Fool's Gold

by PJ Skinner

  It was great fun. She forgot to dance in the local manner and caused much amusement among those watching. Wilson was collared by a bubbly girl in a canary yellow dress, who danced right up next to him jiggling her giant body. A mother breastfed her baby while waiting for her next suitor. All the women were perched on the school desks, dying to dance. They never danced without a male partner and waited desperately for an invitation that only the men could offer. Each invitation was only for one dance, and then the woman had to return to her perch on the desk. It was an egalitarian system and most people got a turn on the floor. Every time Sam sat down, someone asked her for the next dance, despite her foreign way of moving.

  By the end of the evening she was quite exhausted. Wilson wanted to go home. Don Moises stayed with Doña Elodea because she couldn’t stay alone at the dance, being a married woman. At least Sam thought that was what Wilson said, and she had started to take his translations with a grain of salt.

  ***

  Sam woke up with a bald patch. Bloody rat! Wilson shook with mirth when she showed him the damage. As they went to the river to wash, they met Don Moises and Carlos, who were still drinking. Despite their inebriated state, they were raring to go to work and the day went well. They set off downriver to pan the terraces in the lower reaches of the concession, where the river widened and the terraces contained lots of sediment. They stopped several times on their way back upriver to Riccuarte, but the results were not interesting.

  ‘These terraces don’t have gold now,’ said Wilson. ‘Because they’re near the road. Men with diggers can come and take out the gold. None left now, I think.’

  ‘Can I try panning?’ said Sam, knowing full well that Wilson would have let her do anything to suck up to her.

  ‘Okay. Carlos, show the engineer how to use the pan.’

  Sam noticed that Wilson had called her engineer, a tacit recognition of her degree. That must have hurt. Serves him right. She used all her strength to guide the pan and swirl it in the river like she had seen the others doing. It was harder than it looked but the satisfaction of seeing a couple of tiny flakes of gold in the bottom of the pan made it worth the effort. She made copious notes and drawings, more to annoy Wilson than for any technical reason. As he had predicted, pickings were slim and they found a spade handle at the bottom of one pit indicating their previous exploitation. This part of the river was not going to figure in any mining.

  After work they all went swimming. Carlos and Don Moises showed no signs of wilting, despite having had almost no sleep. They got back to the village after dark. As Sam and Wilson sat on the stairs outside their shack waiting for their supper, a big bunch of children congregated at the house across the road. They started to play a game of concerts. Each child in turn shuffled up the front steps of the house and did a turn for the critical audience, who giggled and wiggled as they sat on the wall in front of the house. Each act was greeted with raucous applause, and the children often joined in with the performer in high-pitched, angelic voices. The horror of what had almost happened to her evaporated with their voices, and soothed by the jungle harmonies, Sam began to feel safer again. Wilson did not sleep in the house with her that night which was a massive relief. She did not ask him where he had been.

  The next day they left Riccuarte. Their bags double-wrapped in bin bags to keep out the water, they loaded them into the canoe. Everyone looked a bit worn out. They went down the river towards the sea to do their last piece of prospecting. Wilson suffered from serious over-attention to her every whim, desperately trying to get back in her good books before she saw Mike. Sam avoided talking to him and spent the day practicing her Spanish with the workers. When they reached the last village on the concession, Wilson paid the men. Carlos came up to Sam and tried to speak clearly to her.

  ‘Eight dollars.’ Carlos held up eight fingers and pointed at Wilson. ‘The engineer gave us eight dollars. We earned ten dollars.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Carlos.’

  ‘Ten dollars. We need ten dollars. Can you help, please?’

  Sam understood the sign language better than the word, but it was clear they had been underpaid. She did her best.

  ‘Wilson, how much are you paying the workers?’

  ‘This is none of your business. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘They have worked for five days including today. I make that ten dollars each. Carlos says that you only paid them eight dollars.’

  ‘Sam, they’re trying to trick you. This is something they try in this region. They think you’re stupid because you’re a woman. Leave these things to me.’

  She didn’t believe him and she couldn’t prove it, but she was pretty sure he had short-changed them and not the other way around. She couldn’t speak Spanish yet, but she could count. Embarrassed she couldn’t do anything to help them, she shrugged at Carlos and mouthed ‘I’m sorry.’ Wilson was a law unto himself. She couldn’t believe he’d cheat people who were so poor of a meaningless number of dollars. That was him in a nutshell. If they ever came back, she would bring the difference and make sure they got it.

  The workers set off back to Riccuarte in their canoe, grumbling about their pay, leaving Sam and Wilson to go back to San Lorenzo in a pickup truck that had seen better days. They squeezed into the front seat and were again thrown from side to side by the terrible condition of the road. Sam regretted that she hadn’t chosen to sit with Don Moises, who hitched a lift into town with them and sat in the open part at the back, looking serene despite being periodically thrown into the air by a pothole. The ash from the cigarettes Wilson chain-smoked blew in her eyes and made them sore. His polyester trousers pressed horribly against her leg making her trousers sweaty and damp. She was repulsed by their close contact but she couldn’t move away as she interfered with the gear stick when she slid closer towards the driver. No doubt he, too, would think she fancied him if their legs kept touching.

  Once they had arrived in San Lorenzo, they checked in to the only habitable hotel in town, a seedy establishment where Sam could hear the bedbugs rustling in the sheets. Wilson went to eat with Moises, but Sam said she wasn’t hungry to avoid seeing him any more than she had to. She took the mattress off the bed and rigged up her mosquito net and her sleeping bag on the plywood base, hoping to avoid the worst of the fauna. She was about to go to bed when Wilson knocked on the door of her room. He had brought her some pieces of cooked chicken and a few stale biscuits. She was reminded of a documentary on kingfishers that she had seen on the BBC and remained cagey, pushing him out of her room without speaking to him. He already smelled of the strong local hooch and would, without doubt, drink himself to sleep.

  She didn’t know what to do about Wilson. Having never been assaulted before, she wondered if she had done something to deserve the attack. Maybe she had given him some sort of signal without realising it? Customs in Sierramar were still a mystery to her. Doubt and humiliation assailed her. She had been professional on the trip and had tried to help when she could without getting in the way. She had done her job in the jungle as a professional geologist, and her colleague had only seen a vagina on legs. How had this happened? Maybe she would ask Gloria when she got back to Calderon in case it was something she had done. She started to realise that there was a different culture in Sierramar that had not been apparent at first but became more obvious as she started to come into closer contact with the local people. It would be tricky but Sam was determined to learn how to fit in and get on. Her distrust of Wilson still very raw, she pushed a chair under the door handle.

  Chapter X

  Wilson set off at dawn on the train for San Martin, taking with him all the samples and equipment from the trip. Sam took a taxi in the other direction to the beach where Mike, who had taken a break from work, waited for an update. As the distance between herself and Wilson grew, her anxiety dissipated and her humour returned to normal. Her whole body ached with fatigue, and she looked forward to speaking English again. Her week in the jungle ha
d been a bit of an ordeal and not at all what she had expected. Surely, she wouldn’t have to work with Wilson again after what happened? She was convinced that Mike would take her side. After all, what excuse could Wilson have for his behaviour?

  She sat back in the ancient taxi and watched the palm trees whizz by. The doors of the taxi were held in place with string, and the springs of the back seat stuck into her legs. Every now and then the gears got stuck, and the driver had to grind them into submission. A new clutch might have solved the problem, but it sounded as if a new car would have been a better solution.

  ‘You need a new car,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you speak Spanish?’ said the driver. What a relief to hear an accent she could understand.

  ‘Yes, but I understand better than I speak. Are you from San Lorenzo?’

  ‘No, I’m from San Martin. My car is on its last legs. I’d love a new car but we don’t make them here. We have to import them. The import tax is two hundred percent of the price of the car.’

  ‘Two hundred percent? That’s a lot.’

  ‘Too much. I need to win the lottery if I want a new car.’

  ‘So how did you pay for this one?’

  ‘Twenty years ago, cars did not have import taxes, then the government saw a way to make lots of money.’

  ‘You bought this one twenty years ago?’

  ‘No, I was a doctor but the state never paid me on time so I bought a second-hand car from my cousin and became a taxi driver instead.’

  ‘Um, does your taxi meter work?’

  ‘No, we don’t use them. We charge fares based on the distance and the customer.’

  ‘Will I be paying extra?’

  ‘Yes. We always charge foreigners extra.’ He turned around and grinned apologetically. ‘But since you speak Spanish, I’ll reduce the price.’

  ‘What about my clothes? Do I look rich?’ Sam gesticulated at her dirty trousers and torn shirt.

  ‘We can take that into account, too.’

  After paying her gringo-based taxi fare, discounted based on her language ability and her shabby appearance, Sam stepped out of the taxi into the sand in the parking lot. Like all of the other hotels on the dunes, Las Terraces was built on stilts because of the risk of high tides during stormy weather. The hotel consisted of one main building which had a terraced bar and restaurant on the top floor overlooking the beach and the sea. The bottom floor contained storage and the residence of the hotel manager and was raised above the sand on sturdy legs. Stretching right and left along the beach between the palm trees were a few wooden cabins for guests, also on stilts, with tin roofs. They had once been brightly painted but were now faded to pastel colours, and the paint was peeling off in places. There were small porches on each of the cabins with welcoming but shabby hammocks with tatty fringes. Randomly placed seashells and strange-shaped rocks had been left behind by former holiday makers who had apparently balked at carrying them in their luggage. There was a cool afternoon breeze blowing. A coconut fell at Sam’s feet, making her jump.

  She left her bag at the foot of the stairs of the main building and climbed wearily up to the restaurant. She approached the bar, and a small wiry man with a greying beard appeared from what looked like the kitchen.

  Hello, he said in English, you must be Sam. I’m Socrates. Your friends are out on the balcony. Would you like some lunch?’

  Sam was ravenous. She looked through the well-fingered menu and selected a dish called ‘fish at the beach,’ which pleased Socrates, who bustled into the kitchen to encourage the cook. She wandered out on the balcony. There was no one there, but evidence of a long lunch was spread over a table facing the sea. A bowl of banana crisps and popcorn sat amid the debris of dirty plates and glasses with soggy lemon slices. Sam pushed the plates to the other side of the table and slid along the bamboo bench to sit overlooking the beach. The sea sparkled in the afternoon sunshine, gulls swooping and crying above a small fishing boat that was heading for shore. Socrates appeared on the beach below the balcony and made for the shore where the boat landed. Three fishermen pulled the sturdy craft up onto the sand with the help of several people who had appeared on the beach, alerted by the seagulls. Socrates helped them land the vessel securely and then entered into negotiations over the contents of two orange buckets in the prow of the boat. Sam breathed in the sea air and luxuriated in the feel of the sun on her back as she watched him bargain for her supper.

  Mike Morton appeared from behind a bamboo screen beside the bar. He wove his way across the floor in the uncertain manner of someone who had enjoyed a long alcoholic lunch.

  ‘Hola, chica,’ he said, ‘want a cervesa?’

  He giggled softly at her tired face. Sam was disarmed by his gentle drunkenness.

  ‘I’d prefer a fruit juice, please. One of those passion fruit juices would be perfect.’

  Mike turned to go back to the bar to order the juice. Halfway there, he turned back to Sam.

  By the way, I’m here with Alfredo Vargas, a friend from Quito. He’s around somewhere. I expect he’ll turn up any moment. I think he went to help Socrates with the fishing boat. You’ll love him.’

  Sam decided to play dumb. Mike didn’t have to know everything she did.

  ‘Alfredo Vargas? I think I met him in the disco. Isn’t he a bit eccentric?’

  ‘No more than the rest of us.’ He smiled.

  She was crabby with hunger and in desperate need of a siesta. She smiled back at Mike and tried to ignore the rumbling in her stomach.

  After a few minutes, a visibly drunk Alfredo Vargas appeared in the restaurant with a monkey on his shoulder. From where on earth he had conjured up a monkey when the jungles she had left behind were empty of wildlife? He wore the lopsided grin of someone who had also spent the afternoon drinking.

  ‘Cocos locos,’ he said, sitting down heavily beside Sam on the hard bench. The monkey jumped onto the table and started scavenging amongst the scraps of food left over from lunch. Alfredo hiccupped and turned to look at Sam with big, brown, unfocused eyes. He was so drunk that he was struggling to recognise her. She could not move away, as she was already touching the railings around the balcony, so she opted for staring back at him.

  ‘Don’t I know you? I know those green eyes.’

  ‘I’m Sam. We met in the Discoteca and in the shop on the Avenida Miranda. I was buying chocolate.’

  ‘Ah, now I remember.’

  ‘How’s the treasure hunt going?’ said Sam.

  ‘I have new clues. I think I’m close.’

  Mike’s eyes widened. ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ he said. ‘You said you were a researcher.’

  ‘You didn’t ask. I research lost treasures.’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell us all about it.’

  ‘Order me a large whisky then.’

  Mike called Socrates over and ordered a round of drinks. Socrates brought them over with one for himself. He had heard the tale before but it didn’t get boring. Alfredo’s back straightened in anticipation and his voice dropped making them all lean in to hear him speak.

  ‘When I was a young man, I befriended Jorge Vasquez. He was one of Sierramar’s richest men, who had made a fortune from bananas and cocoa. I had recently come across some material referring to the lost treasure of the Incas and I resolved to find it. I told Jorge about it and asked him for money to fund the search. Jorge had no family on which to spend his money, and he, too, was fascinated by the tale. He poured money into the project. Jorge was convinced that a crude map I had found in my research would lead us to it, so he dedicated the next twenty years of his life to trying to find the treasure, which was rumoured to be hidden in the mountains of Sierramar.’

  ‘Twenty years? Wow,’ said Mike. ‘That sounds like my relationship with Edward Beckett. Did you ever get close to finding it?’

  ‘We made many, many attempts to get the treasure, and I believe that we were not far away. The mountains of the Llanganates are very unforgiving terrain
and it’s easy to get lost. Once Jorge broke his leg when a helicopter crashed in a stream. He was stranded for a week while I went to get help. He was finally found by a military expedition and rescued.’

  ‘So, are you still looking?’

  ‘When Jorge got too old to go to the mountains, I was delegated to go there by myself and I always came back with tales of derring-do and narrow escapes to entertain him. We were both infamous drinking men, and many nights turned to day in the telling and retelling of these yarns.’

  He paused for breath.

  ‘But when Jorge died of a heart attack last year, I was left bereft and without funding, and to tell the truth, my hunt’s been on hold for a few years now. I’ve tried to go straight, but running a bar in Calderon was probably not the best way to stay sober. So, there you have it. I’m on sabbatical but not retired.’

  He grinned wickedly and raised his glass. Sam looked across the table through the maze of empty glasses glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. Transfixed by Alfredo’s stories, Mike muttered, ‘If only I had the money,’ a couple of times. Alfredo accepted the adoration as his due.

  ‘Do you want to hear about our trip to Riccuarte?’ said Sam when there was a lull in the conversation.