Orinoco

by Dan Pollock

  “When we reach the gate, maybe you could kind of lean forward and smile, put on a little show for the guard?”

  “No problem.”

  She shrugged off a tanktop strap, tugged downward on the scooped neckline, and grimaced toothily. At least, it looked like a grimace to Félix, though apparently it was intended as a seductive smile. And Marta certainly didn’t have much in the way of chi-chis, but there was a nice little pectoral groove from all her hours of iron-pumping.

  “How’s that, Felicidad?”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  The rain was falling steadily as Félix pulled up to the gate and cranked down the window. An unfamiliar soldier sat beside Jaime in the guardhouse. Félix shouted into the downpour: “Any more messages from Proteus?”

  Jaime shook his head, not coming out. The Guardia man, meanwhile, was staring right past Félix. Whatever Marta was doing over there was working. Then Jaime waved them through.

  Adiós, Cerro Calvario!

  Moments later they were on solid asphalt, pointing north on Route 16, which would take them all the way to Barcelona on the Caribbean, where they’d hang a right, ninety klicks more to Cumaná. Make it sometime tomorrow. No point in pushing too hard. Stop at a hostería somewhere along the way. Give the horny little tomboy a night to a remember.

  Félix’s mild euphoria persisted even in the teeth of the worsening storm. Dark skies, driving rain and battering winds were all magically transmuted by his phantasmic brain into sunshine and a long, sugary beach beside turquoise and emerald water. He had tuned in again to his old telenovela daydream—with Marta Mendes, of course, not part of the picture. In fact, he was still visualizing Jake. But the loot in back would certainly help him cast a new and spectacular leading lady.

  Without warning, then, the bright blue water in his mind turned into bright blue canvas flapping in his rear-view mirror. He whirled and confirmed the worst: a gust of wind had gotten under an edge of the tarp. It billowed up again as he watched, then tore loose on all four sides and went sailing off into the backdraft.

  Marta screamed, and Félix snapped his head forward, fighting the wheel. Christ, he’d nearly steered them into a ditch! But even staring straight ahead, it was hard to see the road. The rain was exploding against the windshield, exactly like the storm waves he’d joked about.

  “Marta, can you see what’s happening back there?”

  “Everything’s getting drenched!” she yelled. “You should have lashed it down!”

  Félix nearly slugged her for that little comment. He was afraid to turn around again, and the mirror view was a total white-out. But he could picture the disaster back there in vivid detail. The stuff they’d spent all day selecting and packing—computers, cameras, VCR—was being rapidly converted to floating scrap metal.

  He skidded to a stop, shouting at Marta to get out and help.

  Outside, they were soaked through instantly, barely able to see one another, or hear anything above the roaring onslaught. He bent close to her and yelled, “Did you pack another tarp?”

  She shook her head hopelessly, her face streaming.

  Mierda! Why hadn’t he at least taken along one of the big tents? But what about his sleeping bag? Maybe he could unzip it, spread it flat. But how much could it cover, and how could he anchor it? The rain was coming down like Angel Falls, the water on the asphalt swirling around his ankles. It was already too late to save anything. And why the hell was he standing in the middle of the highway, where somebody was going to come barreling along out of the rain at any instant?

  Marta was still staring at him, desperate to help.

  He shouted at her: “Get back inside!”

  They both sprinted for the cab, dived in and slammed the doors. Félix shoved it in gear, peering forward as some maniac in the sky kept heaving buckets of water on the windshield. Nice timing up there, God. Thanks for another big break. What a totally helpless fucked-up feeling!

  Marta touched his forearm. Félix nearly swung at her, but settled for a quick, mean glare.

  “What is it now?” he growled.

  If she dared to mention anything again about the tarp, he’d knock her right out the fucking door and leave her on the highway.

  Instead she smiled tentatively. “I’m so sorry, Félix. But it’ll be okay. You’ll like my brothers, and I know everyone will like you. You’ll see, baby.”

  Félix looked away in disgust. Outside, the storm battered the roof, shook the cab—and continued to convert the cargo bed into a big bathtub-on-wheels.

  And beside him, trying her best to combat his ugly mood, the fisherman’s daughter laced her hands around his thick right arm and snuggled closer.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jacqueline Lee lingered on the Kallisto’s tiny sun deck, sipping chardonnay and watching a fiery Orinoco sunset fade to pallid pastels. She was aware of standing on the spot of her attempted seduction of Sam Warrender—how long ago? Counting back, she realized the shipboard party had been fully eight nights before. So much upheaval had occurred in the meantime that Sam’s tipsy pratfall, which had seemed so apocalyptic that night, was now all but occluded in memory. What stood forth, instead, were the multiple betrayals, the Proteus boardroom massacre, the Guardia troops rousting fossil-hunters out of their tents like so many criminals. And it had all ended today in a morning of ashes, after a night of fires and explosions.

  And the results of all this upheaval?

  Sam was now in exile—literally put out to pasture on his ranch. Dr. Laya López was under detention, whatever euphemism was being officially employed, while security forces combed the countryside for his crazy, anarchic uncle. As for Conan the Archaeologist, who—other than perhaps poor Marta Mendes—knew or cared about his inconsequential fate?

  Then, of course, there was dear old Dad. For the past several hours Generalissimo Lee had been closeted below with his lieutenants—or should that be Colonel Arrillaga and Major Owen?—no doubt placing endless squawkbox calls to Caracas and Puerto Ordaz and New Orleans, updating contingency plans and keeping his exploitative options open.

  And what about herself—once more immured in her gilded, filial cage? Well, if she had any real guts, she’d march off the boat this minute—or get Bernardo to drive her away in a company car, since the macho little guy was basically up for anything. Then she’d hunt up some of Dr. Laya’s academic allies, and volunteer to join—and document—their ongoing struggle.

  But she obviously wasn’t acting on any such stalwart impulses. The inescapable verdict was cowardice, though her reluctance wasn’t hard to rationalize. With Arquimedeo in custody, and Enrico and Sam having withdrawn their protection, she lacked either guide or chaperon. And she couldn’t recruit Bernardo without jeopardizing his job as Proteus’ local factotum. The ultimate rationalization, of course, had to do with her father. If she dared stage another mutiny at this late date, D.W. would go absolutely berserk, no question about it. And he would not be stopped by anything short of a small cannon.

  So, nominally, she would obey. Sail away in the morning, maybe fly home from Trinidad the day after next, as D.W. had wanted her to do originally, instead of coming down to Venezuela with him. True, she could fly directly from here. But, even under the strained circumstances, she was looking forward to another day or so of winding through tropical greenery on the Orinoco. One way or another, she’d get back to her TriBeCa loft and NYU. Then she’d phone Enrico to air-express all her eight millimeter cassettes, chain herself to a video-edit controller and see if she had the makings of a film—a film whose dismal ending was still being played out.

  And then, finally, there was the man from Oklahoma to think about. Or not think about. However she justified it, he had certainly been subjected to some wildly erratic mood swings on her part over the past couple weeks—alternately enticed and disdained, forgiven and unforgiven. Even more fantastical, she now realized it was possible that her “My Dearest Sam” letter of two days ago, and her “Damn him!” com
ments relayed to Enrico just this afternoon, might reach Sam at about the same time. What could he possibly think of her? One thing was sure, he had to be thoroughly fed up with her. The kindest thing she could do for him now, obviously, was just leave the poor man alone.

  The trouble was, she’d never ceased talking to Sam in her head. She had, in other words, already started mentally composing another long letter to him, full of her usual unsolicited revelations and blatherings. What a hopeless tangle! And, beneath all her conflicting feelings and convoluted thoughts lay the simple truth—she wanted desperately to see him again.

  Not now, of course. He deserved a respite from her, and she had work to do. But when this was all over, and her film was in the can... In fact, she might phrase it exactly that way in the final paragraph of her letter, or embedded perhaps in a tender postscript. Of course, she’d try to be more careful with her endearments...

  On the broad river, meanwhile, the silvery reflections were quickly tarnishing as the equatorial night flooded across the sky. All along the quiet San Félix waterfront, lights began taking effect. Around a corner, then, and moving slowly along the adjacent passenger wharf, came a panel truck, without its headlights. Jacqueline squinted and made out the acronym of the Venezuelan phone company—CANTV—which, D.W. had told her, like other notoriously mismanaged government enterprises, had recently been sold to a private consortium. The phone truck glided past the Kallisto and continued on beside the ore-crushing plant, where it parked in deep shadow. She watched a moment, but no one emerged.

  Some repairman taking a snooze, probably, while waiting for his next assignment. After the godawful day she’d been through, the thought of unconsciousness seemed wonderfully seductive. Anticipating the starched embrace of linen sheets, she picked up her empty wineglass and turned to go below. Perhaps she’d fall asleep reading a few pages of Green Mansions, a well-worn copy of which she’d picked up in Puerto Ordaz. The poetic novel took place in and around the Orinoco and featured an impossibly exotic jungle girl who talked to animals and birds and seemed to be falling in love with an older man. Unfortunately, at least as far as Jake had penetrated its narrative thickets, the couple didn’t look much like having a happy-ever-afterlife.

  *

  Inside the CANTV panel truck, Oscar Azarias Rivilla was losing patience. It was time to give final instructions to Angel and Chucho—and to make some last-minute operational changes. The ore ship berthed not far from Señor Lee’s luxury yacht presented them with an unexpected and spectacular target—if they could adjust and accelerate their plans. Though by the name and home port on its counter, it was obviously not a Proteus ship, to Oscar that was almost an irrelevance. A capitalist was a capitalist was a capitalist.

  But Oscar’s urgings had small effect on the brothers. Angel merely shrugged and went on rummaging through his woven-palm bag, which contained a machete, blowgun, darts, a gourd, and other colorful items. Chucho, meanwhile, said they were willing to attack any number of ships—one, two, or even more than two (Kamarakotas had a fairly rudimentary numbering system). But, Chucho explained, no self-respecting warrior would do battle without first summoning the forest spirits, or hekurá. And this could be done only through the ritual magic of yopo. Oscar pleaded in vain that there was no time for rituals. And when he resorted to outright bullying, the brothers’ faces turned stony. Wisely, Oscar had backed off.

  Now, trying his best to temper his growing impatience with curiosity, he slumped in the front seat, smoking a cigarette and eyeing their mumbo-jumbo through the rear-view mirror.

  First, from his bag, Angel took a half-meter bamboo tube, then a sealed plastic bag full of black powder—presumably their stash of yopo. “Black cocaine” was the first thought Oscar had. But Chucho had explained earlier that yopo was made from the fruit of a certain acacia, compounded with various barks and jungle vines. Oscar vaguely remembered hearing “black powder from the Amazon” discussed by a jailhouse brujo, or sorcerer, in Mexico City back in the late Seventies. According to this well-traveled critic, the stuff was a vegetable alkaloid with hallucinogenic effects similar spiritually to those derived from the Mexican peyote cactus and sacred mushroom.

  The brothers now hunkered down in the narrow aisle between racks of telephone gear and took turns blowing pinches of the dark dust through the bamboo directly into each other’s nostrils. Back and forth the tube was passed—once, twice, and more than twice—and the yopo inhaled explosively as their eyes closed and their heads shot back. Finally the tube was laid down reverently.

  In a few minutes, Oscar saw first one brother, then the other, begin to sway. Next, heads and shoulders and arms began to jerk spasmodically. Totally absorbed now, Oscar swiveled in his seat and confirmed what he’d just glimpsed in the murky mirror. Both men were drooling heavily.

  Oscar’s impatience yielded to disgust and a certain trepidation. A deranged and bloodthirsty denouement conjured itself in his imagination. But even if the hallucinating Indians proved harmless, they would be completely useless for several hours. After their prebattle ritual, the yopo-warriors would be stoned out of their skulls, unable to walk a straight line, let alone carry out a terrorist operation. So, what should he do? He couldn’t stay parked here all night. Somebody at CANTV was eventually going to miss that lineman or his truck and alert the police.

  Suddenly Chucho was tapping him, offering him the bamboo tube. Oscar declined. But Chucho persisted, and, behind him, Angel began nodding his head violently. Oscar stared into their enlarged irises and discerned that this wasn’t exactly a polite invitation. Refusal to participate in their psychedelic ritual would be taken as an insult, and perhaps as sacrilege. His glance strayed next to the machete protruding from Angel’s kit bag. Of course, the huge-fisted Kamarakota hardly needed an edged weapon to kill a man, as he had demonstrated on the telephone man this morning.

  So Oscar accepted the tube and inserted it into his left nostril. Chucho placed a pinchful of dust and the other end of the bamboo to his lips, shut his eyes and then distended his cheeks, as if preparing to propel a dart high into a forest canopy at some appetizing monkey. Finally, with a plosive grunt, the Indian shot the potent particles through the tube, straight up Oscar’s nose and into his brain.

  At first, Oscar detected nothing out of the ordinary. At Chucho’s prompting, he transferred the tube to his right nostril for a second infusion. Again, his perceptions seemed perfectly normal afterward. It was only very gradually that Oscar realized he was no longer confined to his body. He could, if he wished, slip out of it to one side or the other, or hover above and slightly behind his own head, like an ethereal, tethered balloon. Yet this didn’t seem in any way hallucinatory, just a natural state of affairs. And although the truck interior had grown quite dim, illumined only by ambient leakage from a warehouse bulb, Oscar was somehow able to see Chucho and Angel quite clearly, and both were steadily grinning at him. He grinned back. And why not? It was an amusing thing, floating around one’s body.

  And something else he’d never noticed before. With every heartbeat he went blind, and the world went out of existence. Just for an instant, but it happened every time. Oscar studied this phenomenon carefully, struggling to comprehend. And then he felt it, felt the blood actually pulse into his optic nerve and black out his vision for a split second. Suddenly, then, he was seeing differently—a world pieced together out of strobed images, exactly like a projected movie. Or perhaps the world actually did go out of existence during those dark interstices, its atoms and molecules dispersing and then recoalescing. What an incredible discovery! And, this being so, “Oscar Azarias” was not solid flesh, but only the most porous illusion.

  Angel began cackling, and Chucho joined in with a giggle. Oscar remembered being told by the brujo that the Mexican Indians mixed their forest potions and induced their trance states in order to pursue their “spirit animals” through some mystic forest. But Oscar had the distinct feeling that these two Venezuelan aboriginals, squatting in this boxy, v
ehicular cave, were each aware of his thoughts on a sophisticated level and were tracking his metaphysical wanderings. So perhaps they, too, were seeing through the grand illusion of matter and laughing at the absurd joke of selfhood.

  Whatever the source of their amusement, it was highly infectious. Oscar found himself now crawling back to join the brothers and partake in their laughter. It went on and on, a giddy hysteria culminating in a convulsive crescendo. At this point Oscar felt himself drawn up into a kind of spirit dance with the Kamarakotas. He became suddenly one of three intoxicated warriors whirling over three squatting forms. When the mad caracole stopped, would they each be able to squeeze back into the proper body? Or did that even matter?

  The dance did end, and apparently each did claim his rightful flesh, for Oscar found himself, sometime later, curled fetally, while Chucho shook him roughly and poked at him. It felt like he was being jabbed with the bamboo tube. Oscar whined and gestured in the negative. Any more black dust and he’d leave the planet.

  “No, boss, is not yopo.”

  Chucho switched on a flashlight, played its beam over one of the tubular-molded chunks of C-4 Oscar had prepared earlier. Wired to the explosive were copper-sheathed electric blasting caps, six-volt batteries and a small windup clock. Chucho grinned and pointed outside. Obviously he still wanted to do the operation.

  Oscar glanced beyond Chucho. Angel was slumped heavily against the truck’s rear double doors, eyes staring blankly, while saliva slid from a corner of his large mouth. Scratch one mystic warrior from the strike team. But Chucho seemed at his keenest, just as he had last night on Cerro Calvario. The smaller Kamarakota had been quiveringly excited by all the petrol fires and explosions. Oscar had finally had to drag him away from setting another blaze, so they could make good their escape.

  Oscar tried to weigh the decision to go ahead, but his brain refused the problem. Danger, for instance, was an elusive concept, as was death itself. Both specters definitely hovered in the air, nearly palpable. But Oscar also had a sense of his own invulnerability—thanks to the magic of yopo. Chucho obviously shared this spiritual confidence, and the far-ranging powers that accompanied it. For instance, to facilitate the carrying-out of his mission, why couldn’t Chucho simply render himself invisible, or walk through walls, disassembling his atoms on one side and reassembling them on the other? And many other such techniques seemed suddenly and eminently plausible.