Heaven Is High (13 page)

“But you've been warned and would naturally use caution,” he said.

“Perhaps I will later,” she said, collecting her bag. “Once again, thank you for food and drink. Good night.”

Pleasant, yet strange, she thought, back inside her room with the door locked. Strange that David had spoken so little, or else that was his usual behavior and he had no small talk, while Gabe just as naturally took center stage and held it. And just whom had he been warning her about? The broncos had told him that she did not trust Santos, such a warning would have been redundant. That left Ronstadt, the broncos, or David. Possibly someone she had not even met. Or Gabe himself, she added after a moment. Had he sensed her wariness concerning him, was amused by it, mocked it? Unknown territory, she told herself, then turned off her lights and went out to the balcony in the dark in order not to be exposed to anyone below.

No way was she going to go for a solitary walk that night, she thought, watching lights on the water, listening to music drifting in along with food smells and the sound of laughter. She regretted that. She felt a need to walk, but more, it would be fun to go out and mingle with people, see the local artisans' work, pick up a few things, but not fun enough to risk it. It had been a mistake to go to Santos's plantation, a mistake she could not undo, and she would take great care indeed to keep out of Julius Santos's way.

Later, she decided, she would have room service deliver dinner to her room, and she would review all the papers and photos she had brought to show to Anaia, perhaps to give to her. If things worked out, she added. Only if things worked out.

12

Barbara left the hotel at nine fifteen on Saturday morning. She shook her head at the several drivers lounging by Jeeps and a single sedan. Jeeps were the vehicles of choice, she thought, walking in the direction of Mary's Clothing shop. Window-shop leisurely, she had decided, pause outside Mary's shop, enter at nine forty-five, and leave promptly at ten. When she arrived at the set time, there was no Jeep waiting. When she walked outside again at ten, a young man was standing by a Jeep. He looked to be no more than sixteen, possibly as old as eighteen. He waved a tourist folder.

“See the famous ruins, miss?”

“How much?” she asked.

“Ten dollars, American,” he said with a big grin, evidently enjoying playing by the script.

She accepted the folder he was holding and said, “Okay. What's your name?”

“Philip.”

He opened the front passenger side door and she got in.

This drive was through a different section of Belize City, with bigger buildings, some that appeared to be for civic matters and offices, and there were more shops that were not beach and tourist oriented.

“Is it true that streets in New York City are canyons?” Philip asked.

“No. Some of them look a bit like that, but not many.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “Do you live in New York City?”

“No. I'm from the West Coast.”

He was silent for a moment, then asked, “California? Disneyland? Hollywood?”

She laughed. “Afraid not. Oregon. It's north of California.”

He gave her a reproachful look, as if she had let him down purposely, or had presented him with a place-name he had never heard of before.

“In Hollywood,” he said, “everyone has a swimming pool and movie stars walk around on the streets. You should live there.” He was silent for a short time, then said, “Movie stars never get old. They have a secret formula no one else knows about.”

Everything he thought he knew about her country, Barbara realized, had come from movies and television. No doubt he believed that cowboys rode around shooting guns or fighting Indians, or both.

They passed a modest shopping mall that he pointed out with pride. “Just like your malls,” he said. “Many American shops. You should go there and see for yourself.”

“Another day,” she said.

Soon they were on the outskirts of the city, with the same kind of deteriorating neighborhoods as on the Western Highway, and then the jungle was the predominant feature on one side and mangrove swamps on the other. This was the Northern Highway, and how sensible that was, Barbara thought. Yesterday they had traveled the Western Highway, today the Northern. She had seen a Southern Highway on her map. It made life easier than remembering a lot of numbers, and highways that abruptly changed their names from numbers to proper names honoring this or that person, usually a politician. The countryside here seemed much wetter than on the Western Highway, with more extensive swamps as well as open water here and there.

Philip continued to tell her things about the United States that she had never known before: It took a month to travel across it by automobile, and one out of four cars ended up in an explosive crash. Everyone had a gun and no one really cared if people shot one another. All the kids were given their own cars as soon as they reached the age of sixteen.…

Occasionally she tried correcting him, but she soon realized that he thought her refutations were false. He knew what he had seen. She let it go and he prattled uninterrupted.

She had brought her own bottle of water and sipped some as he drove and talked. “There's a bird conservation place over there,” he said, pointing. “Thousands of birds. All kinds, all colors. You should go there and see them.”

As before there had been narrow clearings for driveways or rough roads, or more often simple tracks into the jungle, and then an unpaved road to the bird refuge. Twice she heard the howler monkeys in the distance. The morning got hotter and more humid. It was nearly eleven when Philip slowed down and turned onto one of the unpaved roads or driveways. It was hardly wider than the Jeep, with dense growth on both sides. Another Jeep was parked on the road, heading out, and Philip stopped.

“Here we are,” he said cheerfully. A man was approaching them. If Santos looked like a conquering conquistador, this man looked like an unconquered Mayan. Aquiline noise, straight black hair, deeply bronzed skin, and very muscular. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, running shoes.

He came to the passenger side and nodded to her. “Ms. Holloway, my name is Robert Aquilar. I'll escort you the rest of the way. May I please see your bag?”

Silently she handed it to him and watched him examine the contents. He handed it back and opened the door. “Please, we'll take the other Jeep from here.” He turned to Philip. “You did well, thank you.”

They both watched Philip maneuver his Jeep back and forth until he had it turned around and drove off. Barbara said, “I didn't pay him.”

“He has been paid,” Robert said. “Now we'll leave here. I have water, but I see you also brought some. That's good. It is very hot today. You'll want water.”

They got in the Jeep and he drove out to the highway and turned, continuing in the direction Philip had taken. Far ahead Barbara could see the other Jeep. After a minute or two of silence she asked, “Those tracks into the jungle, where do they go? Who uses them?”

“Different people,” he said. “Sometimes there is a small community, three or four houses, and a little bit of farming. Those don't last long, and the people move on. Sometimes just a single cabin or camp, often with a poacher. Bird feathers, baboons, once in a while a jaguar hide, or alligator skin. And sometimes a planting of marijuana is there. Some of the tracks are simply trails from one place to another.”

“I don't see how anyone could do farming in such wet country,” she said, gazing at another lagoon. “This land is so low it must flood often.”

“It does,” he said. “And farming is difficult unless one has the patience and skill to care for the land. It is poor land, with nutrients leached out quickly if the forest is cleared, and then you end up with lateritic soil that can grow nothing for a very long time.”

She looked at his profile with interest. It might have been one carved on stone two thousand years earlier. “You've studied soil, agriculture? Earth science?”

“Yes. The University of Belize, and then UCLA. Anaia and I are working to educate our people about soil, what it needs, how to provide it. Most of them cannot afford fertilizers, and chemical fertilizers are, in fact, the worst thing they could do to our soils. It's a struggle to reeducate people when tradition is challenged.”

Barbara felt as if she had tumbled down the rabbit hole to find the most unlikely assortment of misfits. A conquistador, an environmentalist-scientist who looked as if he would fit into the role of a high priest sacrificing a virgin, a botanist with a passion for orchids, an ex-Hollywood director, the naïve broncos, a crack photographer. All of them seemed out of place in this tiny country she had not been able to find on a map two weeks earlier.

A second, more sobering thought occurred to her: was Robert another one she should be wary of? Quickly she told herself that the warning had been generic, with no particular person intended, and, besides, Gabe Newhouse could not have known she would meet Robert.

“Do you, others who live here, find it dangerous to go on foot in the jungle here?” she asked, thinking again of the tracks that led into the greenery that appeared impenetrable.

“Our forests,” he said, “can be dangerous to those who are careless, or who stray off the trails and get lost. It is easy to get lost, of course, but so is it in the great redwood forests of California, or the deep forests of Oregon and Washington. There are dangers there, too. Cougars, bears, some say Sasquatch can be a menace.”

She glanced at him. He was smiling. “Some say Paul Bunyan might step on you,” she said. “But I'm perfectly at home in the woods in Oregon. I've never felt threatened there, while here I think I would be frightened.”

“Because you are not in familiar territory,” he said. “We are, those of us who live here.”

They had come to a crossroad, and he made the turn onto a narrower road. She had thought they were going all the way to the other Orange Walk, but it lay straight ahead on the main highway. There was a toll bridge presently, and the road became narrower after that. Barbara had not studied the map for the land on the other side of the river, and was surprised to find it higher and drier than it had been before.

“A Mennonite community is over there,” Robert said, motioning to the left. “They brought good farming practices with them, but unfortunately they are practices better suited for a more northern climate.”

He made another turn onto an unpaved road after a few more minutes, and it seemed that with each turn, the jungle pressed in closer, with fewer and fewer clearings for roads or tracks or anything else. Although she tried, Barbara had not been able to bring herself to think of the dense growth as anything but jungle. Also, she realized that she was hopelessly lost and would never be able to trace their route on her map.

“You can't tell from here,” Robert said, after making another turn onto a road much like the one they had left, “but no more than ten to fifteen miles ahead there are mountains. Not like your Rockies, but mountains nevertheless. Guatemala is over there on the other side of the river.”

Whether it was due to the higher ground, or because of mountains ahead, the air felt less humid and thick, the heat less enervating. Barbara could see brighter light ahead, the way it had been going into the Santos plantation. They were coming to a clearing, an open space.

They arrived at a village with a dozen or so small houses and tended fields behind them, children playing, a group of women in a yard. They all waved to Robert as he passed. He kept going to a church and pulled up behind it.

“Here we are,” he said. “Come, there will be cool water inside. Yours must have become quite warm.”

It had, and also it was mostly gone. As she got out of the Jeep, a man came from a rear entrance to the church. Like Robert, he was dressed in jeans, but he wore a loose shirt printed with scarlet and yellow flowers. He was portly, with a red face, as if he never tanned, and pale hair that might have once been red. His eyes were very blue.

“Barbara,” Robert said, “this is Father Patrick.” He added her name, and Father Patrick seized her hand and pumped it vigorously.

“Ms. Holloway, I am indeed glad to meet you, another American. Welcome, welcome.” He had a thick Brooklyn accent.

Why not? she thought when he released her hand. Down the rabbit hole, why not a priest from Brooklyn who looked like a hawker on a midway?

“Anaia is inside,” he said. “And I have orders to go home and wait to be called. I trust and hope we'll have a few minutes to talk. Fill me in on American gossip and the latest jokes from
Saturday Night Live.
New slang. Little things.” He started to walk away, turned, and said, “What I really would love is a hot dog from a street vendor.”

Robert was smiling, but he didn't comment. “This way, Ms. Holloway. Anaia has borrowed an office where she'll meet with you.”

The church was so small, it was surprising that it even had an office, which turned out to be hardly bigger than the one in Barbara's house.

Anaia was standing with her back to a window, her features so shadowed as to be indistinguishable as Barbara's eyes adapted to the dim light. Then she came forward the few feet the office allowed.

“Who are you? Why are you here? How dare you speak of my sister as you did?” Anaia said, stopping at the side of a desk, one hand gripping the edge of it.

Barbara caught her breath. For a moment it was as if magically Binnie had been transported here to this office. The moment passed and her second thought was that Anaia Santos Thurston could have been Binnie's older sister. She had the same café-au-lait coloring, the same big, beautifully expressive eyes, hair.… She was how Binnie would look in a few years.

“Mrs. Thurston, I think we'd both better sit down,” she said. “I have things to show you, and things to tell you, things for you to read.”