The Codex (19 page)

Sally busied herself with her plants, stringing the herbs and roots on a stick to dry near the fire. “There’s an incredible variety of plants here,” she said excitedly to Tom. “Julian’s going to be really pleased.”

“Wonderful.”

Tom turned his attention to Chori and Pingo, who were building a hut while Don Alfonso shouted directions and heaped criticism on them. They started by driving six stout poles into the earth, making a framework of flexible sticks, over which they tied the plastic tarps. The hammocks were strung between the poles, each with its own mosquito netting, and a final piece of plastic tarp was hung vertically, making a private room for Sally.

When they were done, Pingo and Chori stepped back while Don Alfonso examined the hut with a squinty eye, then nodded and turned. “There, I offer you a house as good as any in America.”

“Next time,” Tom said, “I’m going to help Chori and Pingo.”

“As you wish. The curandera has her own private sleeping quarters, which can be enlarged for an additional guest, should she need company.” The old man gave Tom another exaggerated wink. He found himself reddening.

“I am quite content to sleep alone,” said Sally coldly.

Don Alfonso looked disappointed. He leaned over toward Tom as if to speak to him in private. His voice, however, was perfectly audible to everyone in the camp. “She is a very beautiful woman, Tomás, even if she is old.”

“Excuse me, I’m twenty-nine.”

“Ehi, señorita, you are even older than I thought. Tomás, you must hurry. She is almost too old to marry now.”

“In our culture,” Sally said, “twenty-nine is considered young.”

Don Alfonso continued to shake his head sadly. Tom couldn’t suppress a laugh any longer.

Sally rounded on him. “What’s so funny?”

“The little culture clash here,” he said, catching his breath.

Sally switched into English. “I don’t appreciate this sexist little tête-à-tête between you and that dirty old man.” She turned to Don Alfonso. “For a supposedly hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old man, you certainly spend a lot of your time thinking about sex.”

“A man never stops thinking about love, señorita. Even when he grows old and his member shrivels like a yuco fruit left to dry in the sun. I may be one hundred and twenty-one, but I have as much blood as a teenager. Tomás, I would like to marry a woman like Sally, only she will be sixteen with firm, upturned breasts—”

“Don Alfonso,” said Sally, interrupting, “don’t you think you could make this girl of your dreams eighteen?”

“Then she might not be a virgin.”

“In our country,” said Sally, “most women don’t marry until they’re at least eighteen. It’s offensive to speak of a sixteen-year-old girl getting married.”

“I am sorry! I should have known that girls develop more slowly in the cold climate of North America. But here, a sixteen-year-old—”

“Stop it!” Sally cried, clapping her hands over her ears. “No more! Don Alfonso, I’ve had it with your comments about sex!”

The old man shrugged. “I am an old man, Curandera, which means I can talk and joke as I please. Do you not have this tradition in America?”

“In America old people do not talk constantly about sex.”

“What do they talk about?”

“They talk about their grandchildren, the weather, Florida, that sort of thing.”

Don Alfonso shook his head. “How boring it must be to get old in America.”

Sally walked off and flipped back the door to the hut, flashing Tom an angry glance just before she disappeared. Tom watched her go, irritated. What had he done or said? He was being unjustly tarred with the brush of sexism.

Don Alfonso shrugged and relit his pipe and continued speaking in a loud voice. “I do not understand. Here she is twenty-nine and unmarried. Her father will have to pay an enormous dowry to get rid of her. And here you are, almost an old man, and you do not have a wife either. Why do you two not marry? Perhaps you are homosexual?”

“No, Don Alfonso.”

“It is all right if you are, Tomás. Chori will accommodate you. He is not particular.”

“No, thank you.”

Don Alfonso shook his head in wonder. “Then I do not understand. Tomás, you must not let your opportunities slip by.”

“Sally,” said Tom, “is engaged to marry another man.”

Don Alfonso’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah. And where is this man now?”

“Back in America.”

“He cannot love her!”

Tom winced, glancing toward the hut. Don Alfonso’s voice had a peculiar carrying quality.

Sally’s voice came from the hut. “He loves me and I love him, and I’ll thank you both to shut up.”

There was the sound of a rifle shot in the forest, and Don Alfonso rose. “That is our second course.” He picked up his machete and went off toward the sound.

Tom rose and took his hammock into the hut to hang it up. He found Sally hanging some of the herbs from one of the poles inside.

“That Don Alfonso is a lecherous old man and a sexist pig,” she said hotly. “And you’re just as bad.”

“He’s getting us through the Meambar Swamp.”

“I don’t appreciate his little comments. Or you, smirking your agreement.”

“You can’t expect him to be up on the latest feminist PC.”

“I didn’t hear any talk about you being too old to marry—and you’re older than I am by a good four years. It’s only the woman who’s too old to marry.”

“Lighten up, Sally.”

“I will not lighten up.”

Don Alfonso’s voice interrupted Tom’s reply. “The first course is ready to eat! Boiled parrot and manioc stew. Tapir steaks to follow. It is all healthy and delicious. Stop arguing and come and eat!”

25

“Buenos tardes,” murmured Ocotal, taking a seat next to Philip at the fire.

“Buenos tardes” Philip said, taking the pipe out of his mouth, surprised. It was the first time Ocotal had spoken to him the entire trip.

They had reached a large lake at the edge of the swamp and were camped on a sandy island that actually had a beach. The bugs were gone, the air was fresh, and for the first time in a week Philip could see more than twenty feet in one direction. The only thing that spoiled it was that the water lapping on the strand was the color of black coffee. As usual, Hauser was out hunting with a couple of soldiers while the others were at their own fire, playing cards. The air was drowsy with heat and the green-gold light of late afternoon. It was altogether a pleasant spot, thought Philip.

Ocotal abruptly leaned forward and said, “I overheard the soldiers talking last night.”

Philip raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“Do not react to what I say. They are going to kill you.” He said it so low and rapidly that Philip almost thought he hadn’t heard properly. He sat there dumbfounded as the words sank in.

Ocotal went on. “They are going to kill me, too.”

“Are you sure?”

Ocotal nodded.

In a panic, Philip considered this. Could Ocotal be trusted? Could it be a misunderstanding? Why would Hauser kill him? To steal the inheritance? It was quite possible. Hauser was no Mr. Rogers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the soldiers were still playing cards, their guns stacked against a tree. On the other hand, it seemed impossible. Like something out of a movie. Hauser was going to make a million dollars already. You didn’t kill people just like that—did you? “What do you plan to do?”

“Steal a boat and run. Hide in the swamp.”

“You mean now?”

“You want to wait?”

“But the soldiers are right over there. We’ll never get away. What did you hear the soldiers say that made you think this? Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding.”

“Listen to me, you deficient,” Ocotal hissed. “There is no time. I go now. If you come, come now. If not, adiós.”

He rose easily, lazily, and began strolling down toward the beach where the dugouts were beached. In a panic Philip turned his eyes from him to the soldiers. They were still playing cards, oblivious. From where they were sitting, at the base of a tree, they could not see the boats.

What should he do? He felt paralyzed. A monumental decision had been thrust on him without warning or preparation. It was crazy. Could Hauser really be that cold-blooded? Was Ocotal himself trying to pull a fast one?

Ocotal was now sauntering along the beach, casually looking up into the trees. He stood by a boat and with his knee, slowly and without seeming to do so, began edging it into the water.

It was happening too fast. Really, it hinged on what kind of man Hauser was. Was he really capable of murder? He wasn’t a nice man, that was true. There was something wrong with him. Philip suddenly remembered the pleasure he’d taken decapitating the agouti, the smile on his face when he saw the spot of blood on Philip’s shirt, the way he’d said you’ll see.

Ocotal now had the boat in the water and with a smooth motion stepped into it, picking up the pole at the same time and getting ready to shove off.

Philip stood and walked quickly down to the beach. Ocotal was already offshore, pole planted, ready to shove the boat into the channel. He paused long enough for Philip to wade out and climb in. Then, with a strong compression of his back muscles, Ocotal planted the pole into the sandy bottom and silently propelled them out into the swamp.

26

The following morning the fine weather had come to an end. Clouds gathered, thunder shook the treetops, and the rain came pouring down. By the time Tom and the rest had set off, the surface of the river was gray and frothing under the force of a violent downpour, the sound of rain deafening among the vegetation. The maze of channels they were following seemed to get ever narrower and more convoluted. Tom had never seen a swamp so thick, so labyrinthine, so impenetrable. He could scarcely believe that Don Alfonso knew which way to go.

By afternoon, the rain ended suddenly, as if a spigot had been turned off. For another few minutes the water continued running down the tree trunks, with a noise like a waterfall, leaving the jungle misty, dripping, and hushed.

“The bugs are back,” Sally said, slapping.

“Jejenes. Blackflies,” said Don Alfonso, lighting up his pipe and surrounding himself with a foul blue cloud. “They take a piece of your meat away with them. They are formed from the breath of the devil himself after a night of drinking bad aguardiente!”

At times their way was blocked with hanging vines and aerial roots that grew down from above, forming thick curtains of vegetation that hung to the very surface of the water. Pingo remained in front, hacking them down with his machete while Chori poled from the back. Every blow of the machete dislodged tree frogs, insects, and other creatures that dropped into the water, providing a feast for the piranhas below, which thrashed and boiled around every hapless animal. Pingo, his great back muscles working, slashed left, right, then left, flicking most of the vines and hanging flowers into the water. In one particularly narrow channel, while Pingo was slashing away, he suddenly gave a cry, “Heculu!”

“Avispa! Wasps!” Don Alfonso cried, crouching down and putting his hat over his head. “Do not move!”

A compact, boiling cloud of black came racing out of the hanging vegetation, and Tom, crouching and protecting his head, immediately felt a tattoo of fiery stings on his back.

“Don’t slap them,” Don Alfonso cried. “It will make them madder!”

They could do nothing but wait until the wasps had finished stinging them. The wasps left as quickly as they had come, and Sally doctored the stings with more sap from the gumbo-limbo tree. They pushed on.

Around noon, a strange sound developed in the canopy above them. It sounded like a thousand smacking, gurgling noises, like a crowd of children sucking on candies, only much louder, accompanied by a rustling in the branches that grew in volume until it was like a sudden wind. There was the flashing of black shapes, just seen through the leaves.

Chori shipped his paddle, and instantly a small bow and arrow was in his hand and pointed skyward, tensed and ready to go.

“Mono chucuto,” Don Alfonso whispered to Tom.

Before Tom could say anything, Chori had loosed his arrow. There was a sudden commotion above and a black monkey came falling out of the branches, still half alive, grasping and clutching and sliding through the foliage as it fell, finally landing in the water five feet from the dugout. Chori leapt up and snatched the bundle of black fur out of the water, just before a large swirl from underneath indicated something else had the same idea.

“Ehi! Ehi!” he said with a vast grin. “Uakaris! Mmmm.”

“There are two!” said Don Alfonso, in a high state of excitement. “This was a very lucky strike, Tomasito. It is a mother and her baby.”

The baby monkey was still clinging to the mother, squealing in terror.

“A monkey? You shot a monkey?” Sally said, her voice high.

“Yes, Curandera, are we not lucky?”

“Lucky? This is awful!”