I realized what he was doing, even though I did not know the proper response to extricate myself. He had made himself intriguing by refusing to offer himself to me, made me feel ugly and undesirable by his refusal. Now, he made the wise safe return home sound despicable, weak. He wanted me to stay which made me want to leave, which made me want to stay so that I could prove him wrong.
I did not know what I wanted and what I simply could not have.
The darkness below sucked at my legs, the way Dante sucked at his fingers, it drew me into its velvet maw. The darkness made the decision for me. I slid down to the stairs and walked down into the cold damp as though it had been my intention all along.
Dante’s laugh washed down the steps and echoed in the space where I stood. He came down beside me with a whuff of breath and pulled the string on another light. We stood in an empty hold, its molded walls buckled and whitewashed, stained with water and grime.
“What do you keep in here?”
“Anything profitable. Sometimes pretty things, sometimes grotesque things, contraband, carnal desires. Sometimes things that beg to be let out.”
I shivered.
“Cold?” He stood behind me letting his nearness warm my flesh while it deepened the chill within. “This is my business office, my sideline; it is why I let a company full of men obsessed with bananas tell me what to do. I do what they want so that I can do what I want.”
“What is it that you do exactly?”
“I am in the business of yearning…a chain in the command of needs.” He walked the perimeter of the hold, his deck shoes making little squeak squeaks, like rats. “Whatever humanity is craving at the moment and is willing to pay for, I go and find. Sometimes it is something very beautiful…more often than not it is something repellent. Right now you are lucky.”
“I am?”
“Perhaps I spoke hastily, perhaps the repellent would fascinate you more…but I do not think you are ready for that. I don’t think you know what you are ready for. So we will start with pretty things.”
“Pretty things?”
“I believe your eunuch lover just recently made away with a crate of mine.”
“The figures?”
“The very ones. He redistributed them to the Mayans in the village. I suppose because he thought he was returning their heritage, but that group is too stupid to know what they’re getting. They will put them on the shelves and use them to frighten their children. It doesn’t matter really, that was a small batch, an afterthought I stumbled upon one day and left in your daddy’s basement. I had forgotten about them truth be told.”
“So you’re stealing old artifacts?”
“Did you consider it stealing when the good Father took the crate? It no more belongs to those half breed Mayans than that temple you have been trying to give them. Those things belonged to a great and mighty people that fizzled down to nothing over the past two thousand years. They are on the edge of extinction and those memories are useless to them now.” He had circled the hold three times. “None of that really matters to me. I could care less about them. What I care about are the things the collectors are hungry for, the crooked curators that arrange large sums of money to be wired into my account for those carved stones, and chunky necklaces, and fat featureless statues. I am not stealing, I am like the priest. I am redistributing them. Everything has value to someone.”
“So you smuggle them? And you stay above suspicion because of the almighty fruit company?”
“You’re not totally stupid.”
“Thank you.”
“Relics are more elegant than drugs or human cargo, they are less likely to get you killed and they don’t die on the way, but they are unwieldy. I can only carry so much at a time. And once we find a location, it is imperative that all of the goods are moved away from that site quickly.”
“Where in all this do I come in?”
“In the past I’ve had some difficulty keeping my competitors out of anything I leave behind. Let’s just call it a storage problem. Then I met your father who was one of the last holdouts in the business here… He really made a go at the bananas and refused to work with the company. I was sent here to negotiate with him. He was obstinate, tossed me out on my ass practically. But you will find I am a very patient man.”
In his wandering he had circled near me, and now he was close enough to threaten my composure again. “It was just my luck that his bananas started dying and he had to get his harvest in early before the fruits withered with the plants. I came in and saved the day, and we worked together for quite awhile after that. He signed over his land and house to the company and we took care of the details. He rested very comfortably in that little bungalow for years and I provided for his needs and only asked the occasional favor.”
He leaned forward, tapped his finger on my forehead. “That house,” he said in a low and husky voice. “Has seen some cargo.”
“You blackmailed him.”
“He profited, as will you.”
“How?”
“You take in whatever I bring you and keep it under lock and key until I come for it. You tell no one-not even in the confessional Isabei-about our agreement. You promise to do whatever I ask when I need you, and in return I promise to let you live in that house and on that land and to make sure that your bananas have a healthy harvest and reach their destined ports. The company culls fifty percent of your earnings, I take thirty, but we charge you nothing for your residence, pay your labor, buy your supplies, and arrange shipping. For as long as you live you can spend your days picking fruit and trying to pluck Julián as well.”
I tried to imagine what Dante might ask of me in the future, how I could stand to be tied to him forever. Would Julián really want me to stay? Maybe I should go, should let this jungle molder and rot away everything I thought I wanted. Maybe I should give into God and take my hands off of this stinking evil mess.
“What if I don’t want to do this? What if I still want to go home?”
“It is too late Isabel. I already gave you your chance. You consented by stepping down here with me and hearing my secrets.”
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I needed air and light. I had come down into darkness and sold my soul.
Dante placed an arm protectively around my shoulder, a yoke, it pressed and choked me. “Come now…it isn’t that bad really…now we can be friends. Everyone gets what they want.” He was guiding me back to the stairs, up through his den of thieves, to the sun and wind beyond the big round bed and the leavings of lunch. “Let’s go up and celebrate. I’ll get you some more champagne and we’ll look for porpoises. You really should see things from above,” he said. “It is all much clearer up there.”
Chapter Seven
YIELD
“God provides.”
“He certainly does,” I said.
I had explained to Julián that an arrangement had been made with the Fruit Company, that they had been generous.
True to his word, Dante had had all the supplies we needed for harvest delivered. Large skids had appeared between the rows waiting to be filled. In the empacadora the knives and troughs had been cleaned and lay ready for sorting and washing.
I wanted to tell Julián that now we were all slaves. That bananas were not innocent fruits, they were the tools of whoremongers and we were their harlots.
I sold my soul, I wanted to say. And you cannot redeem me.
More and more his implacable calm, his removal, his continued pained innocence made me angry. I wanted him to feel what I felt, to be torn and pulled, to be on the verge of relinquishing. He made me feel unhinged, dirty, beneath him.
Perhaps Dante was right, he and I were better suited to each other’s company, where we could not taint the rest of the world.
He came every other day to check on the bananas and perhaps on me, but he never lingered long. On the night before harvest he was still sitting at my table drinking beer when Julián came for dinner. “So,” he said rising,
“I finally get to meet the famous Father Julián” His hand porpoised across the space between them, leapt into Julián’s I have heard nothing but favorable reports of your work at the mission from those that take notice of such things.”
“Really?” asked Julián gripping his , firmly. “And who might that be?”
“Archbishop Archuleta and I share the same tastes in brandy and Cuban cigars. We often have enlightening and intelligent debates when I am in the city.”
“He is a fine man. I enjoy his company myself.”
Dante was studying Julián’s eyes, probing their depths, trying to unearth some secret, some flaw, some aberration he could turn to his advantage. “Isabel has invited me to dinner tonight.”
I hadn’t, but that was beside the point. Dante was not the sort of man that needed a spoken invitation. Matilde dutifully returned to the kitchen to get another plate.
“Wonderful. She has told me nothing about you or what sort of arrangements you’ve made for the harvest. I would be very interested in hearing the details.”
“Of course.” Dante moved himself to the head of the table and sat resolutely. He watched me under hooded eyes, occasionally glancing at Julián and smiling. “I took Isabel out on my boat the other day,” he said, as though this was the detail Julián was seeking.
Julián’s eyes widened and contracted. I had not mentioned my lunch on the Sea King.
Dante was pouring Julián a glass of wine that Matilde had placed near his elbow. “She didn’t tell you?” He filled his own glass and set the bottle between us. “Ah well…we saw porpoises…how many did you count?”
“Five,” I said without expression.
“Yes five. Just beautiful animals…not like man at all…complete in their Grace, don’t you think Father?”
“I prefer the manatees, as humble as they are.” Julián picked up the wine and poured it into my glass, a perfect three quarters full without spilling a drop. I wanted to drink it alone with him. I wanted candles to flicker in its depths.
“They remind me too much of myself,” said Dante. “Not built the right way for their element.”
Julián said, “That is just an illusion. They are really more graceful than the dolphins and more serious. They do not play games when they should be taking care of their business. I believe they are closer to God’s purpose, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind at all. And what is God’s purpose exactly padre? I have never been able to figure that out myself.”
Julián sipped his wine. “To bring us to Heaven, to teach us to love Him and His creations as we were meant to.”
“And how are we to do that?”
“He says we are to love Him with all our hearts.”
“And how might that manifest itself?”
“Well, for you it might be different than say from the manatee, or myself.”
“But the point is to learn to love Him?”
“Yes, through obedient acts while we are on this earth.”
Dante nodded. “Obedient acts,” he murmured pouring more wine for Julián. “Why not just program us that way from the beginning? So much less work.”
“But then there would be no free will, no choice. Why have someone love you if they have no other choice or ability? The test of love is the choosing of it.”
“I think God is a son of a bitch on a power trip padre. And I know myself that sometimes we make something love us just because we can, because we thrive on the challenge.”
Julián looked only a bit disgruntled. He may have been wondering if Dante ever referred to God as a son of a bitch to the Archbishop. “I believe His motives are purer.”
“But we were made in His image were we not?”
A slight flush was creeping up Julián’s throat, seeping around the edges of his collar. It may have been from the wine. “That image is often distorted by earthly temptations and desires. Deuteronomy 28:9 The Lord shall establish thee a holy people unto Himself, as He hath sworn unto thee, if thou shalt keep the commandments of the Lord thy God, and walk in His ways.”
“And all the people of the earth shall see that thou art called by the name of the Lord; and they shall be afraid of thee. Deuteronomy 28:10,” said Dante. “Sounds like a power trip to me.”
Matilde came in with a platter of roasted pork. On the side were several of its cloven feet, the nails blackish brown and the fat oozing through the cracking skin. Dante helped himself to one with his fingers, right off the platter. “They eat a lot of feet here,” he said “Perhaps they should spend more time washing them, eh Father?”
Julián had stumbled into silence, gripping his almost empty glass tightly as if it held the dregs of Christ’s blood. We sat with empty plates, watching Dante pick apart the gristle between the pig toes.
“Anyhow never mind all that. I see that talking about God has spoiled your appetite. You should join the Archbishop and I one evening, you might be better able to stomach his discourse and his brandy.”
Julián set his glass down and tried to regain some footing. “I may indeed do that.”
“So,” Dante reached across the table and picked up a slice of pork which he laid in the center of my plate. “Isabel enjoyed her trip on the ocean very much. We talked business and told each other secrets, however she mentioned that she had never been in the ocean before, never felt its warm froth all over her body and listened to its heartbeat with her head underwater and salt in her eyes.”
It sounded very romantic the way he explained it now. That evening on the boat he had simply said, “Take off all of your clothes and jump in. The sharks here prefer black flesh, perhaps you will fool them.”
“You should take her swimming padre, someday when the heat gets unbearable. You can wash your collar.”
Julián’s lip turned up just at the corner and then was echoed by the other side. He had been baited, and it was his own fault for underestimating the man. He laughed under his breath at his own foolishness, relieved now to know where he stood. “We have talked my business Señor. Now we must talk about yours. What is your company’s interest in this plantation and Miss Cordova?”
“My company has no interest in Isabel whatsoever. She is my concern not theirs. They are only interested in money and since you are well aware that the company owns all the large plantations, as well as the methods for shipping their yields, it is in everyone’s best interest that they acquire this one as well.”
“But it belongs to Miss Cordova, does it not?”
Dante did not even look at me. “Of course it does, as long as she wishes. But by making certain…compliances…she will reap the benefits that my company can bestow and they will be satisfied with a significant profit.”
Julián placed his hand over his glass when Dante raised the bottle to pour. “Since your company owns all the communication systems perhaps you can arrange a telephone for Isabel as well, and free schooling for the Maya worker’s children, and health care.”
“That is all for Isabel to negotiate. I am just the messenger. Tell me, did you have friends in Guatemala?”
Just the week before there had been a large Guatemalan labor strike. The local police and military had been sent in to put it down and had ended up shooting into the crowd and massacring many of the unarmed men. Everyone knew the fruit company had ordered the strike put down.
“Not friends. Brothers,” Julián said.
Dante had wiped his plate clean and now stood and patted his stomach. “Another fine meal Matilde,” he called toward the kitchen. There was no answer.
He held out his hand to Julián who stood and took it. “You really should join me in the city one evening,” he said again. “You are an interesting companion.”
“As are you.” Julián’s shoulders were stooped just a little, sagging under the weight of Dante’s presence. “Good evening Señor. And may God have mercy on your soul.”
Dante laughed deeply, shaking Julián’s hand with added mirth. “I sincerely doubt th
at padre. But maybe there is still some mercy left for you.” He winked in my direction and exited with flourish.
Julián sat back down, crumpling into his chair and pouring himself the last of the bottle.
He steepled his hands and placed them under his chin. “Are you happy with the arrangement?”
“It doesn’t matter really does it? You no longer talk about change. Things aren’t going to are they?”
“No,” he said. “Things aren’t going to change. Not soon enough.” He came to his feet, restless and unsteady, and drank the last of the wine in one swallow. He adjusted his collar and pushed in his chair. “God provides,” he said and took himself away.
In the morning the men were in the fields. They were separated into duties, a cutter and a catcher. The cutter nicked the banana’s stalk neatly with his machete just at the right point so that the fragile plant bent over, ready to deposit its load onto the catcher, who leaned over with a cushion strapped to his back. The cutter cut the stalk once more where the hand met, and the bananas landed gently on the cutter’s back, protected from bruising. The catcher then scuttled bent over to another man who heaved the 150 pound load up onto a cable which would carry it to the empacadora. In the shed the women, bunchesera stood in rows before tables and troughs. Some held the small hooked knives and worked the pila de seleccion, cutting groups of bananas from the stalk into smaller bunches of six or seven similar in size. As they worked they talked, throwing Spanish, and Mayan, and Kriol around with their sharp little scythes, laughing over their quick brown hands.
I worked quietly alongside them at the pilas des leches, my hands in the murky water washing the pesticides from the small bunches that came floating down to us. Matilde worked the knives and occasionally called out my name and smiled at me.
At another table more men were boxing the bananas. It was a newer method, packing them in boxes. The old variety, the Gros Michel, had been heartier and had traveled well enough loosely. This new paler, smaller, sweeter cousin had to be handled a bit more tenderly. Julián worked among the women packing the fruit carefully with his sensitive hands and raising his voice to talk with the loading men who worked with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, a present from the fruit company.
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