The Candidate

by Paul Harris

  Mike nodded and Dee hung up without a further word. He walked back to Lauren who looked at him expectantly.

  “Let’s grab a coffee,” he said. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “SO, WHERE ARE we going, Mike?” Lauren asked as they at last drove past the final suburbs and slums of Guatemala City.

  Her voice was playful but laced with a trace of triumph she could not resist. Mike did not blame her. After all, her journalistic gamble paid off. Both he and Dee seriously underestimated her by assuming stalling tactics would make her lose interest.

  “Santa Teresa,” he said. “It’s a village up in the mountains. There was a massacre there back during the war. We are not sure, but we think the shooter witnessed it. She may be a survivor. It would certainly explain a lot. Maybe she went a little crazy and just hates the American military.”

  Lauren nodded and jotted down a few things in her notebook. She agreed to Dee’s proposal easily enough. Lauren would get the inside scoop on this investigation but she could not publish it before South Carolina was over. Quid pro quo. But Dee also gave Mike other instructions.

  “Don’t let this bitch out of your sight, Mike, and keep her on a strictly need-to-know basis. She’s not your friend. Remember that,” she said.

  Mike glanced again at Lauren as she scribbled in her pad in a spider-like shorthand. Christ, why did everyone have an agenda? He just tried to do his job and somehow it led to this place, juggling more cover stories and deceptions than a spy. What happened to playing it straight? Lauren looked at him and cocked her head to one side.

  “And General Carillo?” she asked.

  Mike shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “We told you about that. He and the Hodges are friends. He’s just helping him out financially. Not everything is a story, you know. We’re following the shooter’s trail here, not Hodges’. You journalists are too damn cynical.”

  Lauren raised an eyebrow, but Mike pretended not to see and concentrated on the road ahead that climbed into a rumpled fold of mountains and soared into thickly-clouded skies ahead that steadily darkened.

  * * *

  THE DRIVE was spectacular. Traffic thinned out between villages and Mike took his eyes off the road for a few precious seconds to admire the scenery. They passed through a series of deep valleys lorded over by a line of perfect cone-shaped volcanoes so symmetrical in their slopes that Mike was reminded of his high school geography text books. At every village Mayan women carried trays of fruit and fried pastries and approached the car when they stopped at junctions. Young children clamored at the windows to sell CDs or newspapers or just beg for a few grimy quetzal notes.

  Lauren stared out at the window, entranced by it all. She waved at the people and bought far more food than they would possibly need. From one young, grimy-faced kid she bought a CD of Guatemalan rap music and shoved it into the car’s archaic sound system. Immediately a melody of tinkling, electronic pop blasted into the car amid a howl of Spanish. Mike jumped and the car swerved violently. Lauren burst out laughing.

  “Lighten up!” she giggled.

  Mike shook his head but could not help but smile. He had to relax and try to enjoy this odd pairing up. Forget the games played behind the scenes and skim along on the surface. Lauren started to dance in her seat beside him, moving her head to the strangled sounds coming out of the stereo. Mike laughed too. She rested a hand on his arm. Her touch felt warm.

  “That’s better,” she said.

  The car crested a steep mountain pass and they looked down over a landscape of astonishing beauty. In front of them stretched rumpled folds of hills dotted with forest and a patchwork of tiny maize fields. It looked like an immense quilt flung over the earth. In the center of their vision was a shallow volcano, whose low walls were notched, like a broken saucer, and through the gaps they glimpsed a shimmering silver lake. Santa Teresa was one of half a dozen villages inside the crater that clung to the shores of the lake. The previous day Mike had again spoken to Jenny Gusman at the American Center for Latino Justice and she promised that someone would be waiting for them when they arrived. She was so casual that Mike had no idea if she would follow through. But as they drove down into the lip of the volcano he understood how dependent he was on Gusman’s help.

  The road zigzagged up the slopes of the volcano and then repeated the pattern heading down into the enormous crater. In a series of switch-backs it descended until the lake at last spread out before them, sparkling in bright blue sunshine like a vision.

  “Christ, it’s beautiful,” Lauren said.

  Mike’s silence signaled his awed agreement. He drove slowly as the tattered tarmac gradually reverted to dirt and the car lurched over huge potholes. They circled the lake and a cluster of whitewashed buildings came into view around the curve of the crater wall. It was a tiny village with buildings scattered like shaken dice, some on the shore, and others up the gentle slopes of the crater wall near a thick band of forest. A gabled church stood in the middle and looked like the only really solid building. The car crawled on past fields of tall maize worked by women all wearing bright dresses. A few glanced up but most continued their backbreaking labor, enormous baskets carried on their shoulders.

  Mike thought, suddenly, of his time in Florida, trying to fight against the dreadful conditions on the plantations. For the first time he knew why it was so hard to get people organized there. If this was how they grew up, how could they even know they were exploited? He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a gaggle of young children trailing the car, smiling and running along, trying to catch it as they pulled into the village.

  Suddenly, an older man, who waited by the side of the road, walked out into the middle of their path. Mike braked quickly. The man came around to the side of the car and tapped on the window with a gnarled looking walking stick. Mike had no idea how old the man was. His features looked like he was in his 50s, but his skin glowed flawlessly and smooth, stretched over an angular face and a prominent nose. He appeared to be pureblood Mayan, like he stepped down from the murals of some ancient pyramid. Mike wound down the window.

  “Señor Sweeney?” the man said and looked suspiciously over at Lauren.

  Mike nodded. “You know Jenny Gusman?” Mike asked in Spanish.

  The man nodded and signaled them to park the car next to a nearby house. “I got a message from her last night. I am Rodolfo,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The man disappeared into a low building outside which they parked the car. Mike and Lauren followed Rodolfo inside and were immediately assailed by the strong, acrid smell of brewing coffee. It was dark and the ceiling was low. Rodolfo busied himself over a wood burning stove with a bubbling black cast iron pot. He gestured at two plastic chairs and they sat down. A minute later the man brought them small cups of thick black liquid. Mike and Lauren sipped at them. Their lips stung from the heat and their brains suddenly fizzed with the injection of strong caffeine.

  “Welcome to Santa Teresa,” Rodolfo said in Spanish. “I am glad you have come to pay testament to what happened here.”

  Mike looked at Lauren. He could see she did not entirely understand what was being said. Her Spanish was not quite good enough to cope with the fact that Rodolfo’s first language was a Mayan dialect. Indeed, Mike needed to concentrate hard to make sure he understood all the old man said. Mike felt pleased he had this advantage over Lauren. It helped control the amount of information she would get.

  “Thank you, Rodolfo,” Mike said. “If I could just start by asking…”

  But Rodolfo cut him off with a raised hand. “Wait. Before we begin we must seek the blessing of Maximón,” he said and he got up and signaled for them to finish their drinks. Lauren frowned.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Mike.

  Mike was prepared to lie. But there was no need. “I have no idea,” he said.

  * * *

  RODOLFO WALKED out of the house and they followed him. By now a small crowd
of people, mostly children and teenaged boys, gathered again. They followed at a respectful distance as the trio headed into a maze of buildings. The street was paved with rough-cut stone and led into a series of alleyways so narrow that the sun was shielded from sight and it grew dark, despite being the middle of the day. Eventually they stopped outside a non-descript looking wooden door. Rodolfo disappeared inside. Mike hesitated and looked at Lauren.

  “I guess we have to just go with the flow,” she said.

  Mike pushed open the creaking door and they went inside. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the gloom and when they did they stared in shock at the sight in front of them. In the darkness two men lounged in plastic chairs against a wall and in the middle of them was a human-sized wooden statue. Its face was unsmiling and jammed in its mouth was a smoldering cigar, whose smoke curled upwards in a spiral of white, filling the unventilated room and stinging the eyes. The statue wore a black wide-brimmed cowboy hat and was festooned in colorful ribbons that looked like neckties. At its feet flickered a dozen large candles that stood among thick bunches of flowers. It felt like stepping through a mirror into another world. Hidden behind the dirty walls of this forgotten little village lurked Gods whose stories stretched back thousands of years.

  Rodolfo walked up to the statue and spoke to it in Mayan, the low sounds of the language being swallowed up by the thick air. One of the attendants stood up and proffered his hand. Rodolfo looked around at the stunned figures of Mike and Lauren.

  “You must give him some money. Maximón is often angry at those who visit the village from outside,” said Rodolfo.

  Mike fished into his wallet for a handful of dollars. He handed them over to the attendant, who stuffed them into his pocket, walked back to the statue and reached behind his chair. He pulled out a clear bottle of white liquid and took a swig from it. Instantly the smell of strong alcohol mingled with the stench of tobacco. Then the man reached over and poured the bottle into some hidden hole in the statue’s mouth. A splash hit the lit end of the cigar and a small tongue of blue flame erupted from the statue’s face. The other attendant let out a harsh laugh. Again Rodolfo spoke to the two men in Mayan and turned to Mike.

  “Maximón is appeased. Now we can begin,” he said.

  * * *

  GENERAL CARILLO sat in his chair and lit a cigar. He had just returned from the center of Livingston to pick up another cash transfer from America. He went to the bank and put it directly into his savings account, reading the numbers of his balance with a thrill that he had not felt in many years. He always told himself that he did not put a huge store in great wealth: he wanted to be comfortable, for sure, but never rich. Not like those parasites in Guatemala City. The new govern ment ministers with their big cars and fancy penthouses. But now, with his savings growing and growing, he luxuriated in the feeling of security. It was reward for years of difficult ser vice during the war, followed by his exile here that, in many ways, was harder.

  Now it was worth it. The Lord now smiled upon His humble servant and saw that he would not have to wait until heaven for happiness. Carillo sat and relaxed in his front room, lined with the photographs of his past, and day-dreamed about returning to the Highlands and buying a coffee estate. He knew the government would not want him to leave Livingston, but he would splash his new wealth around a little and oil some of those stuck wheels with a bribe or two. In a few years he would be out of here with more than enough to buy a plot of land and a ranch house.

  He got up and walked over to one of the photograph-lined walls. He saw the old pictures of his passing-out ceremony at the School of the Americas. His smiling youthful shade looked like a different person entirely. Carillo frowned. He expected to feel a connection to that young man, so full of promise and ambition. Instead he walked farther down the wall to an old black and white picture of his grandfather, standing proud as a peacock in a ceremonial uniform that looked cartoonish in its extravagance and aping of European styles. But for Carillo this was more like it. The man, with his huge bushy whiskers and feathers streaming from his cap, looked the epitome of style and honor. Carillo ran a finger through the coating of dust on the picture. He did his ancestors proud, he thought.

  The dim ring of his telephone disturbed him from his moment of reverie. He ignored it. But then it began again. Someone wanted him urgently. Cursing under his breath he walked out into the hall and picked up the receiver. He barked a hello.

  “Many apologies for disturbing you, my General,” came the voice at the end of the line. “It is Enrico and I have news I think you will be interested in.”

  Carillo thought for a moment and then recognition struck him. Enrico Lopez. An old comrade who worked in the im migration department in the capital.

  “Federico asked me to keep an eye out for a certain man at customs in the airport. He said you would want to know that he left the country.”

  Carillo shut his eyes. He knew this was bad news.

  “He is an Americano. A Mike Sweeney. Well, he left okay. But now he is back. He came back through yesterday.”

  Carillo allowed the news to sink in and sought to calm his racing heart, before he uttered a word. He counted to five, slowly, an old routine from his military days when he wanted to cool his blood. “Thank you, Enrico, old friend,” he said. “Where was he going?”

  “He left a telephone number at the Marriott Hotel in Guatemala City as his contact. He also rented an Avis car. That is all I know.”

  Silence again.

  “My General…”’

  “That is good, Enrico. You have done well. I shall see that you are rewarded,” he said. He put down the phone and cut off the man’s fulsome thanks.

  Carillo walked back into his lounge and sat down again. The room was a much darker place to him now. This American was like a stinking fly in his soup, he thought. An ugly thing that spoiled everything it touched, even though it was so small and puny. His mind lit up with a feeling of anger and his breathing grew ragged as he stubbed out his cigar. Why was he being investigated like this by Hodges’ people? Was he being played like a fool, given his reward only to have it used against him? He did not understand the ways of Americans. Never had. They always said one thing and did another.

  “Federico!” he called and instantly heard a door upstairs open and the sound of footsteps. Federico always knew when to respond quickly and the General’s tone left little doubt. He burst into the room to face his master.

  “The American that you took to the airport has come back. He arrived in the capital yesterday. I want you to call Enrico at Customs and get all the details from him. Then leave immediately for Guatemala City. Find him and see what he is doing here. I want to know who he is seeing and what he wants.”

  Federico nodded. “Should I take care of him?” he asked, his face unmoving but his implication clear.

  Carillo thought for a moment. It was tempting, he knew, to deal with such a problem directly and in such a decisive manner. But this man was an American and that was bound to cause trouble. He did not want to act hastily. He wanted his chance to leave this horrid exile and go back to the clear air of the Highlands. He looked at Federico. The man was like a human guard dog, utterly loyal and trained to his will. All it would take was a word and he would kill. But the General would not make such a decision now.

  “No,” Carillo said, shaking his head. “Not yet. Just watch.”

  * * *

  MIKE AND Lauren emerged from the room where Maximón was kept. They were silent and unsure of themselves. It was a glimpse into an entirely unexpected world, one that lurked beneath the façade of the Guatemalan village. The heat and light was suddenly unfamiliar and the faces of the pack of small boys that followed them became less innocent and joyful. Not sinister. But different and alien. Rodolfo, however, seemed brighter and more cheerful, as if relieved from some burden that worried him. He led them though the streets of the village and past the church that towered over a tidy but ancient town squar
e. Rodolfo gestured at the pack of kids behind them with his stick and shouted a few harsh words in Mayan and the children scattered back into the village. Rodolfo flashed a boyish grin that belied his years.

  “They follow anything new in the village,” he said. “They are like little mice in the kitchen who catch the smell of fresh bread.”

  The trio climbed away from the streets and a little ways up to a gentle slope above the village. Rodolfo sat down on a patch of rocks and tucked his knees up and rested his chin on them. “Here is a good place,” he said. “We must keep talk of evil things away from the village. For the good of us all.”

  Mike and Lauren sat in front him. Mike felt almost like he was back at a church meeting from his childhood. Rodolfo inspired that sort of feeling; that of a wise man and a teacher. Like an old pastor Mike knew back in the dim-remembered days of his childhood. He looked over at Lauren and saw her get out her notebook.

  Rodolfo looked off into the distance, his eyes a little glazed. In front of them the landscape stretched out like an oil paint ing of vivid colors and life; the white of the village houses, the deep blue of the lake, reflecting the sky above, and the lush, tropical greens of the forest-draped crater walls. It seemed that nothing bad could ever happen in such a place.

  “We have a few questions about the massacre that occurred here during the war,” Mike began. “We are investigating some one in America who may be involved in things that happened that day. We would like you tell us about it.”

  Rodolfo waited a moment and chewed over the thought in his mind; then he spoke slowly and deliberately. Mike understood him perfectly and looked over at Lauren who jotted down notes. Evidently her basic Spanish was adequate to get the broad outlines of the story.