by David Unger
Samuel had stayed glued to the spot, snowflakes falling on the rim of his homburg, glaring at the bronze knocker on the closed door.
Happiness finally seemed within reach.
He could still feel the imprint of her thin red lips on his now scraggly face. He had rushed home—showered, shaved, and changed—ready for the workday. He had arrived at the store in a daze: the manager couldn’t understand his gaiety, the salesgirls teased him about his new devil-may-care attitude. He was floating on air, like a snowflake lifted by a gust, twirling and spinning, without a worry in the world.
Now he touched his lips and shook his head. He had needed a woman to confide in, a warm bosom where he could rest his head. Lena had listened attentively to him recount his war experiences and also his complaints about his bickering parents, but she had smiled and made light of them, as if his complaints weren’t so serious. Lena loved to caress his arms as he spoke, petting them, but she didn’t listen all that carefully.
He blamed it on the fact that she was years younger, that she came from a sunny climate, that her parents had protected her from all ills. How could she possibly understand? She was lighthearted, bubbly, and, yes, superficial.
It had been a mismatch from the start.
Samuel bit softly into his finger. After Lena went back to South Africa, he had closed the spigot of his feelings. He vowed never to let them gush again. When his body needed attention, he would go to one of the whorehouses in the Reeperbahn, the finer ones of course, not too close to the docks. Once a month would do, no more, because he always felt dirty later, as if somehow satisfying his sexual urges in exchange for money was beneath him. For days afterward, he would be gloomy and demoralized, until the sexual urge arose again and the cycle would be repeated … Yes, Germany was a long way off, much further than the thousands of sea miles that separated it from Puerto Barrios. What proof did he have that it even still existed?
And here he was in Puerto Barrios. He listened for dishes to clank in the kitchen, but it was eerily quiet and no one came to take his order. He glanced around the dining room. Each table was decorously set with linen tablecloths and napkins, porcelain, and silverware.
Much as he regretted doing this for reasons of simple etiquette, Samuel picked up his knife and began to tap lightly on his goblet. No one came. He took up his knife again and started drumming on his plate with it.
The noise brought George in from the lobby this time.
“Can I help you, Mr. Berkow?”
“Good morning, George. Yes, I’d like to order breakfast. Nothing greasy—I haven’t eaten for days—just some toast, marmalade, and coffee, no milk. Perhaps a boiled egg.”
George tightened his lips against his teeth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Berkow, but the kitchen’s closed. As you know, you and Father Cabezón are our only guests and, well, our kitchen is on a schedule.” He let his head swivel around the room till his eyes settled on a wooden column a few feet away. Samuel read the sign on the column:
Se sirven las siguientes comidas a las siguientes horas
Desayuno de 7:00 a 8:30 Precio: $0.75
Almuerzo de 12:00 a 14:00 $1.00
Cena de 18:00 a 19:30 $1.10
Sólo podemos atenderlos durante estas horas.
Gracias
Gerencia Hotel International
“But it isn’t quite eight-thirty, is it?”
George scratched his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s after ten, sir. I’d get you something to eat, but the cook’s gone until noon and I have to watch the front desk.”
“Oh, I see,” Samuel replied. “Well, never mind. I wasn’t so hungry, anyway.”
“It’s the heat that does it, sir.”
Samuel tapped his plate with his fingers. “I suppose you’re right,” he said gloomily. “Well then, can you direct me to the train station?”
“It’s not far. Do you remember your way back to the pier?”
Samuel frowned. “I’m afraid not.”
George pointed to the front door of the hotel. “Come with me. I can at least set you in the right direction.”
Samuel got up and the two men walked across the dining room to the lobby. Kingston was sweeping the floor by the entrance. “I didn’t know he works at the hotel,” Samuel whispered.
“He doesn’t—officially. Since the strike by the stevedores, I let him do some work for me here. I give him his meals and he feels he’s doing something useful.” George held the screen door open for Samuel to pass onto the veranda.
“What happened during the strike, if I may ask?”
“It’s no big secret,” George began, “but no one really wants to discuss it anymore. The workers asked for more money, and the Company said no. They organized a meeting during a lunch break and some soldiers came to break it up. Lewis was there and he ordered them back to work. The workers refused. There was some shoving and pushing, and Kingston got squeezed toward the front. Bullets flew and three workers were killed. Kingston was badly hurt. The workers claimed that Lewis had instigated the shooting, but there were no outside witnesses. The judge was paid off and the case against the soldiers was dismissed. That was it!”
“And Kingston received no compensation?”
George stared at Samuel. “You must be joking.”
Samuel felt slightly embarrassed. “Everyone should respect the law,” he answered. “And there are people who must enforce the law. If you break the law, then you’re punished. Innocent people must be protected.”
“Is that the way it is in Germany?” George asked, without sarcasm.
“Well, not exactly. The law is there, but now we have some troublemakers who have overstepped it, taken it into their own hands.”
“Exactly. There you have it.”
Samuel shook his head and looked out. The sun had risen far above the bay palms and the huge leafless jacaranda that arched over the band shell in the park in front of them. The sunlight fell flush against his face, making his body feel hot all over. “Poor man, poor, poor man,” was all he could say.
George merely shrugged. He shook a cigarette out of his pack, put it into his mouth, drew out a small box of wooden matches, and lit up. “At least he wasn’t killed. And after the court case, Lewis gave Kingston one hundred dollars to let the matter drop. One hundred dollars can buy plenty of silence—not that he can ever speak again.”
“I’m sure it does. So why did Kingston get involved last night at the bar?”
“Oh, that was different. Besides, all Kingston did was hold Lewis back and he would be too drunk to remember. What happened at the union meeting tamed Kingston for life. It should have tamed all of us, but there are still some workers who meet secretly with union officials. It’s going to end badly, I’m afraid. To be honest, I should get out of here before I do something really stupid. What if Lewis remembered that I hit him last night? You would turn against me—”
“No.”
“Please, Mr. Berkow, I know what I am talking about. If he remembered, I would be arrested and you would have been forced to testify against me. Certainly I wouldn’t be here with you, talking and smoking, as if I had nothing better to do … Oh well … Something tells me that I am beginning to talk too much.”
“Not at all.”
George took a long puff of his cigarette and blew the smoke out immediately, without inhaling. He pointed across the park with the hand holding the cigarette.
“There are two ways to get to the train station. The long way is to follow this path along the front of the hotel until you hit the main road and turn right. Otherwise you can shoot across the park and pick up another path through the brush, which will get you there twice as fast.”
“No more shortcuts for me—not after last night.”
The clerk offered a foolish smile. “Good luck. Will you be back for lunch?”
“I don’t know,” Samuel responded. “First, I need to find out the train schedule. And then I’ll decide what to do. I’ll definitely be back to pick up my suitca
se.” He gave George a funny kind of military salute and left.
It was a cloudless day. Without thinking, he took the shortcut—the path across the treeless park. Samuel had left his hat in the room and now he felt the tropical sun searing his face and scalp. Last night everything had seemed murky, out of focus, but now everything was sharp and clear as if cut by a knife.
When he reached a spit of land that extended into the bay, he stopped and gazed out toward the water. He thought he could pass the morning sitting on a flat rock under an almond tree. It would be pleasant to sit quietly and watch the wavelets moving in geometric precision on shore.
Samuel was dawdling, and he knew it. Did he want to stay in Puerto Barrios for the rest of his life? Surely he hadn’t needed eleven hours of sleep. Why hadn’t he risen at daybreak and gone immediately, with his suitcase in hand, to telegraph his cousin that he had arrived, or gone to the train station to check the schedule? By now, he might have even received a reply from Heinrich. Was he secretly afraid his cousin might not be so helpful?
What was taking him so long to get the day started?
Samuel pressed his palms against the side of his head. His stomach gurgled noisily. He had to get a grip on himself. Yes, what had happened in the last day would be enough to demoralize anyone, but Samuel knew he had to snap out of this stupor which dulled his mind and made him dumb and drowsy.
He walked briskly down the path, ducking branches and thorns, until it merged with the gravel road. Here he turned left, past a wall of empty oil drums and broken crates stacked on the side of the road. Coming toward him were several Caribs lugging sacks of flour or cement on their shoulders; they broke formation for him to pass between them. He walked alone on this road tamped down by spilled oil. Squinting, he saw in the distance a conglomerate of wooden buildings—the center of Puerto Barrios—but now here, immediately on his right, was the train station.
He went up a couple of steps and entered a huge wooden structure with an arched ceiling. It had a few metal benches; otherwise it was clear of furniture. Across the room he saw a barred ticket window with a light on in front. He could make out a clerking sitting in there.
Samuel headed to the window and spoke excitedly: “I hope you can help me.”
The man looked up from a magazine he was reading, but said nothing.
“Can you tell me when the next train leaves for Guatemala City?”
“Usually it leaves around seven p.m.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
The clerk smiled. “You can never be sure.”
“Don’t you have to keep to a schedule?” Samuel asked, trying not to lose his temper. He had so many reasons to be angry, not least of which was because no one in this town seemed to know anything with any degree of certainty. It was all guesswork and supposition.
The clerk rubbed both sides of his unshaven face with his palms. “Sir, the schedule’s posted in front of you.” He pointed to the wall on his right. “But that doesn’t mean we hold to it. It’s been like that for years and I don’t see why things should change now. It’s mostly a freight train, with a couple of passenger cars.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, sometimes the train arrives from Bananera at four, sometimes at six, and sometimes not at all. The cargo has to be unloaded, and then freight bound back to Bananera and Guatemala City has to be loaded. If you go through that door, you will see that the platform is already full of heavy crates.”
“But that’s impossible. A train must leave on time. What’s a schedule for, then?” If he could only speak in German—his thoughts were coming out confused in Spanish—he knew he could make himself understood.
The clerk shrugged. “The train owners make money on freight, not on carrying a couple of dozen passengers to Bananera, Zacapa, and Guatemala City. Now, if you don’t have any more questions, I’d like to get back to my work.” He shifted in his seat and returned to flipping through his magazine.
Samuel tapped on the counter.
“What now?” the man asked without looking up.
“Let me speak to the station master!”
“The what?”
“Your supervisor! I demand to speak to him!”
The clerk looked up and grinned. “Sir, he’s been in Guatemala City for the past week.”
“Isn’t there anyone else I can speak to?”
“No, not unless you want to drive to Bananera and talk to the supervisor there. I don’t suppose you have a car. It’s about sixty kilometers from here.”
“This is no way to speak to a customer!” Samuel replied, digging his nails into his palms. “I shall file a report when I get to Guatemala City.” As soon as he said this, he knew he never would. It was all so pointless.
The clerk grinned again, and shrugged.
Samuel felt his head pounding. In Europe, a station manager would have reprimanded, suspended, or even fired the clerk for being so curt and insolent. Such conduct would never have been tolerated in Germany, not even during the worst of times. In Germany, in Germany, in Germany, many things might have happened, but here he was thousands of miles away at the mercy of a brutish clerk who was clearly unsupervised and thus did what he pleased.
“I’ll be back in a few hours. Perhaps you will have more information by then.”
“This office is closed between twelve and two for lunch.”
“Yes, I know, siesta time,” Samuel said, his lower lip trembling. He turned around and walked heavy-footed across the station.
Outside, the sun hung straight above him. Samuel saw that the road he had just walked down was beginning to undulate from the heat. To his left was the pier and the government buildings, and to his right, the town itself. Samuel made a half-turn toward Puerto Barrios, then stopped, as if a hand had clasped him by the back of his shirt. It was Lewis’s voice warning him not to mix with the townspeople because they were a rowdy bunch that carried guns.
“Besides, Berkow, anything you might want can be found within the confines of the Company buildings here on the pier,” Lewis had said.
Samuel shaded his eyes. In the lumberyard across from the station, half a dozen men were lifting lengths of timber onto a flatbed car. Near them, several dogs—sacks of bones, for the most part—lounged around a brown puddle as if it were an oasis. One dog stood up, slurped some of the water, sniffed the air with its snout, and lay back down.
“I must get out of here,” Samuel said aloud, his stomach clamping up. “I must wire Heinrich.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped his brow
What was Puerto Barrios like? Unpainted wooden buildings, no sidewalks, no promenades, no streetlamps, no green parks, no smoky cafés, no dignity whatsoever! Raw sewage, filthy cat houses, beggars sleeping on top of each other in the shadows.
This was die neue Welt … aber die Leute, mein Gott, sie sind eine echte Schande …
Everything here seemed sordid and diseased, disfigured by creatures that merely howled and spat. Other than George, wasn’t Lewis the most sensible man he had met here? And yet he was on the verge of madness: lucid one second, his mouth rambling about anything the next—
Samuel kicked a rock into a pile of cornhusks near the side of the road. A three-legged mongrel that had been lying there stood up, yelped, and simply hobbled away. Samuel bent down and picked up a rock, which he flung straight at the dog; it bounced on the road and hit the animal in the ribs. Again it yelped.
A Carib woman came out of a shack and shook her fist at Samuel. She wore a loose brown dress; a red and black bandana cropped her head. “What are you doing to my dog?” she demanded.
“I beg your pardon.”
“That’s my dog. You have no right to hurt it!”
Samuel bent down, grabbed another rock. “Get back inside your house.”
“And now you threatening me, you crazy old man?”
Samuel snapped his arm. The woman shrieked, and rushed back inside her house. He made a vagu
e motion to go after her—to do what, he didn’t quite know—and then the fear of his own madness stopped him in midmovement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Samuel walked quickly back to the hotel. His eyes burned with sweat and his stomach knocked as if a bomb were ticking away inside of it. He passed a ceiba, dead branches raised to the sky, with a sign nailed to the trunk warning pedestrians and cars to look both ways before crossing the train tracks.
Once across, a paved road angled left. Out of curiosity, Samuel followed it for a few hundred feet till it dead-ended at a three-story building surrounded by fence palings and unkempt shrubbery. A sign was still legible across the boarded up entrance: Club Pigalle: Herzlich Willkommen. Was this the fancy whorehouse—girls from Finland, Germany, and Sweden—that Lewis had yammered about? He had claimed that ten girls comprised the stable, each solicited for her talents in a particular sexual pleasure.
Samuel laughed—Puerto Barrio’s only paved road led to an abandoned whorehouse!
He turned around. When he reached the intersection, he bore left toward the pier. The gate was wide open, but the customs guardhouse of the night before was empty and dark. He walked on the wooden slats until he saw the commissariat and the Fruit Company offices. The telegraph office was right there in front of them.
As soon as Samuel stepped in, a dark-skinned man who sat at a table in the center of the room looked up. He had blue eyes, a swollen nose, and a goatee that hung three or four inches from his chin.
“Good morning,” Samuel said. “I want to send a telegram to Guatemala City.”
The clerk tugged on his goatee. “You’re in luck! The telegraph’s just begun working again. It was down for a week,” he said in English. He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter. “Your name, please?”
“Berkow. B-E-R-K-O-W. Samuel. Do you want to see my passport?” he asked, touching his shirt pocket. “Or should I write it down for you?”
“No, I got it,” the clerk answered, typing away. “And to whom are you sending this wire?”
“To Heinrich—H-E-I-N-R-I-C-H—Berkow. Same last name. Tienda La Preciosa. Sexta Avenida y Octava Calle. Zona Uno. Ciudad de Guatemala.”