by John Hunt
It was only a brief walk to the Guest House, part-way up the road. Petur ambled up the dozen wooden steps of the building. At the top, rocking in a white wicker chair and sipping on what appeared to be a Bloody Mary, sat Jack Gaimey.
“Good morning, Petur. And a damn fine one it is, too!” Jack Gaimey’s deep voice filled the porch, and probably this whole end of the island.
Petur warily eyed the glass of red liquid in the large man’s hand. “What’s that you are imbibing, Jack Gaimey? Don’t we have an appointment today, at a remote place that we must fly to?”
“Aye, we do. I thought I would start drinking before I fly from now on. Makes it more exciting.” Then, noticing that Petur was not sure if it was a joke, he added sharply, “It’s tomato juice, you damn fool.”
Petur smiled and shook his head. “How far out are they now?”
“About one hundred klicks. Real close.” Jack Gaimey then slapped his knee and said, “Oh, I almost forgot. Jeff Baddori radioed me late, and I do mean late, last evening to tell me that a couple of American military planes would be stopping off here this morning. He didn’t tell me what that was about, but he wanted me to pass it on to you.”
Petur shook his head, “I’ve got no clue. You got a welcoming party for them?”
“A fuel truck, a shower, and some coffee is all these guys will want, I expect, but I even got some donuts for ‘em.”
“You’re a good man, Jack Gaimey. What time do we take off?”
“Nine o’clock, and be there sharp, or I’ll leave you behind.”
“Would you really go without me, your only passenger?”
“Sure as hell would. Who needs you!”
Petur slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past him toward the door, and said, “You are a pain in the butt, Jack Gaimey!”
He heard the big man’s hearty guffaw as the screen door of the Guest House’s entrance shut behind him. He turned to his right and entered the dining room.
He recognized several, but not most, of the small smattering of people here already. These were mostly guests of residents or new people just now arriving to work and live on Paradise 1. He would no doubt meet the latter group, sooner or later.
In the far corner, he saw a woman. He chose her as the most likely in the crowd to be Elisa. She was looking down at a menu. Dark brown hair pulled back tightly against her head and the way it then lifted and landed on top did not flatter her. Large red thick-framed glasses rested on her nose and obscured a surprisingly large part of her face. She wore a roughly made, unfashionable blouse, made of a brown material that was as ugly as burlap.
He approached her. “Good morning. Might you be Elisa?” He smiled at her warmly.
She nodded and tried to stand up, but she knocked her thigh into the table top, upsetting two glasses of water.
“Oh dear. I seem to have made a mess. Thank God it’s only water.” She dabbed at her burlap attire with a cloth napkin. “Yes, I am Elisa. It is good to meet you finally, Petur.” Her accented English was precise.
“And you. It’s amazing that you could’ve been here on this island for more than three months without us ever meeting. Were you avoiding me?” Petur had actually wondered about this.
Elisa replied, “I thought you might be avoiding me, actually. But the truth is that I wanted to be able to give you something tangible before we met, so that you could see I have some value.”
“Well, I have no doubt that you do.” He sat down after Elisa had retaken her seat and, placing his napkin in his lap, reached for a menu. He knew everything on the menu, and he also knew exactly what he was going to order, but the facade provided him the opportunity to surreptitiously examine his breakfast companion.
His sister had described this woman as beautiful, but a man should never trust a woman’s impression of female beauty. Petur’s impression was that she was very plain. Elisa’s outfit was ugly, almost intentionally so, and her hair, tied tightly in a bun, did not do justice to her face. Her dark brown eyes with their long lashes were magnified to absurdity by her coke-bottle lenses. She had the appearance of a consummate scientist. But underneath it all, perhaps her face had the potential of being lovely. Her lips were attractive and reminded him of someone — perhaps a celebrity — but he could not remember exactly who.
“I’ve read your commentary on solid waste recycling and your suggestions on how to combat people’s understandable concerns about essentially eating someone else’s feces. I think you could be right that this will change the way people think about dinner.”
She smiled, and the smile lit up her face. “I was about to say that feces does not make for particularly pleasant breakfast conversation, but then it actually does seem appropriate to discuss this over food, does it not?”
“The sociological consequences of the Island Project’s mission have clearly not been given their due consideration.”
She smiled again. Petur wished she would continue to do so. “I am glad that you think so.” After a pause she said, “And I am interested, and willing, to help rectify that.”
Petur had learned from his sister that this Ph.D. sociologist was interested in being more than Sophia’s administrative assistant. As always, Isaac had obtained an impressively comprehensive background check. On reviewing her curriculum vitae, he was intrigued. She had once been a well-respected, up-and-coming young assistant professor at Uppsala University in Sweden. She was the author of more than a dozen published papers by the time she had finished her doctorate, many involving some aspect of human social adjustment in space. But she seemed to have a totally separate sideline interest — Latin American social evolution. In fact, her doctoral dissertation involved anticipated Mexican political and social changes. As to why she had the two disparate concerns, Petur was not yet sure.
“So what interests you here?” he asked her politely, holding up the menu.
She shrugged. “It all looks very intriguing. But I have never been much of a breakfast eater. I usually just have some fruit and a croissant; occasionally some cereal. All that is right at the buffet.”
“Well, you won’t mind if I eat American style, will you? I thrive on a big breakfast.”
“No, of course not.”
The waiter came shortly thereafter, and Petur ordered his pancakes and bacon, along with a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and an English muffin with jams. He knew from long experience here that this would only take a few minutes to prepare, and so he urged Elisa to go ahead and gather her continental breakfast from the buffet. She stood up and did just that.
Petur shook his head, as slightly as he could, as he watched her weave between the other tables in the restaurant toward the buffet. Her dress of woven hay-like material hung loosely over her body and completely obscured her figure. She could be Aphrodite under there, and nobody would ever guess it. In contrast to her overall appearance, her gait was graceful and confident and distantly familiar.
Petur’s hearty breakfast arrived promptly, just as Elisa returned with her dainty portions of dry bread and fruit. He dug in lustily, and he attempted no conversation as he savored the pancakes and perfectly cooked American bacon. In very little time, he was satiated, perhaps even glutted, and attempted to reorganize the food in his stomach by swallowing some orange juice. This worked well, and he soon felt competent to continue the sociable conversation.
“I will of course be taking your recent solid-waste work public, if that’s okay with you. It needs to be considered by all interested parties.”
“The phrase ‘taking it public’ conveys the impression that it will make a large impact. I doubt that will be the case.”
Petur agreed. “You’re right. It will simply get noted by people who take an interest. Those people will be glad that someone other than them is addressing it. And this will help get you hired on as a sociologist, instead of an administrative assistant. If you wish, of course.”
Elisa seemed very pleased, and nodded vigorously, although she could n
ot speak with a mouthful of pear. Petur waited patiently, and in a moment she swallowed and said, “I would like that very much. I think I can be helpful, in several ways.”
“I’m sure you can. How are you liking living on Paradise, by the way? Are you having any trouble being far off the beaten path?”
“Not really. There is not as much culture here as I am used to in European cities, but then that is made up for by the sheer calm and beauty of this place. And I have already gone off island twice.”
“That’s important to do. This island only remains a paradise if it doesn’t seem a prison.”
Elisa agreed. “I doubt I could ever tire of this perfect climate. It is a wonderful thing to be able to live on Paradise while working for a truly noble cause. Thank you for making it possible.”
Petur blushed, imperceptibly. He had on several occasions been thanked by people who came to live on the island. Each time, it had embarrassed him and made him feel awkward. He never felt right being thanked.
Petur was able now to squeeze another bite of pancake into his full stomach, and did so. Then he asked, “So, tell me about your interest in Latin America. How did that evolve?”
Elisa responded, “It is interesting that you ask that, for I wanted to address a concern I have. One of my tutors in my doctoral program had a particular interest in Latin America, and guided me greatly toward understanding his passion. Latin America is a veritable breeding ground of social experimental subjects: massively rich and intensely poor people, living under governmental systems which transition overnight from one form of totalitarianism to another: fascism, communism, socialism. These countries are impressively unstable and unpredictable, which makes it all the more fun to try to predict how and what they will be doing next year.”
Petur queried, “So this is purely an academic interest of yours?”
“Purely, in that I had no personal knowledge of, nor family heritage within, Latin America. It pulled me in because it was so ripe with opportunities to learn so much. If a sociologist wanted to study some aspect of military coups, he could just wait a week or two and there would be one in the region. If one wished to learn about sudden transitions between rapidly divergent economic systems, voila, one would begin.”
Petur nodded. He thought to himself that it might not be as bad as that, but certainly many countries on the continent were less than perfectly stable. “So what is the concern that you have?”
“Mexico. Evidence clearly suggests that problems are growing there that could affect the Island project significantly.”
Petur widened his eyes, questioningly, but unconcerned as yet. Mexico always seemed the most stable of the nations in the region. “Tell me more.”
“The corruption in the Mexican government, at all levels, has always been impressive. The separation between the poor and the wealthy has likewise been impressive. But as trade has become more free throughout North America, wealth is increasing, and even the poor are feeling some positive effects.”
“Well, that all sounds very good.”
“I think it is. But there are some other interesting effects. Particularly, people are becoming intolerant of corruption. There is a fire of anti-government passion, being fueled by several prominent Mexicans.”
Petur queried, “It sounds like they’ll be voting in a bunch of new government officials at the next election?”
“That would be fine. I hope that is what happens. But I’m worried about more radical actions. And I think it is clear that those prominent Mexicans I mentioned are promoting a less democratic overthrow of the government.”
“Why do you think this?”
She responded quickly, “I can see it happening. It is written between the lines of the newspapers — the Mexican papers. Actually I read all the major Latin American newspapers. I told you, it’s an interest of mine.”
Petur nodded. “So, the motives of these prominent Mexicans are already being revealed in the newspapers?”
“Well, it is more subtle than that. The people involved in igniting and fueling this fire seem to have at least some editorial control at the newspapers — and probably in other media channels, although I am not as able to keep my tabs on the TV and radio. It appears to me that these people have carefully orchestrated quiet efforts to make the general population, but especially the impoverished and the middle class, lose any trust they might have had in their system of government. The media hints that everyone would be better off with a more interventionist government. The movement has been building slowly — almost unnoticeably, really — for more than a year.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about a conspiracy.”
“It almost is. Although I think it is less of a conspiracy, and more of an assault. It has been building slowly, as I said, but I think it is going to accelerate very soon. I think within six months, Mexico will no longer be the same.” She paused and ate some more fruit while Petur had a moment to think about the consequences of major instability within the country that owned the Paradise Island chain.
“Would you like to know who all these prominent Mexicans seem to be?” she asked him, almost as if not expecting an answer.
Petur nodded, slowly.
“So would I. I think I have an idea about several of them. And it makes me even more worried.”
Petur leaned in closer across the table. “Are you going to keep me in suspense?”
A slight grin appeared. “For a little while longer.”
Petur was skeptical. “You glean much from reading newspapers. It makes me wonder how much I’m missing.”
“Sociology isn’t just bogus common sense fluffy non-science. There is much to be gained from having some formal sociology training. In my case, I think it allows me to see common threads among diverse issues. I can perceive the quilt that is being put together in Mexico.”
Petur had never been particularly excited about having any government own the island where he was going to set up shop. He did not particularly want to deal with the hassles of international law if there was going to be a lease dispute. But the Paradise chain had been the best bet he could find, and Mexico had been stable, and was getting economically more stable every year. There were always the drugs, and the violence that was associated with them, but Paradise had been immune from those issues.
He asked, “What do you think the effect will be here?”
“I do not know.” She shook her head. “I think that it is unpredictable. You are fairly high profile in Mexico. I see articles about this place in the news regularly. The Mexicans are proud to be associated with the accomplishments here. On the other hand, one recent article hinted that Mexico should benefit more from the activities here than it seems to.”
“Everyone will benefit from what we are doing.”
“These are poor people, Petur: only partially educated; next-meal types; not thinking much past that.” She looked at Petur intently. “Most of these people are not long-term thinkers at all. Although, perhaps some of the people involved in this ‘conspiracy’ are, in their own distorted way, long-term thinkers.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I told you, I am speculating here.”
Petur nodded his assent.
“It seems that at least two of the people implicated have a history of involvement with the drug trade. A big history, actually.”
“Sounds like they’re working against themselves, generating an abhorrence of corruption and all.”
“Well, there are two issues that pertain to that. First, Americans, but not Mexicans, consider the drug trade the source of all evil. The Mexican cartels are now bigger than the Colombian cartels. To many Mexican villages, they are a source of income and stability, and they see no corruption in it at all. It is entrepreneurship. The harm occurs only north of the border and in occasional well-publicized gang killings in certain areas. The drug trade is not corrupt, as the average Mexican sees it.
“Second, these people are going to use fronts: peop
le completely clean, or at least out of the business for a long time. At least, that is my read on the situation.” She paused again, for a breath. “I think the drug cartels intend to play a major role in the Mexican government, not by bribery, but by force of law.”
She raised a concern that he had hoped would never appear. He had thought perhaps such a problem could arise sometime in the first hundred years of the lease, but not so soon. Petur knew he would need a great deal more information on this issue.
“Can you give me a full discussion of all this in writing? All the details you can muster. Every piece of information you can gather. We need to start working on this problem, if it is real.”
Elisa nodded her assent. “I hope it is not real at all, but I think otherwise. I will write up something for you… does that mean you are definitely hiring me as a sociologist?”
“For now, please begin work on it. I’ll get my sister’s permission to borrow you.”
“I will, but I am not going to be around for the next few weeks. I’m going off-island again. Leaving this morning, actually. Some old, unfinished business.”
“Well, as soon as you can. You’ve made me concerned.”
Wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin from her lap, Elisa stood up. “I had best be going. The flight to the States leaves soon. I still have not packed everything. Thank you for reading my treatise on the solid waste issue. I think that is very important.”
“My pleasure.” He rose from his seat. “I agree about its importance, and appreciate your bringing it to my attention.”
“It’s good to meet you, finally,” said Elisa, as she held out her hand.
Petur took it and nodded his agreement. As she left, her uninspiring dress continued to conceal the curves of her body, but she could not hide her self-assured walk.