Red Jungle (13 page)

“No,” Russell said.

“My father had decided it was a good idea for the United Fruit company to pay some kind of tax here. They never did, you know. They never paid a dime of tax. They were here over a hundred years and never paid a cent. Now was that capitalism, or just old-fashioned imperialism? Don’t you see that Europe and America need us to be underdeveloped? Can’t you see that, young man? We buy their cars and their computers. That’s the way it’s always been. And they’ve made sure of it by hand-picking our leaders.”

Russell swallowed. He was tired of hearing about the “ugly Americans.” It may have been true in the past, but it seemed so beside the point now if you didn’t also admit that capitalism was the only way out for Latin America, or anywhere else. Most of the
new
industries in the country weren’t even American; they were Korean, he pointed out. The “United,” as she was known, had left the damn country before he’d been born. It was ridiculous to blame America for all Latin America’s problems.

“But surely you understand that there have been momentous changes in the world,” Russell said, trying to hide his disdain. He wanted to explain that he didn’t necessarily disagree about the way Americans had once abused their economic power, but that was then, during the cold war, and that was over. Capitalism had won. End of story.

“Capitalism is bigger even than the United States,” Russell said.

“Young man, you sound like a priest,” the senator said.

“Anyway, you haven’t answered me. Why would the military want to get rid of De La Madrid? He’s pro-business. He’s a capitalist.”

“The military is terrified of him. They’ve never faced a probusiness reformist party before. They’re used to left-wing types like me, but not neo-liberals. Christ, Madrid studied at the University of Chicago with Milton Friedman! He’s getting all kinds of good press in Europe. They’re afraid he might actually clean up all the corruption here. That’s the last thing the military wants.”

“So who are you supporting?” Russell asked him.

“Madrid,” he said. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes.”

“Carlos Selva, by the way, is my nephew. I’d say he’s too churlish to be president… And there’s his unfortunate reputation.”

“Human rights violations, you mean?” Russell said. Valladolid had a large swallow of his vodka and grapefruit juice.

“His mother, my sister, calls them ‘lapses of judgment.’ But yes… and his wife.”

“What about his wife?”

“Well . . . well . . . she isn’t perfect. She has a reputation,” the senator said. “Not that it will matter. Nothing matters here except that the Americans either like you, or they don’t. They love Selva, and that’s why I’m supporting Antonio.”

“She, you mean his wife, has a reputation?” Russell asked.

“Yes. But it has nothing to do with politics, and I wouldn’t mention it to
anyone,
or you might have an accident,” the senator said. “You understand here, the first rule is never,
ever,
write about a man’s wife. Especially my nephew’s.”

“Is there something that might come up in a campaign, then?” Russell asked.

“God, no. But she’s a bit of. . . .” The senator searched for the English word. He’d been speaking Spanish, and it was the first time Russell had heard him speak English. His English was perfect. Ironically, he sounded like an American. “She likes to enjoy herself,” the senator said. Russell doubted he would have said anything if he hadn’t been a little drunk. “She’s the same age as my granddaughter, and apparently they frequent the same nightclubs. I believe her favorite is the Q Bar.
Zona 10,”
he said. “You’ve met her then, I take it?”

“Yes,” Russell said. “I’ve met her.”

“God did a bad thing there, young man. He made someone who was
too
beautiful.”

Russell smiled. It was true, and he suddenly liked the old man. They were different in so many ways, too many years between them to really understand each other. But he liked his humanity, and his being drunk at eleven in the morning, and his clean blue shirt and his Yale ring and his manners and his having Fidel Castro’s cell phone number. Russell asked him if it was true what he’d heard, that Fidel Castro called him for advice on occasion.

“Only about women,” the senator said, joking. “You look familiar, young man,” he said as he stood up to leave. “Something about you is very very familiar.”

“All Americans look alike,” Russell said, trying to make a joke out of it, afraid Valladolid saw something of his mother in his face.

“Do you believe in God, young man?” Valladolid asked, not laughing at Russell’s joke.

“No. Of course not. Why? Is it important?”

“Here you have to understand God, to really understand— I mean, the notion of God. The Catholic God, and the Catholic church. If you understand that, you can understand Latin America.” The old man leaned forward, putting his big hands on the table. “You see, we aren’t really interested in
money,
not in the end. That’s what makes us Latins. We’re feudal, really, it’s all feudal here, the family structures, the business structures. It’s never been just about money,” he said. “You should explain that in your newspaper. We’re medieval.”

ELEVEN

It is very late,” Katherine said. “Yes, but it’s Thursday,” Russell said. “Thursday night you’re supposed to start the weekend in Guatemala; it says so on your visa. Haven’t you checked?”

“You’re awful,” she said.

They’d been having an affair. It amounted to afternoon screw sessions and political discussions. Katherine was trying to convince him that his neo-liberal agenda for the world was wrong, and he hadn’t been convinced. They disagreed about everything, but both of them were lonely and happy to have each other, even if it was called casual sex in the women’s magazines. They’d made a joke about it, saying that sex, if it was casual, had to be good for you.

He suspected she was falling in love with him, because she was earnest and loving when she really didn’t have to be. They would find each other for coffee at the
“Cafecito,”
leave her UN Jeep there, and go off for a tryst. He wasn’t in love with her, he was sure of that. They were, strangely enough, too much alike, he thought.

“Anyway, I want to go to the Q Bar and I can’t go without a girl—a cute girl, besides, or the doorman won’t let me in; I’m too fucking old,” he said.

“Get yourself put on the list,” Katherine said. “I used to know the owner; he was a Spaniard, and he’d put you on the list. Anyway, you aren’t
forty
yet,” she joked. “Unless you’ve been lying to me.”

It was that kind of club. Even at his age, he was too old for the Q Bar. It belonged to kids in their mid-twenties. And the doormen kept it that way, he’d been told—unless, of course, you brought a very pretty girl along.

They met at eleven, had a drink across the street from the club. As everywhere in Latin America, you could hear the dance club from a block away. He’d asked Katherine to wear something sexy, afraid the doorman wouldn’t let them in unless she looked very “hot.” He normally associated the word with frat boys and businessmen, and it surprised him. She’d surprised him because she’d paid attention, and met him in a Spanish bar in a small black dress that he didn’t think her kind of girl owned. He ordered tequila and listened to the trance music coming from across the street.

Katherine thought his calling her on the spur of the moment had something to do with their affair getting more serious. She looked animated and happy to have been thrown a curve by his request.

“I thought you’d be working on Thursday night,” she said. “I didn’t expect an invitation.”

“Spur of the moment. I had to let go. It’s been a killer week,” he said, and smiled. Katherine gave him a sweet smile back.

They ordered a second round of drinks. He was thinking about Beatrice, so he found himself speaking in easy prefabricated sentences. He couldn’t help it. He was lost. The feeling of being lost struck him with tremendous power, and he was excited by it. He was doing something he knew to be crazy, even absurd, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Katherine leaned forward and gave him a kiss. She flicked his tongue and rubbed his leg. He looked at her, shocked. She was falling in love with him; he was sure of it now. She wouldn’t have come on the spur of the moment if she wasn’t serious about him.

She looked into his eyes. They were excited shining girl’s eyes, sexual, feminine, and happy. She kissed him on the cheek. He tried to conjure up some appropriate look, but didn’t know what it might be. He kissed her back. People at the bar tried not to stare at the American couple making out.

“I have to go to Chicago for that wedding,” Katherine said. “My friend. Remember?” she cooed in his ear. “I could get you a ticket.” He didn’t answer; he touched her thigh and stopped, as people were staring. He pulled back.

“I can’t. Busy,” he said. He shouldn’t have said it. The moment passed, but he noticed something else in her eyes, just for a moment: a profound disappointment.

“Only for a few days. It
would
be fun. I
promise
you. You haven’t left the country for—?”

“Years, it seems like,” he said.

“Well—come on then,” she said.

“When?” He didn’t want to disappoint her; he liked her. He glanced across the street and saw the queue of kids trying to get into the club. He saw the doorman pointing at young girls, lifting a blue satin rope to let them pass. He looked at Katherine. She was pretty. She had a nice figure, buxom. She wasn’t stunning, though. He wondered if the doorman would let them in. “All right… I’ll ask my boss,” he said, lying. He just didn’t want to disappoint her, as he was grateful for her coming. Perhaps he would even go to Chicago. What difference did it make, a few days, he told himself. “Could you do me a favor?” he said.

“What?” She picked up her drink

“Could you take off your bra?” She looked at him a moment, then smiled. “Why, are we going to have sex ?”

He didn’t answer. He was just afraid the doorman might not let them in unless she did. She finished her drink and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she was spilling out of the dress.

He waited for a sign from the doorman, pushing Katherine forward towards the front of the queue. Bodyguards lined the sidewalk, as they weren’t allowed inside. Rich kids, some already drunk, waited, holding up their hands trying to get the doorman’s attention.

He put his arms around Katherine’s waist and moved them forward in the crowd. He heard a Pink track start. He glanced at the bodyguards on the street. They were from another class, and looked at the mob of kids with a certain disdain. The men tried not to let it show on their faces. It was just another stop. Pistols bulged under vests. Indian faces with day-old beards lit by night lights. He felt the bottom of Katherine’s breasts against his arm; a sexual blast ran through him. He remembered her on the floor of his apartment, the look in her face as she straddled him in complete abandon.

He held his arm tight around her and pushed forward. He wondered if he would ever see Beatrice the way he had seen Katherine exposed sexually. He felt the sense of pursuit and the need to pursue. It seemed uncontrollable for a moment. He had to clear a path through this jungle of his desire. He had no idea how he would react if the doorman didn’t let them in.

Over the music, he told Katherine to raise her hand. She turned to look at him. Maybe she caught something in his voice, or perhaps it was the pressing of their bodies together —the crowd around the door was turned into one body—but he could tell she wanted to do whatever he asked of her. That fact only put his desire to see Beatrice into relief. He realized he was doing something wrong, something stupid and something he would regret, even be ashamed of. He had this woman in his arms who would do anything he asked. She’d proven that. She was sexy. She was in love with him, even. Why was he chasing a woman he’d barely met, who was married, and had children? Because he wanted her, he told himself. He wanted to hear her voice speaking to him.

Katherine shot her hand up. The doorman looked at her. Russell put his hand around her waist. The doorman looked at him, smiled, and pointed to them. They were suddenly past the ropes and moving inside the club. Russell was stopped for a moment while a guard frisked him quickly. He noticed the guard managed to pat Katherine’s ass as they walked by.

Inside the club the crowd was packed tight. The room wasn’t very large and held only about two hundred people, but seemed like a lot more. The deejay was on a stage, flanked by dancers. He was startled to see Beatrice on the stage dancing, flanked by one other girl. They were both in gold lame retro outfits. He looked at Katherine, but she hadn’t seen Beatrice yet. He yelled over the music that he was going to move them towards the bar. For some reason, he didn’t want Katherine to see Beatrice. He was shocked—he hadn’t expected to see her performing—but tried to keep the shock out of his voice.

He guided them towards the bar. At one point, they couldn’t get any closer to the bar. What had he expected? he wondered.
I’d expected to be disappointed,
but he wasn’t.
She was there
.