, Garrido pulled himself up by his hammock rope. ‘Good night,’ he said. He slipped into the hammock and pulled the mosquito netting over his head.

Despite himself, Mingolla had been impressed by the story, although his secondary reaction had been to consider asking Garrido why he hadn’t simply said, ‘For the money.’ But he realized this would have been unfair. He would have liked to
question Garrido further, for it had occurred to him that not only were there a great many things he did not understand, but there well might be a great many other things to whose very existence he had been blind. He gave thought to cultivating Garrido’s friendship, but after reflection decided against it, feeling that friendship would blur his judgments, and that the argument between them would in the long run prove more entertaining than any conversation generated by an accord.

He managed to get to sleep despite the frost, though sleep was hardly restful, a tapestry of anxiety dreams, and when he was awakened by a bright light shining in his eyes, he wondered if he had cried out and disturbed Garrido. ‘What is it?’ he asked, shielding his eyes, his hand tangling with the mosquito netting.

‘Son of a bitch!’ said a voice with a hillbilly twang. ‘This ol’ beaner talks American.’

‘I am American.’ He struggled up. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Something jabbed him hard in the chest, shoving him back; through the white mesh, he saw a rifle barrel and a hand holding a flashlight.

‘Sure looks like a beaner,’ said somebody else.

‘I’m an agent … a spy. Who are you people?’

‘We own this place, man,’ said the hillbilly voice, loaded with menace, ‘And you trespassin’.’

A chill washed away the dregs of Mingolla’s drowsiness, and he pushed with his mind; but rather than meeting mild electrical resistance and enforcing his will, he was flung back, repelled: it was as if he had been riding in a car, had stepped out while it was still moving, and instead of running smoothly along, had been flipped up into the air. He tried again, achieved the same result.

‘That’s a disguise, huh?’ said the hillbilly. ‘How we gonna tell for sure? Lotsa Cubans do real good American. Maybe we scrape ’way a little bitta that color, see what’s under it.’

A chorus of dopey-sounding laughter.

‘Whyn’t ya do like them ol’ war movies, Sarge? Ast him questions ’bout baseball and stuff?’ Another voice.

‘Yeah!’ Hillbilly. ‘How ’bout that, friend. S’pose you tell us who plays centerfield for the Chicago Bears.’

‘Your pal in disguise, too?’ Still another voice.

‘What you guys want?’ Mingolla tried to push the rifle barrel away. ‘Lemme up!’

‘Guess his buddy’s a beaner for real,’ said the hillbilly. ‘Go ’head and do him.’

A burst of automatic fire.

Mingolla stiffened. ‘Garrido?’

‘He answers ya, man,’ said the hillbilly, ‘and I’m gettin’ outta here.’

‘You crazy motherfucker!’ Mingolla said. ‘We’re …’

The rifle punched harder into his chest. ‘You ain’t outta the woods yo’self, boy. Now you wanna answer my question?’

Mingolla suppressed an urge to scream, to heave up from the hammock. ‘What question?’

‘’Bout who plays centerfield for the Bears.’

Snickering.

‘The Bears play football,’ said Mingolla.

‘Well, I’m convinced! Take a reg’lar American to know that,’ said the hillbilly amid renewed laughter. ‘Trouble is’ – the humor left his voice – ‘we don’t cotton that much to Americans, neither.’

Silence, insects chittering.

‘Who are you?’ Mingolla asked.

‘Name’s Coffee … Special Forces, formerly ’tached to the First Infantry. But y’might say we seen the light an opted outta the military. You gotta name, boy?’

‘Mingolla … David Mingolla.’ He thought he knew them now, and to make sure he asked, ‘What do you mean, “seen the light”?’

‘The light’s holy in Emerald, man. Y’sit under the beams what shine through the leaves, let ’em soak into ya, and they’ll stir truth from your mind.’

‘That right?’ Mingolla pushed again, and again achieved nothing.

‘Think we’re nuts, don’tcha?’ said Coffee. ‘You ’mind me of my ol’ lieutenant. Man used to tell me I’s crazy, and I say, “I ain’t ordinary crazy, lieutenant sir. I’m crazy gone to Jesus.” And I’d tell him ’bout the kingdom we was gonna build. No machines, no pollution. Y’gonna thrive here, David, if you can pass muster.
Learn to hunt with a knife, track tapir by the smell. Hear what weather’s comin’ in the cry of a bird.’

‘How ’bout the lieutenant?’ Mingolla asked distractedly, trying to gain a purchase in Coffee’s mind. ‘He learn all that?’

‘Y’know how it is with lieutenants, David. Sometimes they just don’t work out.’

The mosquito netting was flung back, and he was hauled from the hammock, forced to his knees, a rope cinched about his wrists. He saw the shadowy cocoon of Garrido’s hammock in the indirect glow from the flashlight: it looked to be bulged down lower than before, as if death had weighed out heavier than life. He was yanked upright, spun around to face a gaunt rack of a man with rotting teeth and blown-away pupils; an unkempt beard bibbed his chest, and dark hair fell in snarls to his shoulders. He was holding the flashlight under his chin so that Mingolla could see his grin. Behind him stood his men, all of a cut, bearded and thin, smaller than their leader. Their fatigues holed, rifles outmoded.

‘Pleased to meetcha, David,’ said Coffee, lowering the flashlight. ‘You up for a little night march?’

‘Maybe he should pop a couple?’ said one of the others.

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Coffee dug into his pocket, then shone the flashlight into his palm, illuminating two silver foil bullets. ‘Ever do Sammy?’

‘Listen,’ said Mingolla. ‘I’ve got—’

Coffee drove a fist into his stomach, bending him double. Only the fact that someone was holding the rope around his wrists prevented him from falling. He couldn’t breathe for several seconds, and when he had recovered sufficiently to breathe through his mouth, Coffee grabbed his chin and straightened him. ‘That’s the first lesson,’ he said. ‘Y’answer when you spoke to. Now y’ever done Sammy?’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t get all anxious … it’s purely a joy and a triumph.’ Coffee held up one of the ampules. ‘Just breathe in deep when I pop it, y’hear. Or else I’m gonna give ya ’nother lesson.’ He crushed an ampule between his thumb and forefinger, and Mingolla inhaled the stinging mist. ‘Here comes number two,’ said Coffee cheerfully.

The world was sharpening, coming closer. Mingolla could see the spidery shapes of monkeys high in the canopy, backed by rips of moonlight, framed in filigrees of black leaves; he heard a hundred new sounds, and heard, too, how they knitted the darkness into a comprehensible geography of rustling ferns and scraping branches. The wind was cool, its separate breezes licking at him, feathering his hair.