by Dan Pollock
Sam whispered back, since the archaeologists were not yet out of earshot. “I maybe screwed up a little, D.W. But to tell you the truth, I’ve had a change of mind. I’m thinking about doing a one-eighty down here, letting the professor go ahead with his dig—in fact, sponsoring it full blast, and using it to boost our corporate image.”
“Sam, don’t make jokes! This is a serious matter.”
“I’m dead serious. Dr. Laya’s found some incredible stuff up there—”
Lightning flashed through the dark clouds, severing Sam’s speech. An instant later the sky crackled with thunder and the deluge began. Owen Meade broke for the Land Cruiser, but Félix Rosales wheeled around on the path and bellowed above the sudden roar of falling water for everyone to make for the shelter of a nearby equipment tent.
No further persuasion was needed to start a small stampede in that direction. Félix, first inside, held the tent flap open as the others rushed in, soaked to the skin and gasping. The final pair, mud-spattered and streaming water, were Owen Meade, who had abandoned the Land Cruiser, and Enrico, who had rapidly tethered the horses under a rocky overhang.
As it happened, the equipment tent was already occupied—by wooden stakes, stacked lumber and rolled mesh-wire for making sieving screens, folded tarps, garbage bags, nested buckets and trays, picks and shovels, trowels and dustpans. With seven people now crowded into the narrow center aisle, there was scant space left. Félix Rosales, who began shifting cartons of plaster of Paris to make more room, was reminded of the Caracas Metro at rush hour and in the rainy season—bodies sardined together in a collective pungency of perspiration and wet clothing. To Sam Warrender, surveying faces faintly jaundiced under the yellow tent-skin, which was being furiously hammered and lashed by the rainstorm, it was like standing inside a giant kettledrum. His neighbors in the Panhandle, he figured, would more colorfully liken the sound to a giant cow pissing on a flat rock.
“How long?” Lee shouted, pointing skyward.
Arquimedeo, who had set about boiling water on a propane stove, called back, “One hour, maybe less!”
Lee felt a pluck at his shoulder. He turned to see Enrico tapping his watch. “Rain maybe twenty, thirty minutes,” the llanero suggested. “All finish by three!”
Félix, meanwhile, had cleared enough space to break out some camp stools. With a flourish he offered the first to Miss Lee, then gestured expansively. D.W. and Owen Meade took seats, but Sam and Enrico remained standing, looking out through the tent flap at the silver barrage. There was an ozone freshness in the air as the rain sounds crescendoed—drumming the Gore-Tex fabric overhead and pummeling the hard clay all around, sluicing and gurgling in the drainage ditches, banging away at the basin of a nearby wheelbarrow.
Funny, Sam thought, how quickly nature—announced by one offstage thunderclap—had swept aside their quarrel. Here they were, moments after preparing to go their separate, indignant ways, huddling together for shelter—exactly like those primitives whose artifacts Dr. Laya was unearthing. They, too, would have fled to caves or crevices on this ancient mountain while the sky gods warred. Perhaps even members of enemy tribes had on occasion sought common shelter from the elemental fury and shared a similar brief comradery.
“Sam?”
He pivoted directly into the gaze of Jacqueline Lee. She was offering him a chipped enamel cup brimming with some hot beverage.
“Coffee?” She mouthed the syllables.
“Thanks.”
As she moved past to hand the next cup to Enrico, Sam inhaled the heady essence of her rain-drenched mane, along with something more subtle—some Parisian decoction, he supposed, favored by young women of cultivated tastes and unlimited allowances. Jacqueline was actually enjoying this, he thought. Was it the simple adventure of being caught in a tent in an equatorial downpour? Or perhaps the added element of finding herself confined with six men, five of whom were not her father?
If it were really primitive times, Sam wondered idly, which of them would prevail with her? The obvious front-runner would be Félix, given the brawny young archaeologist’s good looks and sideswept wave of black hair, and the girl’s subtle reactions thus far. As for the rest, well... Owen Meade was too bland and soft, Enrico too old and leathery, and Sam older yet, the obvious patriarch of the tribe. Or perhaps he and D.W. would bash it out with thighbones for that coveted title. And what about Arquimedeo, with his birdlike brightness of eye and coiled, nervous energy? What was his sexual orientation? A repressed sensualist, perhaps, a dedicated autoerotic of unusual persuasions?
Sam chuckled to himself, the guttural sound drowned out by the continuing onslaught. Out of the corner of his eye Sam noticed Enrico grinning over the brim of his steaming cup. The llanero tilted his head toward the girl and said something Sam couldn’t lip-read. He bent closer to hear.
“Che bella ragazza!”
Sam nodded. Enrico enjoyed an occasional reversion to his boyhood Italian, but the observation was apt enough. If not quite a beautiful girl, Sam thought, Jacqueline Lee was a very near thing, a happy confluence of East and West. Without D.W.’s bluntness, the young woman’s oval face and doll-like features seemed appealingly Korean, yet with subtle contouring likely traceable to her French and English maternal ancestry. Her personality, meanwhile, seemed emphatically Western.
Sam’s previous glimpses of D.W.’s daughter had been mostly at corporate shindigs, the last one almost a year earlier in New York City. He recalled her in an eye-stopping black dress, off-the-shoulder and above-the-knee, with some preppy fellow on her arm. She hadn’t looked at all like an NYU film student, which, according to D.W., had been her latest collegiate pursuit.
Sam turned from the sheeting rain. Between the squatting figures of D.W. and Owen Meade, he glimpsed her yellow jersey, a hooded spill of black hair, a vivid gesture for the benefit of an unseen Félix Rosales. Sam checked his watch, then put his face again close to Enrico’s:
“Caballero, what do you think? Another ten minutes?”
Enrico rocked his hand, palm down, an Italian gesture of equivocation.
As it turned out, fifteen minutes brought patches of blue through scattering nimbostratus, twenty an abrupt end to the rain. Sam yanked back the tent flap and stepped out into steaming warmth. The others followed and bid their goodbyes quickly, and without noticeable rancor. Sam was even able to shake Arquimedeo’s hand and thank him for his hospitality without getting a caustic reply. While Enrico picked his way through the mud to fetch the horses, Sam turned to the waiting D.W.
“Guess we ought to have a meeting,” he suggested.
D.W. shot back a steely glance. “This is an excellent idea.”
“The trouble is, I’m still thinking this through. How about tomorrow? Nothing cataclysmic is going to happen until the president and his top cronies get back to Caracas.”
They settled on the following afternoon on D.W.’s motor yacht docked in Ciudad Guayana. With this decided, D.W. began to make his way down toward the Land Cruiser, and Sam turned to find Enrico and saddle up for the ride back to La Promesa. As he caught sight of the llanero, Jacqueline called Sam’s name and came quickly toward him through the mud, careless of her once-white Reeboks.
“Sam, can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure can.”
“It’s kind of, well, presumptuous.”
“Jacqueline, why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
“Well, Owen was telling me your plane is parked not far from here—at your cattle ranch. And I was wondering if—well, if you would possibly have any time to fly me over Angel Falls before we have to go back downriver?” She made a face of comic trepidation—as if expecting a bomb to go off the next instant. “If it isn’t convenient, just say no, okay?”
How many men tell you no? was Sam’s immediate thought. But he answered more judiciously, “That’ll be fine. In fact, since your dad and I just arranged a shipboard powwow for tomorrow afternoon, it’s perfect. I can fly you back to Ciudad Guayana.
Heck, why don’t you ask D.W. to go with us? It might help him get the big picture.”
“Daddy hates small planes, Sam. He doesn’t even like big ones.”
Behind him, Sam heard the rhythmic slop of hoofs in the sucking clay—Enrico bringing the horses. “Ask him anyway. And while you’re at it, better get his permission to fly with me.”
“Sam, I’m twenty-two years old!”
“And you’re D.W.’s little girl. If he says yes, you got yourself a pilot.”
“Okay, thanks! Really, it’s not inconvenient?”
“I said no. Now go on with you.”
“Okay.” She ran a few squishing steps, then whirled. “Would it be all right if Félix came along?”
Sam quickly focussed past her, where young Rosales stood nicely profiled in the tent opening, staring out across the savanna. So, one of the principal attractions of the flight was to be yonder prime specimen of Latin manhood. Sam suppressed a smile, then nodded his assent.
Chapter Nine
“Muchos gracias, Samuel, but, as el jefe around here, I have many other things to do this beautiful morning besides look down at Salto Angel.” Enrico and Sam were having an early breakfast on the tiled veranda of Hato La Promesa’s main house or casa grande. Sam had just invited his foreman along on the flight over Angel Falls. The llanero added, “And what about you? Have you nothing better to do than be tour guide for Señor Lee’s daughter?”
“Maybe more chaperon than tour guide. As far as I can tell, the point of today’s outing is so Señorita Lee can spend time with that musclebound, glorified ditchdigger, Félix.”
“And this is all right with you?”
Sam shrugged. “It’s no hardship. Have plane, will travel.”
“Caballero, if you’re going to escort a young lady, what about Anacleta?”
“Which sister-in-law is she again? I kind of lose track.”
“You danced many dances with her at my cousin Silvia’s wedding two years ago. You liked her, Samuel. You spoke of her laughter, remember? And Anacleta speaks of you often.”
“She’s still not married, eh? How old is she now?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Too young for me, hombre.”
“A perfect age, I think. Exactly what you need, caballero, for those cold winter nights up on the Panhandle.”
Sam dropped the newspaper on his empty plate. “Why don’t you go geld some bulls or whatever you do around here, Rico, and leave me in peace?”
“Ciao!” Enrico stood and tugged on his ranch hat, then chuckled as he turned away, fishing a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. Sam watched his lean, slow-moving foreman exit the veranda and angle off toward the stables. Enrico Tosto had been happily hitched—forever, it seemed—to a Venezuelan woman now twice his size. Romalda also happened to be a woman with a great many younger sisters. And over the years—ever since learning that María Elisa was no longer sharing Sam’s bed—Enrico had tried to match him with one or another of those girls and get him to retire down here. And who knew? One of these days before the supply of nubile sisters was exhausted, Sam just might give in. But not yet. He picked up the newspaper.
It was El Guayanes from Ciudad Guayana. Sam had already discarded USA Today and a Caracas daily, El Diario. All three were a day old; today’s editions wouldn’t arrive till afternoon, trucked down from the airport at Puerto Ordaz. Which was fine; Sam had already caught the CNN headlines on the ranch TV. Enrico subscribed to the papers mainly for baseball standings and box scores, Sam knew, along with livestock prices. The llanero was a certified expert on baseball, Major Leagues as well as Venezuela’s winter season, which would get under way in a couple weeks, right after the World Series. Enrico could practically recite all the U.S. rosters, especially teams with Venezuelan players. Sam had lost track of such ephemera years before. What was the point in an age of team-switching mercenaries?
He flipped quickly through the paper, absorbing and ignoring information. Bad news, good news. Student riots in Caracas and Barquisimeto, a transport workers’ strike, two Falcón state judges accused of running an auto-theft ring. On the credit side of the ledger, as far as business was concerned, another state bank had been sold to private interests, the inflation rate had eased a percent, a national coordinating council was trying to attract more foreign investment, and the World Bank was expected to approve a major agricultural loan.
The pendulum had swung violently since the mid-Seventies, when Venezuela kicked out foreign companies and nationalized its petroleum, mining and other strategic industries. Now, after more than a decade of decline and crippling debt, the move was back toward privatization and industrialization—and with a vengeance. Companies once branded as imperialist exploiters were being invited back in on an unprecedented scale, through joint ventures, investments or outright sales. Throughout Latin America, in fact, governments had been busily auctioning off everything in sight—unprofitable airlines, banking, energy resources, metals, telecommunications, even public works such as roads and docks and zoos.
In this counter-revolutionary capitalist climate, Sam doubted the government would hold off much longer on Cerro Calvario, simply to appease a few vociferous history buffs and anti-industrial activists. The Venezuelan economy needed jobs and every foreign nickel it could get. When the real showdown came over mining, Sam was willing to bet, Dr. Laya and his idealistic friends would have to fold their cards and abandon the table to the big boys.
But this left Sam with an awkward question: Which side of the table was he on now? He’d come charging down here to crush a rebellion. Was he now, after one day on the ground, ready to switch allegiances—over a scrap of petrified bird bone? The idea was ludicrous. And yet, wasn’t that how he felt?
The damn flute aside, Sam respected the testy little scientist. He reminded Sam of an Oklahoma wildcatter, off by his lonesome on that godforsaken mountain, drilling dry hole after dry hole, then spudding a well and coming up with some promising ooze, only to be chased off before it could gusher.
It wasn’t fair, and it shouldn’t happen. But there were other questions to be weighed. The ultimate decision on Cerro Calvario could go either way. But what if even Samuel Warrender, exerting all his corporate leverage, was unable to save Arquimedeo’s project, or even to postpone mining operations for a few precious months? That was not inconceivable. And if Sam pulled Proteus out of the deal now, the government might simply buy back its leases and sell them to another energy consortium, which would go full-speed ahead. Dare Sam risk his personal and corporate reputation in such a quixotic attempt?
Obviously he shouldn’t. And yet, Sam couldn’t make up his mind. He was looking forward to the time aloft, over some of the most spectacular scenery on the planet, to help him reach his decision.
*
At seven forty-five, Sam was out on the strip, checking the Cessna’s fuel levels as part of his preflight inspection, when he heard honking. He hustled around the two-story brick hacienda to the graveled courtyard, where another Proteus-logoed Land Cruiser—this one midnight blue—had just rolled to a stop beneath the big araguaney tree. Sam headed for the passenger side, from which Jacqueline Lee was already emerging. She’d dressed for the day in snug blue jeans and a baggy denim work shirt with rolled sleeves. She waved as she hurried to meet him, a canvas carryall slung over a shoulder and her ebony mane flailing.
“Buenos dias, señorita. Right on time.”
“Hi, big Sam!” She gave him a peck on the cheek, then took possession of his arm.
“Who’s your chauffeur, Jacqueline?”
They turned as a short, brown-skinned boy climbed out from behind the wheel. He looked scarcely old enough to drive, but walked with a comical cockiness. He had a spiky black crewcut, wore a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, jeans, basketball high-tops, aviator sunglasses and an infectious smile.
“That’s Bernardo. He works for Owen. Owen didn’t trust me to drive by myself in Venezuela.”
“He is so right.”
/> Jacqueline wrinkled her nose at Sam, then turned to the approaching youth. “Nardo, this is Señor Warrender.”
“Please call me Sam.”
They shook hands. Bernardo spoke rapid English. He wanted to know who was the biggest boss at Proteus Industries, Sam or Jacqueline’s dad.
“Let’s just say we have different assignments, Bernardo.”
“Sam’s the big boss,” Jacqueline said. “He’s chairman and CEO. My dad’s only president.”
“Yeah?” Bernardo looked impressed. “Nice ranch. Does it always smell like this?”
Sam laughed. “Only when the wind is wrong. There’s a big feedlot over there in the north pasture. Put a few hundred cattle in there, standing around in their own dung, it can be pretty strong. Clears the sinuses though. Are you coming with us this morning, Nardo? There’s room.”
The youth shook his head. “I’ve seen Angel Falls. I thought maybe I could just hang out.” He was eyeing the big satellite dish beside the casa grande. “You got ESPN?”
“ESPN, CNN, MTV, HBO—you name it, I bet we got it. Come on in and we’ll get you set up.”
Skirting the tiled fountain on the way to the front door, Sam turned to Jacqueline: “I didn’t have a chance to call D.W. this morning. What’s he up to?”
“He and Owen are touring the steel and iron-ore plants in Puerto Ordaz. Then a late afternoon meeting with you, right?” She rolled her eyes. “Boring!”
“Reckon grass don’t grow under your pa. Truth is, I should be up there with him this morning.”
“I forbid it! You’re all I’ve got, Sam.”
“Not quite. I think I see your boyfriend coming.” He halted their progress to point back at a dust plume along the dirt access road.
“Félix is not my boyfriend, Sam. If I had a boyfriend, it would definitely be—Nardo.” She brushed her palm over his spiky hairdo.
“Yeah, cool.” The boy winked at Sam.