The Moche Warrior (15 page)

“Is yours the only dig he does this for?” I asked.

“The only one this year. He supported a dig the Germans did south of here for a few years. Got some lovely stuff from there. Montero usually does ceramics. He’s got a mold maker who can do a quick mold right from the photograph, and then the factory churns them out by the hundreds, if not thousands. He’s got a chain of little dealers that sell it for him. They hang around the tourist sites and flog the stuff. You know the sort: Wanna buy a watch, mister? That kind of thing. They look like independent dealers, but they’re just as often as not Montero’s people. He’s doing very well, and thinking about branching out into gold and silver reproductions, because the Germans found the tomb of a Moche priestess, lucky sods.” He paused. “Do we detect a hint of professional jealousy here, you’re wondering?”

I laughed. “Maybe just a whiff. But go on.”

“Okay. Some of Montero’s stuff is kind of tacky, I’m afraid. It offends me slightly to take his money, but not enough to stop taking it. The Germans pulled up stakes last year and didn’t come back this season, so now we’re the recipients of all of Montero’s largesse. There’s a little work still going on way down south, but essentially we’re the only project in these parts this year.”

“Does Montero make replicas too? In addition to reproductions, I mean,” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.

“I suppose he might. Anything to make a buck. He’s just a bit obsessed with being big man about town, biggest house, biggest car, that kind of thing. Probably competing since childhood with his brother, the mayor,” Steve replied. “But replicas are high ticket items, really expensive to make, as I suppose you know. I kind of see Montero as the mass producer of cheap merchandise, junk, dare I say it.”

I didn’t probe further, even though I wanted to. The flared vase that was supposed to have originated from Campina Vieja hadn’t looked like junk to me, but I decided I’d asked enough about Montero and his Fabrica Paraiso for the time being. If Carlos Montero really was a bigwig in town, I was going to have to be careful with my questioning.

“Why didn’t the Germans come back again this year?” I asked out of mild curiosity.

“The weather, I expect,” Steve replied. “You’ve heard of El Nino?” I nodded. El Nino was the name given to a periodic climatic event that caused changes in the currents in the Pacific. The phenomenon is named El Nino for the Christ child, because the warm currents associated with it tend to come around Christmastime. When, for a number of reasons, the warm currents stay around longer than usual, they cause tremendous changes in water temperature, and therefore weather on land, not just in Peru, but all over the world.

“Well, we’re in for a big one. I don’t think those of us who live in large North American cities truly appreciate the kind of climatic and therefore social changes weather conditions like El Nino cause,” he went on. “We catch glimpses of how vulnerable we can be to weather during droughts in the Midwest, flooding or ice storms in other places, but to a certain extent we’re protected from major weather patterns. Not so down here.

“In the desert, you can really be at the mercy of the elements. There was terrible flooding here during the last El Nino, people killed in mud slides. And then there’s the cholera that tends to come along with the flooding. I should add this is not an entirely new phenomenon. You can see evidence of it in the archaeological record. It may even have been these kinds of weather patterns that ended the Moche empire. Anyway, another El Nino is on its way, and we’re seeing the climatic and social changes that come with it. Fish stocks are down. The warmer than normal water is killing the sea plants and fish. One of the Peruvian workers on the site estimates the fishing is off by almost eighty percent. That means that the people who make their living fishing are in a bad way. Some of them are trying to turn to a little farming to keep going.

“At the same time, we’ve got drought elsewhere, so people are on the move. In some cases, they are just moving in and taking over land near the coast here and starting to farm it.

“Needless to say, the locals are not happy with the new arrivals—they call them
invasores,
invaders— particularly since good land is hard to come by, and fishing is all but gone. The newcomers, unfortunately, are armed in some cases, and there have been a couple of very nasty confrontations. Times like these push people to the limit.

“And the rain hasn’t even started here yet. It’s winter here, remember. Normally we can get in and out in a season before there’s any rain, but it’s raining already in Chile, so we may have to pack up early and go home. That’s why we’re the only team in these parts this season. The others decided to give this year a pass. And I confess it’s one of the reasons I worried a bit about those two kids we picked up on the highway. I don’t think the
campesinos,
the local farmers, will be any more pleased to see these young
invasores
than they will the people from inland, and even if they don’t mind, our young friends could get caught in the cross fire.

“We’re being extra careful ourselves. We try to stick together as a group out at the site, and always have at least two of us at the hacienda at any time. It is, as you’ll see, a little isolated.

“I haven’t scared you with this, have I? We just have to take precautions, that’s all. And there is some good news in this, by the way. It’s made it a lot easier to get Peruvian workers on the dig, with so many people looking for work. Small as we are, archaeology is getting to be the major employer in this town, what with our project and Montero’s crafts factory on the other side of the highway.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, as I digested all this. The road was following what appeared to be a very wide ditch on our left, several hundred yards wide, which I eventually realized was a riverbed, with only a trickle of water in the center of it. We were heading, I knew, in the direction of the sea, so this ditch, it would appear, was near the mouth of the river. The road was deserted. There were no houses lining it, and only the occasional clump of trees to the right. From time to time we would see someone, in one case a man riding a donkey, but otherwise the place was just about empty. Our truck left clouds of dust in its wake.

After a mile or so of bumping along like this, we came up to a small woodland and passing that turned right several hundred yards, then drove across a concrete irrigation canal and over a slight hill.

I don’t think I will ever forget my first view of the Hacienda Garua. Steve had said the hacienda was a little isolated, but that didn’t come anywhere near describing it. It seemed to me to be overwhelmingly lonely, a huge old house, once very grand, that had fallen into decay. The house was angled, I could see, to take in the breezes and a view across the river’s mouth to grassy dunes and the sea beyond. The hacienda was two storeys, with a beautiful carved wood door, the carving now dry and cracked and broken. There were large windows on the main floor only, with wood shutters, several of them pulled tight, a couple of them hanging askew on rusty hinges and banging against the wall in the breeze.

The house had once been yellow ochre, I could tell, but the paint was now faded and cracked. In front of the house was a fountain, a stone cupid holding a conch shell, silent and dry. Off to the right on the edge of the woods were the remains of a small building, a little folly perhaps, a place once used to enjoy the outdoors. Now it was a shell, a row of archways leading nowhere. Dust swirled in the yard as Steve pulled the truck up to the door and cut the engine.

The place had an air of a ghost town, somehow, even though I knew it was inhabited. As I approached the door, I half expected to hear music and voices from within, the clink of silver and crystal from some ghostly party held a century before. Instead, all I could hear was the sound of a dog barking somewhere and the distant crowing of a rooster. I stood there, just looking at it, almost overwhelmed by the desolation, as Steve began to unload the back and help Ines with her baskets.

Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly I admit, I walked through the huge door and a large entranceway to find myself in an interior courtyard, open to the sky. If houses can be said to have a personality, this one was introverted, its energy directed inside. While the outside of the house was austere, architectural features were reserved for the interior. The courtyard floor was fashioned of large polished stones—marble, I thought—under the dust. Several were cracked and worn. There was an open hallway, verandahlike, on all four sides of the courtyard and on both floors, raised slightly above courtyard level and reached by three marble steps on each side of the entranceway and an equal number in the center at the end facing me.

The verandahs were held up by Italianate columns, and lined with wrought iron railings, white paint peeling, and the walls showed signs of the same yellow ochre of the exterior. On all four sides of the main floor, and three on the second, several rooms, judging from the number of doors and windows I could see overlooking the courtyard, led off these verandahs. The second floor, on the end straight ahead of me and opposite to the entranceway, was open at the back to catch the breezes, and I could see the sky, grey and overcast beyond.

I heard footsteps behind me. “Hands up, turn around slowly, or I’ll shoot,” a voice growled.

9

For heaven’s sake, Lucho! Do you have to be a complete dork?“ a woman’s voice exclaimed.

I carefully inched my head up and to the right until I could see a young woman leaning over the railing on the floor above. “Put that thing away, you idiot,” she said to someone I couldn’t see. “Lucho,” she said, glancing at me but tossing her head in the general direction of whoever it was behind me, “is practicing to be a terrorist.”

“A freedom fighter,” the man’s voice said peevishly. “And I’m not practicing, I’m training. Training to be a freedom fighter.”

“A freedom fighter, of course,” she said, grinning at me. “I forgot. You must be Rebecca, aren’t you?” she asked.

I nodded, not yet having regained control of my vocal cords.

“Hold on a sec,” she said, turning away from the railing.

Hold on a sec? I’d hold on a sec. My feet were still rooted to the ground in sheer terror. I heard sandals clicking on the stairs, and then she reappeared from one corner of the courtyard.

“I’m Tracey. Tracey Dougall. The paleo. Tea?”

The paleo? Tea? After that welcoming party, surely scotch would be more appropriate. But I’d take what I could get. “Sure,” I managed to say.

Steve Neal wandered in. “Good. I see you’ve already met a member of the team.” He gave both Tracey and me a nice smile, but the real warmth, regrettably, was directed toward Tracey. No wonder. She was gorgeous. Young—still in her mid-twenties, I’d say—blond, hair cut very short and spiky over a beautifully shaped head, great cheekbones, wide eyes, full mouth, perfect teeth, flawless complexion, she was one of those people who have come out on top in the genetic sweepstakes. She was wearing black tights with a black halter top, sandals with platform soles, and a large denim shirt, a man’s probably, open but tied at the waist. It would be easy, I thought, to dislike this woman.

“Tracey’s my prize doctoral student,” Steve said, still smiling. “She’s in charge of the lab.” Smart too, I thought. With very little effort on my part, I thought, mere dislike could be elevated to pure hatred.

“Lucho’s been playing freedom fighter with Rebecca,” she said to Steve.

Steve’s shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Lucho, get out here!” he ordered. From behind the door came a short, rather tubby young man, dressed head to toe in camouflage gear, his face speckled with a dark stubble, curly hair barely concealed by a Fidel Castro style hat, a gun belt winding a rather circuitous route around his paunch. As silly as he appeared, though, the gun looked real enough to me.

“Give me that thing,” Steve ordered.

Lucho cringed. “How can I guard this place without a gun, Senor Doctor Neal?” he whined.

“You’re a soldier, you’ll think of something,” Steve said in a placating but firm tone. “Now give me the gun.” With more than a little reluctance, Lucho handed it over. “Now take Ms. MacCrimmon’s bag to her room. The blue one,” he added, pointing to a room on the second floor.

“He’s a bit slow,” Tracey mouthed at me, as Lucho picked up my bag and began shuffling toward the stairs. “And…” She tapped her index finger on her forehead. “Cuckoo.”

“He’s harmless,” Steve said as Lucho slunk away. “He wouldn’t have hurt you. Really. However, we’d better find someplace safe to put this, somewhere our freedom fighter won’t find it. Can you think of a place in the lab, Tracey?”

Tracey eyed the weapon with distaste. “Sure,” she said. “Give it to me.” She took it very cautiously, holding the grip gingerly between thumb and forefinger well out from her body, barrel pointed toward the ground. Guns did not appear to be Tracey’s thing. I liked her better than I had thought I might.

“Come on, Rebecca,” Tracey said. “We’ll drop this horrid object in the lab, and then we’ll get Ines to make us some tea and I’ll give you a hand unpacking. My room is next to yours. It’ll be fun. Like college.”

“Enjoy your last few hours of leisure.” Steve grinned at me. “I’m putting you to work first thing tomorrow. Let me know where you hide the you-know-what, Tracey,” he said as Lucho shuffled back into view on the balcony above us. Dealing with Lucho, apparently, was like dealing with a very small child. As in let’s put the g-u-n in the w-h-a-t-e-v-e-r.

Tracey waited until Lucho was again out of sight before leading me to a room off the courtyard to the right of the main door. The lab was a large room with trestle tables along both walls, plus one large table right in the middle of the room. On the left, what looked to be a complete skeleton was stretched out full length on the table, its head resting on a black velvet pillow. “That’s Benji,” Tracey said, following my glance. “Super, isn’t he?”

“Big Benji,” a voice said, and I turned to see a tall, greying man coming through a door off to the right. “As you can see, he is, or was, rather tall. I’m Ralph,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Hacienda Nowhere.”