Red Jungle (21 page)

“How much more have you cleared?” Russell asked.

“Another two hundred square meters. Maybe a little bit more. It’s been raining so hard, it makes it difficult.”

Russell calculated that they’d cleared almost a football field now, and they’d found nothing. He’d tapped out his credit cards and had no idea where he was going to get more cash to live on, much less give to Mahler.

“Do we have anything but a hole in the jungle? Have you any more reason to believe the fucking thing is actually
in there?”

“You have to have faith,” Mahler said.

“Faith costs money,
amigo
. So far, we’re working on a very expensive soccer field.”

“The American girl has come with her students. They’re building houses,” Mahler said.

“I know that. I said she could come,” Russell said.

“The students are a nuisance. They ask a lot of questions,” Mahler said. “About what we’re doing out there, why I come and go.”

“Tough shit. She’s my friend and I own the place.”

“Someone might talk. That would be very bad if others were to start looking, too. . . . If. . . .”

They lost their cell connection. Russell held the phone for a moment and then angrily threw it down on the car seat next to him.

“Talk about
what?
Our soccer field?” he said aloud to himself. He was angry because he had to make the Frenchman a payment the following week, and he didn’t have it. He was angry because Carlos was undoubtedly going to win the election and take the country further down a financial rat hole. He was angry because he was sure that right-thinking people could, at the very least, prop the country up and keep it from becoming another Argentina.

He parked his car in front of Jake’s, one of Guatemala City’s trendy new restaurants. A white-jacketed valet gave him a ticket, then jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled away. The restaurant had been built in one of General Ubico’s palatial homes—in his day, Ubico had been the United Fruit Company’s man. The United Fruit Company’s lawyers happened to be Allen and John Foster Dulles, who also just happened to head the CIA and the State Department at that time. The line between the United Fruit Company and the government of the United States of America became very blurred.

The house was all green marble and high ceilings; Russell remembered the house from childhood. He remembered coming here for parties with his mother.

He walked through the restaurant’s garden and looked for Carlos. Selva had called him at the paper and said that he thought they should meet. He told Russell he wanted to outline his economic plan for the country. Afraid not to, Russell had agreed to have lunch with him. What else could he have done, he’d thought when he’d put down the phone.

Carlos was sitting in a beautiful room off the garden. A waiter led Russell to the table. Unlike in the States, the smoking section had the best tables, as everyone here smoked. The windows onto the garden were wide open, offering a view of the considerable rose garden, from which the country had been ruled during Ubico’s time.

The sky was parched blue, no clouds yet. It was hard to believe it was raining at
Tres Rios,
Russell thought. It was very hot. Several ceiling fans turned the hot air, not doing much good.

Carlos, in uniform, stood up. They shook hands. There was a white table cloth and flowers. It was all very civilized, Russell thought as he sat down.
Did he know?
Was this meeting about Beatrice? Did Carlos invite him here to tell him he was a dead man?

Carlos took off his coat and laid it on the chair next to him. They talked about the weather for a moment. The heat was truly stifling. The marble floors seemed to radiate it.

“Have you gotten used to it? Our weather?” Carlos asked, sitting back down.

“Not really,” Russell said. “It’s so different than the winters back home.”

“Yes, very. I went to school in New York. In the Sixties,” Carlos said.

“I know,” Russell said. He’d read everything he could about Carlos’s career.

“Of course. You’ve been doing research on me.”

“Columbia University, a degree in political science. Graduated 1983, came back here and entered the military academy,” Russell said.

“It was difficult for me to come back. Most of my fellow officers had gone straight through, but the Americans wanted a different kind of army. They wanted people who had studied abroad.”

“You graduated with honors and then went to the School of the Americas for further training. Twelve months. Then some more at the US Army’s jungle warfare school in Panama. You came home, then went to some kind of war college in Italy. The war broke out here before you could finish, and you came home again. They sent you into the field as a second lieutenant,” Russell said.

“Very good. Yes. I wanted to finish, and I didn’t want to leave Italy to go to war in Central America.” Carlos smiled. “I had a girlfriend in Italy, and didn’t want to get my balls shot off. If you’d have seen her, you would understand.”

“I can’t blame you. It’s better with balls,” Russell said. The waiter appeared. They hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu.

Carlos ordered a steak. Russell took a moment to peruse the menu, then ordered a salad.

“Are you a vegetarian? Your generation seems to have taken it up. My wife is. It’s excruciating watching her eat sometimes. What she calls eating, anyway.”

He’d thought it would be hard hearing Carlos talk about Beatrice, but it wasn’t, surprisingly; it was almost a relief.

“No, not really. I’m just not very hungry. I can never eat when it’s like this. The heat puts me off.”

“Your mother was a Guatemalan,” Carlos said. Russell looked up, surprised. He knew he shouldn’t have been, but he felt naked nonetheless, as if the General had called him a name. He didn’t understand this feeling of guilt about his mother.

“Yes,” Russell said. He wanted to look away.

“I knew her,” Carlos said. “She was very beautiful. You come from a famous family. Why didn’t you mention it when we first met?”

“Is it really important?”

“Of course it is. Everything is different when you’re one of us. You know that.” He looked at Russell, and they made eye contact. The general took a piece of bread out of the basket in front of them.

There it was. A simple statement. He had been trying to run away from the truth, and the general had simply stated the obvious.

“Did you know your mother was my sister’s best friend?” Selva said.

“Look, I don’t care,” Russell said.

Carlos looked at him and continued buttering his bread. He did it carefully and accurately, the butter very soft in the heat, the ice under it melting away quickly.

“I’ve been told by my sister to look out for you,” Carlos said, ignoring his rudeness. “This is off the record and has absolutely nothing to do with the article I want you to write or with anything else. I made my sister a promise that I would look after you. It can be dangerous for journalists here. You won’t have to worry now.”

“It won’t influence what I write,” he said quickly.

“I don’t expect it to.”

The two men looked at each other again. There was something else. Russell tried to see it in the general’s dark eyes, in his perfectly ironed white shirt, in the black military tie.

“Your aunt and my sister are still close, the three of them grew up together. But you must know that. Your aunt Carmen is very hurt that you haven’t gone to visit her more often,” Carlos said. “My sister told me to tell you that.”

Russell didn’t know what to say. This was the last thing he’d expected from Selva. He picked up his ice water and drained it, then caught a waiter and ordered a glass of white wine. He needed a drink. Were they to be
friends
because of his mother?

“All right, I’ll go see my aunt,” Russell said.

“Why do you run away from your blood family?” Carlos looked at him.

It was an expression he’d never seen on the general’s face before. It was truly the expression of a man who didn’t understand. Family, to Latins, was
everything
. The country itself was a kind of family to them. He tried to find his hate for Carlos, but it was gone. It wasn’t there. He reminded himself that he wanted to steal the man’s wife, and it wasn’t there even then.

“My mother died when I was very young,” he said. “After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to come here. Not for a long time. I held it against the place. Can you understand that?”

“You are part of this country. Your great grandfather owned most of the
Costa Sur
. He pioneered the coffee business. These are things that you can’t escape. You’re a Guatemalan by birthright. Your cousin was president of the country during the war. You’re one of us,” Selva said.

“Okay,” Russell said. “Okay.” He put his hands up, sat back in the chair and smiled. It was a relief to hear it.
He was one of them. Okay,
he thought. He gave up.

“I told my sister I would invite you to Tilapa for
Semana Santa
. You must come. Everyone is going to be there,” Selva said. “Your aunt is coming, too. You remember Tilapa
,
don’t you? It hasn’t really changed.”

“Yes, I remember it,” he said.

“I bought your mother’s house there,” Carlos said. “Your mother had wonderful taste.”

They had lunch. They talked about the coffee crisis and the balance of payments issue. Since September 11, the U.S. had blocked cash transmittals from illegal Guatemalan immigrants working in the States, as part of the crackdown on wire transfers. The illegals in the States didn’t have social security numbers, and could no longer easily wire money back to their families in Guatemala. Those dollars, over the years, had grown into a very important source of foreign exchange. They both agreed the Americans had to come up with a solution, that it was only making matters worse.

“I suggest you go to Washington and tell them to back off on this. They’ll have to allow illegals without social security numbers to wire money,” Russell said. “It’s imperative.” He found himself more and more stepping into the role of adviser instead of dispassionate journalist. He saw the general was listening to him carefully.

“And the privatization of the telephone company?” Selva asked.

“You have to do it. You should do it with the electric company too,” he said. “It will create more jobs in the long run. And it will stop the corruption and lack of productivity.”

“It’s not a popular idea,” Selva said. “The unions don’t want it.”

“Of course it isn’t. Half the journalists in the country have been on the telephone company’s payroll. Why would they want to see it privatized? The company is a den of thieves. It needs to be cleaned up.”

“Antonio can’t win,” Selva said, changing the subject.

“I know that,” Russell said.

“There is a rumor that you are going to go work for him.”

“I am,” he said. “I’m quitting the paper . . . after I finish your profile piece.”

“Why don’t you come work for me?”

“Because I don’t support your economic policies,” he said. “There’s something I have to ask you. In your capacity as head of Guatemalan intelligence services. For the record, and for the article.”

“All right,” Carlos said.

“Am I being followed?”

“I can’t answer that on the record,” Selva said.

“Can you answer it off the record?” He wanted to say, as a favor, but stopped himself.

“No, because then you would be in danger. And I would have an angry sister. And I can’t have that.”

“I see.”

“I knew you would. I told you it’s a dangerous country for journalists,” Carlos said. “Will you come to Tilapa? We would love to have you.”

“I’ve been very busy. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to hurt your aunt. I told her you would come. It doesn’t matter in the least that you’ll be working for Antonio, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your aunt is supporting him too, for God’s sake! She’s practically a Communist,” Carlos said, and laughed.

They drank port after the meal. It had gotten cloudy; the garden, which had been bathed in blazing light, its flowers beautiful in full sun, was now quieter. The corners of the big garden had become shaded. The waiters started to close the windows in anticipation of the rain.

They finished their drinks and left together. Carlos stood up and put on his hat and coat. He caught everyone’s attention as they left. He was going to be president; it was on everyone’s face. He had great power as chief of the intelligence services, but he would have even more soon. People looked at Russell differently too, as if he were a rock star.

Two bodyguards in mufti were waiting for the general in the garden. They had been there all along, watching over them unseen. They had been trained by the Americans, and were much more professional than the run-of-the-mill type. One was an American, probably an active duty Ranger or Delta Force soldier. The embassy didn’t want to lose their man before the election, Russell imagined. It was a clear sign the Americans were supporting Carlos.