Orinoco

by Dan Pollock

  “Dr. Laya, could it be played somehow?”

  Arquimedeo shook his head. “We will of course attempt to dissolve away the limestone around the artifact, but we must be extremely careful, or the acid will damage the bone itself. Félix and I think it is probably made from the femur or tibia of a large bird. We will also attempt to reconstruct the missing fragment, but not to regraft it.

  “But you must not think us without imagination. Here is what we shall do, Señor Blanco. I have already discussed this idea with a university colleague, in the department of ethnomusicology, and he is most enthusiastic. With his help, Félix and I will attempt to carve an exact reproduction of this flute, including the missing fragment. And then, perhaps, we shall have our prehistoric recital. Would you like to attend?”

  “Absolutely, if I’m still around. How old do you think it is?”

  “There’s no need to speculate. Since this is the remains of a once-living organism, it can be carbon-dated. We will send it to Caracas for testing as soon as possible.”

  Arquimedeo turned the plastic bag slowly in the light, much as a wine connoisseur revolves his glass. In the process, an affixed label eclipsed Sam’s view of the relic inside.

  “What’s all that writing?”

  “Each artifact is assigned a number. We also record a brief description, along with the grid coordinates and information about the stratigraphy where it was located. Here, you see, this is from a site very near the summit of Cerro Calvario, at a depth of nearly four meters.”

  Arquimedeo bent and locked the artifact lovingly away.

  *

  Outside, the three cooled off in the narrow shade of a rocky overhang, and Arquimedeo returned to Sam’s earlier question—on how things could have gotten buried. He explained that the mountain might have been used extensively for burials, in which case they might be tapping into ancient pits. Artifacts—such as the flute—might also have been deeply deposited by natural disturbances, such as cave-ins, flooding or landslides, all possible despite the rocky surface. The geologists’ core samples showed considerable interruption in strata.

  He spoke matter-of-factly, but Sam remained under the spell of the primitive woodwind he had been shown. Indeed, he seemed to hear its faint and far-off note. And now, as the archaeologist went on to discuss methods of excavation, Sam was able to envision the electric instant of discovery—Dr. Laya’s first tantalizing glimpse of the flute, for instance—something buried for centuries, emerging suddenly, or painstakingly, millimeter by millimeter, into the light of another era.

  He interrupted the scientist: “It’s a pretty immense job you guys have ahead of you, isn’t it? A hell of a lot harder than just getting iron out of the ground.”

  Félix laughed. “I guess so! The mining company uses dynamite and hydraulic shovels. Arqui and I do it with trowels and paintbrushes, and sometimes dental picks.”

  “How long will the job take, do you think?”

  Arquimedeo shook his head. “The Minister of Mines has asked the same question. But how can we answer? Everything depends on what we find here. There’s a Japanese man, Señor Blanco, who has spent the past fifteen years exploring and documenting just one pre-Incan site in Peru. On the other hand, there’s what we call salvage archaeology—digging in panic before the road graders arrive or concrete is poured or floodwaters back up from some new hydroelectric dam. Take, for instance, our wonderful and colossal Guri Dam. How big is that lake, Félix?”

  “Guri Lake? I’d say around five-thousand square kilometers.”

  “Now how many archaeological treasures do you think were lost beneath all that water, Señor Blanco?”

  “Impossible to know, right?”

  “Exactly. And such things are typical.”

  “But a huge project like Guri Dam? That’s awfully rare.”

  “My friend, there is always something. That is why we are here on Cerro Calvario at this moment, attempting to stop the world. Most archaeological excavations these days are on sites exactly like this—under threat of imminent destruction, with no time for proper procedures or systematic documentation. If you are lucky, you may have a month. But maybe only a week—or a few days! How much time will we have here? What do you think, Félix?”

  Félix shrugged eloquently.

  “You see,” Arquimedeo went on, “again we have absolutely no idea. All we know is that our ministers are fighting each other over this, and so far we are barely winning. But now we hear the chairman of Proteus Industries has arrived in Caracas with a big briefcase of money. It is absolutely true! Believe me, this man is no fool. He knows Venezuela very well, and how decisions are made. I am extremely pessimistic.”

  *

  As they finished their beers, the afternoon clouds had thickened and darkened over the savanna, and the clammy heat grew steadily more oppressive. The rain was coming, Arquimedeo knew, and would bring cooling relief, but only for an hour or so, while he and Félix huddled in their tents, catching up with paperwork.

  Arquimedeo shook his head. “You know, Félix, I was thinking, perhaps this foreign devil will offer us some of his dollars—enough to leave this godforsaken rock. Enough, perhaps, for us to retire to a walled estate in the Country Club district.”

  “Without a doubt,” Félix said.

  “If he did,” Sam asked, “what would you tell him?”

  “To go fuck himself,” said Félix.

  Sam laughed. “You’re men of courage, then—and high principle.”

  “Also of stupidity and stubbornness,” Arquimedeo suggested, “the virtues for which mules are justly famous. Why else would Félix and I dig ditches in the hot sun with tiny tools, sifting every spoonful for ancient debris? Yet that is what we will do, we and our crew of equally foolish people, most of whom are coming down here to work for nothing. And while we do our drudgery, we will say our prayers that the bastards in Caracas don’t sell us out.”

  “Bravo, Arqui!” Félix applauded, then upended his beer can and gulped it dry.

  “And buena suerte,” Sam added—good luck.

  “Now, Félix, perhaps we should put the tarp back over the control pit on the East Hill,” Arquimedeo said, “before the rains. And you, Señor Blanco, must return to your friend. And I insist you take him a can of Polar.”

  The norteamericano shook their hands and thanked them again for their time and hospitality.

  “And you also, for your assistance,” Arquimedeo said. “If you will continue to work for nothing, perhaps we would hire you.”

  As the trio drifted out of the shade, they heard an approaching drone on the access road. The note sustained, intensified, then shifted into a full-throated growl. A vehicle was laboring up the grade. They went to the nearest overlook.

  The sound echoed now off the rock walls, but there was still nothing to see. Then a Toyota Land Cruiser hove into view, its cherry-red coat powdered with dust. A rear door panel was emblazoned with the Mercator-global logo of Proteus Industries.

  Arquimedeo spoke first: “Félix, you know who I think this is?”

  “The devil himself?”

  “Exactly. We know he was in Caracas yesterday.” Arquimedeo turned to Sam. “You know, the man I spoke about?”

  “The foreign devil with the briefcase full of money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he’s not such a devil,” Sam said. “Maybe if he could come up here and actually see what you’re doing—see the flute, for instance—he might change his mind. Hell, he might even support you.”

  “And maybe the industrialists and oil barons will wake up tomorrow and give all their profits to the poor,” Arquimedeo added blandly. “Yes, I think these things are very possible.”

  The Toyota had stopped in the turnaround. As they looked down, three doors swung open. The driver was first out, a stocky young man in sport shirt and slacks, wearing a Proteus golf cap.

  “Señor Owen Meade,” Arquimedeo explained. “He’s their chief engineer down here.”

 
From the rear door stepped a compact, dark-haired man in a stylish khaki bush outfit reminiscent of the one worn by the newswoman from Ciudad Bolívar. This man assumed a wide stance, surveying the scene all around, before spotting the trio on the ledge above. Arquimedeo detected what looked like Asian features behind mirrored sunglasses, but the face was unknown to him. From the other side, meanwhile, a long-limbed girl in a yellow jersey and baggy denim shorts had emerged. As she hurried around the Land Cruiser’s hood, her dark hair swung and flashed in the light—a spectacular, sun-burnished cascade down to her waist.

  “Félix,” Arquimedeo said, “this seems to be our day for visitors. Shall we go down and meet them?”

  “Especially her.”

  “Behave yourself, Félix. Señor Blanco, you see what can happen when a young man is too many days in the field?”

  Arquimedeo started toward the downward path, chuckling at his own witticism.

  *

  Below, the archaeologist was met by Owen Meade, who began introductions in English:

  “I’d like you to meet Señor Duk-Won Lee, president of Proteus Industries. Mr. Lee, this is Dr. Arquimedeo Laya López, professor of archaeology at Simón Bolívar University.”

  Arquimedeo found himself staring at double reflections of himself in the executive’s mirrored lenses. Lee’s handshake was firm, his smile crooked and oddly pleasing. Arquimedeo returned the smile, and Lee’s grin widened, exposing the gleam of a gold tooth. The features were blunt, the jaw squared off, the black hair cropped close on the sides, thinning above.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor. Very pleased. Mucho gusto, huh?” He spoke with guttural force, yet managed to convey congeniality along with toughness. In spite of himself, Arquimedeo found himself susceptible.

  “Mucho gusto, Mr. Lee. Welcome to Cerro Calvario.”

  “And this is my daughter, Jacqueline.”

  The girl stepped forward. She was taller than her father and, like him, wore sunglasses—hers had Day-Glo orange frames—and her smile was even more infectious. Her features, while exotic, did not seem clearly Asian.

  “Dr. Laya.” Jacqueline Lee stuck out her hand and widened her own smile a notch, dimpling one cheek. Arquimedeo detected dark brows arching above the lurid sunglasses. “And who is your friend, Doctor?”

  Arquimedeo turned. Only Félix was in evidence, shaking hands with Lee while surveying the daughter. At least, thank God, Félix had his shirt on.

  “That is my colleague, Félix Rosales—” But the girl had already moved past him toward Félix.

  Arquimedeo returned to her father. “Excuse me, Mr. Lee, but I was told that your chairman, Mr. Samuel Warrender, might be arriving here as well.”

  The mirrored lenses stared back, the crooked smile tightened. “But, Dr. Laya, you’ve already met Sam.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes.” The executive pointed a stubby finger over Arquimedeo’s shoulder.

  Thoroughly confused, Arquimedeo swiveled. Lee was pointing directly at Señor Blanco, who was slowly descending the path and planting his boots carefully. Lazily the norteamericano lifted his ranch hat and waved to the newcomers.

  “Afternoon, D.W.,” he called out. “Looks like I barely beat you here.”

  Chapter Eight

  As he strolled by, the norteamericano gave Arquimedeo a rueful glance. But the archaeologist, uncertain what sort of game was being played on him, did not react. He simply watched the tall man approach the smaller Duk-Won Lee.

  “I’d offer you a beer, D.W.,” the white-haired man said to his apparent corporate colleague, “but it’s promised to my foreman.” The can of Polar was lobbed over all their heads—and grabbed out of the air by Enrico, who had just ridden into view, trailing his companion’s chestnut horse. The llanero saluted and popped the can, which promptly geysered in his grinning face.

  Arquimedeo finally spoke up: “You are Samuel Warrender?”

  “Yes, Professor, I am. Some folks do call me Blanco, though. I apologize for the, uh, little subterfuge.”

  Still puzzled, Arquimedeo accepted Warrender’s handshake, but retracted quickly. Little by little, anger was percolating within as he recalled all that had transpired between himself and “Señor Blanco”—including the American’s remark that, if only Proteus’ chairman could see the dig for himself, he might be willing to support Arquimedeo’s work. The arrogant Northerner had clearly played him and Félix for a pair of fools and was offering now only the most insolent apology. Or had that disingenuous promise of support been intended as an enticement? Was Arquimedeo supposed to grovel in the dust now and beg financial favors of these corporate conquerors?

  Mierda!

  The scientist surveyed his adversaries, all etched starkly against the ever-darkening sky: the lanky, insouciant Warrender; the sturdy, mirror-eyed Mr. Lee; the llanero Enrico standing beside Meade, the henchmen; and the young lady so thoroughly distracting Félix from the urgent business at hand. Twice already this day Arquimedeo had gone out of his way to accommodate others. Let others now reckon with him. He drew himself to his full height—perhaps a centimeter above Mr. Lee—and assumed his most ironical lecture-hall manner:

  “Mr. Warrender, I suppose you found it amusing—”

  “Call me Sam, please, Dr. Laya.”

  “—spying on Félix and me? Pretending to be a Texas cowboy, asking your innocent little questions while secretly planning to throw us off Cerro Calvario?”

  D.W. interrupted, “Sam, what is this? You did not tell Dr. Laya who you were?”

  “You know me, D.W. I’ve been known to indulge in a little tomfoolery now and then, and I guess that about describes my visit here this morning.” He turned back to the archaeologist. “I’m sorry, Dr. Laya. But I was afraid you wouldn’t give me the same tour if you knew who I was. And I admit I was frankly suspicious.”

  “And what exactly did you discover through your spying?”

  “I was impressed. Hell, you saw that. Obviously I discovered you’re both dedicated scientists—”

  “How flattering to have one’s integrity validated by such an exemplar, such an arbiter as yourself, Mr. Warrender.”

  “I didn’t intend it as an insult, Doctor, I really didn’t.”

  D.W. inserted himself between them, breaking into his most cordial growl. “Perhaps you will let me add my apology to Samuel’s, Doctor. We are not here to spy on your work, believe me, or to influence you in any way.”

  “What about intimidation? Do you consider that exerting influence?”

  D.W. shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not, Doctor. You must not think this.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Lee, because I, for one, am not easily intimidated.” Arquimedeo folded his small arms across his José Canseco T-shirt, just below the square-jawed cartoon. “Then why, if I may ask, are you here?”

  “I cannot speak for Samuel,” D.W. said. “Believe me, nobody can do that. My daughter and I were on holiday in the Caribbean when my company asked me to have a look down here, then return to Caracas. Once there, Doctor, I intend to make all necessary arrangements for Proteus to comply with whatever is ultimately decided by your government.”

  “But perhaps you and Mr. Warrender also brought your checkbooks along, to help our ministers render the correct decision?”

  “Are you accusing my father of bribery?” Jacqueline Lee spoke out.

  “Jake, please!” D.W. motioned her to silence.

  Félix Rosales was making similar gestures in Arquimedeo’s direction, apparently seeking to de-escalate the conflict. But while D.W.’s daughter immediately subsided, Arquimedeo continued what, in any case, he considered a well-justified counter-offensive. He turned to answer the girl:

  “Miss Lee, I know nothing about your father. But I do know that Proteus Industries lavishes money on its allies and withholds it from its enemies. You ask, how do I know this? It is simple. The instant Félix and I announced discoveries of sufficient magnitude to halt mining operat
ions, our own Proteus funding mysteriously disappeared.”

  Jake appealed to her father: “Daddy, is this true?”

  But Sam supplied the answer: “That was my decision, Jacqueline, not D.W.’s. And it was a dumb decision, I’m willing to admit. Believe me, I’ve made a few of those in my time. Professor Laya, I’ll get your money turned back on as soon as I can.”

  “Let me add a promise of my own, Doctor,” Lee said. “Even if mining resumes on Cerro Calvario, provisions can still be made for you to continue working in the general vicinity—perhaps even on a section of the property here.”

  “Did you hear, Félix? These gentlemen may permit us to keep digging in the vicinity. Where exactly might that be, Mr. Lee? Perhaps you and Mr. Warrender and Mr. Meade could draw us a map?”

  “There is no need for this sarcasm,” D.W. said grimly.

  “Mr. Lee,” Félix spoke up, “in all due respect, you can’t expect us to be digging around here while you guys are blasting the mountain with dynamite! That’s loco.”

  “He’s got a point, D.W.,” Sam said.

  “Perhaps I phrased my offer incorrectly.”

  “No, I’d say you made yourself very clear,” Arquimedeo said. “Fortunately, you are not in control of the mountain at the moment, we are. And, as I told Señor Warrender when he rode up in his clever disguise, Félix and I are extremely busy just now. We have a digging crew arriving tomorrow afternoon, along with many supplies. There is a great deal of organizing to do. If you wish to contact me again, gentlemen, please arrange an appointment through my office at Simón Bolívar University.”

  He about-faced toward the path, gesturing for Félix to accompany him. D.W., meanwhile, moved beside Sam, pitching his growl low. “Sam, what the hell did you do? The whole idea was to keep the situation down here as quiet as possible.”