MAMista

by Len Deighton

  ‘Those burns on his face. I never noticed before.’

  ‘It’s the weather. On a day like this they show up more. Some days you can’t hardly see them.’

  ‘He didn’t want to stay to dinner?’

  ‘They had to get back. They have people coming and it’s a long drive.’ He was looking into the bowls on the piano. From one he took a handful of nuts and put them all into his mouth. He liked nuts.

  ‘She hardly said anything to me. She sat by the pool reading a book. It was a book she’d brought with her,’ his wife added as if she found that particularly offensive.

  Still eating the nuts he said, ‘She thinks she’s an egghead. One of those fancy Eastern colleges. That don’t count for nothing in California. It’s what you’ve got in your pocket that matters.’

  ‘What are you going to do about Angel?’

  He looked at her suspiciously. She was always probing into his private affairs but he only shared his secrets when he was in the mood to do so. ‘I’ve got a guy down there in Guiana. I asked him to keep a lookout. What else can I do?’

  ‘What kind of guy?’

  ‘What kind of guy? What kind of guy? Just a guy.’

  ‘I thought you were sore at him.’

  ‘Angel?’ He ate more nuts. ‘I was, at first.’

  ‘You said you’d teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that.’

  ‘Don’t you raise your hand to me, Arturo. I’m your wife.’

  ‘Relax, relax.’ There were times when he would have given her a punch in the head, but a whole lot of his ever more complicated paperwork required her signature. It would make things difficult if they had any kind of fight. He’d discovered that in the past. ‘I’m not sore at Angel. He’s my nephew. My brother asks me to help. I did what I could. End of story. Okay?’

  ‘I wish we could go on vacation to somewhere like Guiana.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Heh. A dump like that?’

  ‘On one of those luxury cruises. Or maybe charter a yacht. Arturo, wouldn’t that be chic?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Say yes.’

  ‘I said I’ll think about it.’

  ‘With a proper crew and a really good chef and maybe some friends.’

  ‘Ummm.’

  ‘We could take that guy from Drug Enforcement. The one with the sweet little wife who’d never eaten caviar before. You said you wanted to get to know him better.’

  ‘I said I wanted to get to know him better. I didn’t say I wanted him to get to know me better, baby.’

  ‘You’re so funny, Arturo.’

  ‘Stay out of the workshop. Got that, sweetheart? Stay out of the workshop. Leave all that chiselling to me.’

  It was one of his favourite jokes. She laughed. ‘Sure. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘That’s what I want, sweetie.’

  ‘Have you eaten all those nuts? No wonder you don’t fit into your tux.’

  ‘Did I eat them? You know something, I eat them without even knowing I’m doing it?’

  ‘I said a prayer for Angel. I told Consuelo that.’

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘She says she can’t sleep worrying about him.’

  Arturo chuckled. ‘You’ve got to admire her sweetie. Those college-educated Eastern chicks always know the right answer.’

  21

  THE JUNGLE: CROSSING THE RIVER.

  ‘I crave the honour alone.’

  The river was very wide. The far bank was shiny mudflats adorned with bunches of coarse grass and some fresh-water mangroves, their roots a forbidding tangle.

  They all stared at the river in silence until Singer said, ‘It’s no pushover, fans. I’ll tell you that for free.’

  Lucas said to the world at large, ‘We could continue for a bit. It’s not a good place to cross.’

  Looking at the far bank Singer said, ‘Crossing that mangrove and mud could be more difficult than getting across the water. There’s no firm ground this side of the Mauritius palms.’

  ‘We cross here,’ Paz said. He looked at Singer, who grinned mirthlessly back. Paz walked to the edge of the embankment. There was a steep drop of about six feet to the water. Some rotting timber had lodged in the roots there. It made a bywater into which floating weeds, and even an old beer-can, had collected. The river’s moving stream passed close enough to joggle the bywater’s contents but not close enough to stir the stagnant water or dissipate its stink. Paz hardly noticed the smell. He was concerned with the river itself. He stared at the moving curtains of rain that made patterns upon the brown water. He hated the persistent noise of the downpour as it drummed upon the vegetation. The sound oppressed him.

  They had been halted for only five minutes, yet several of the men were asleep. He heard young Rómulo snore. If he didn’t assign men to their tasks the whole unit would be asleep within ten minutes. But Paz didn’t assign tasks to them; he didn’t even call for Santos. Paz knew the same tiredness himself. Anyway the twins had done well. Rómulo deserved a few minutes’ sleep.

  Paz heard Lucas sigh, ease off his pack and sit down. The woman would be with him, he knew that without looking round. The two of them added to his problems and it would be foolish to forget that there were many people in the movement who worshipped Inez Cassidy and spoke of her as being ‘an inspiration’. All that and Singer too! Holy Mother, what had he done to deserve such an assignment?

  Paz heard a movement behind him. He turned, one hand resting lightly on his pistol holster. There was no danger but he wanted the reputation as a shooting leader. Too often foreign ‘politicals’ were no more than party bureaucrats, unsuited to soldier alongside the rank and file. He wondered who would be best to be in charge of building a raft.

  ‘Comrade commander?’ It was Rafael, the twin.

  ‘Yes, comrade?’ Such formality was all his raggletaggle band had to replace the tight discipline of the government armies. Yankee military formations could afford to ignore rank, and call each other by their Christian names, but the guerrilleros could not do such things.

  ‘You’ll put a rope across?’ Rafael asked.

  ‘It will be the first step.’

  ‘I will swim with it.’

  ‘The current is fast,’ said Paz.

  ‘Yes, comrade commander,’ the youngster said.

  Could he really do it, Paz wondered. He looked again at the water and at the boy. It became darker as the clouds pressed down. Lightning flashed so that their wet faces shone in its glare and then left them blinking as the thunder sounded and echoed along the distant valleys.

  Rafael read the doubt in his commander’s face. ‘I have looked at it,’ he reassured Paz. ‘I will swim to the second mud-flat downstream. I’ll secure a rope to the roots there. I’ll rest upon them for a moment. Then I’ll take the second length to the far side.’ He smiled nervously. ‘If I fail, the next comrade to try will have my rope to help him across the first channel.’

  Paz glanced towards Lucas to see if he was listening. He was, of course; the old man never missed anything.

  ‘You’re not frightened of the peces pésimos?’ Paz asked. In this region the stingrays, electric eels, snakes and piranhas were all lumped together as ‘evil fish’.

  ‘The Indians talk of them but I am from the city. I don’t listen to their chatter. I don’t need talismans.’

  It was an evasive answer. Paz looked at the blood dribbles on the boy’s neck where the leeches had been removed. If there were predatory fish they would be attracted by the smell of blood. But Paz needed this boy. He needed him not just to take the rope across – almost any one of them would do that if ordered – he needed him because he would shame the whole unit into action just as he was shaming Paz. This boy believed.

  ‘Nylon: the lightest of ropes.’

  ‘I know the ones,’ Rafael said.

  ‘Perhaps two men. A small piece of timber floated between you both. The rope could stay on it and rema
in dry.’

  ‘I crave the honour alone, comrade commander.’

  ‘I will name you in my report, Rafael Graco. Now go and get the ropes and measure them. Make a float of balsa. Push it ahead of you as you swim.’

  After the boy had gone to get the ropes, Lucas spoke. ‘He won’t make it, Paz.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s not strong enough. He’s not a good enough swimmer. The leeches have taken a lot of his blood and he can’t spare blood.’

  ‘He’s got motivation. He shames us all.’

  ‘He doesn’t shame me,’ said Lucas. ‘But he will shame you if you allow him to drown.’

  ‘If he drowns,’ Paz said, ‘it will inspire all of us.’

  ‘You are a cold-blooded little bastard.’ Lucas got to his feet and wiped his rain-wet face with the side of his hand.

  Singer had hobbled over. He’d relinquished his chair since falling into the ditch but he had affected a limp that Lucas found less than convincing. Now he said, ‘Take no notice, Paz. These doctors are all the same. The kid will make it.’

  Paz knew that Singer was trying to make trouble but he was grateful at hearing his opinion endorsed. ‘I’d say he’s got as much chance as any of us,’ Paz said.

  Singer said, ‘One commander! A mission like this has got to have just one commander. The guy who runs things gives the orders; everyone else tries to make them work.’

  ‘I thought that was fascism,’ Lucas said. The others ignored him. Lucas helped Inez to her feet.

  ‘Two swimmers wouldn’t help,’ Paz said. ‘In that river they’d get in each other’s way. One man knows he’s got to make it alone.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Singer said cheerfully.

  ‘The boy will be on the rope,’ Paz told Lucas earnestly. ‘If he gets into trouble we’ll haul him back here.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ll take a stroll along the riverbank,’ Lucas said. He pulled down the broad brim of his hat. ‘The rain doesn’t seem to affect these damned mosquitoes, does it?’ There was another flash of lightning. The thunder was getting closer. Now that everyone’s clothes were saturated with rain, it required only the slightest breeze to chill all of them to the bone. As they walked, Lucas swung his arms and exaggerated his leg movements to keep warm. He made Inez do the same.

  Paz was glad to see them go. He didn’t want Lucas watching everything he did with that impassive look on his face which was tacit criticism. Singer had a great deal of expertise. He rejected the idea of a wooden raft. He helped Paz loop the bright yellow nylon rope around Rafael’s shoulders and back in such a way that unconscious he would float face-upwards. And it was Singer who produced a condom from his pocket and put matches, a paraffin wax firelighter and a cheroot into it before knotting it into a watertight package. ‘When you get across, fix the rope securely. Then light up and burn off your leeches.’

  Paz said. ‘First to the island … the mud-flats. Then rest. When you have got your breath swim the rest of it.’

  Singer showed him how to tie a fisherman’s bend. ‘Then fix the second length. Choose a really firm root. It all depends on the root holding.’ The rain was beating down so fast it took their breath away. Singer laughed, and in doing so snorted the rain up his nose so that he sneezed.

  Paz nodded. This was exactly the sort of advice that he’d hoped ‘old soldier’ Lucas might have provided. But Lucas had grown old and soft and surrendered to the final folly of old men: love. ‘Build a big fire on the other side,’ Paz said as he secured the end of the rope and paid it out to where Rafael was entering the water.

  Singer said, ‘You’re learning fast, kid. The sight of a big fire on the far bank will help your Indians conquer their fear of the water.’

  They stepped back under the shelter of a tree. ‘Lucas is no help,’ said Paz. ‘He’s ambled off somewhere.’

  They were both watching the boy wading into the water. He was waist-deep now and the force of the current was evident in his movements. ‘Doctors are like that,’ Singer said.

  ‘Rubbing sulphur ointment on everyone’s ass and endlessly talking about tetanus and scabies.’

  ‘You’re right, Paz, but don’t underestimate him.’

  ‘What help is he?’ Paz said, before realizing it wasn’t the sort of plea that suited a commander.

  ‘Maybe he’s letting you play boss,’ said Singer. ‘British army … chain of command. All that crap. Could be he wants to give you your space.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Paz hadn’t thought of it like that before.

  They both watched Rafael, as did most of the men on the riverbank. He was forty yards away before the water came up to his chest. He stumbled into a pot-hole, overbalanced and swam a few frantic breast strokes. It was easy for the watchers to say that he was swimming poorly, but they had not yet encountered the fast currents, or the tangled weeds, or worst of all the waterlogged pieces of timber carried along below the water at lethal speeds.

  The yellow nylon rope behind the boy was a continual source of trouble. It tangled in his legs and wrenched at his shoulders. Sometimes he was lifted out of the water as pieces of debris struck the taut length behind him, but he kept going. Only as he neared the island did he seem to be in real difficulty. He floundered, his hands thrashing the air above his head. He’d sought the riverbed too early. Soon he touched a toe on the bottom and regained his balance. He waded slowly, his feet plodding through the soft mud. When the water was at waist-level he turned and waved.

  There was no applause. He’d only reached the tiny mangrove swamp that formed a small island two-thirds of the distance across. The farther strip of water was more intimidating. It had rocks in it and, if the white water was anything to judge by, it ran faster. Rafael tied the knot that Singer had taught him, then he signalled to indicate that it was done. It was getting darker all the time. Only when lit by the lightning was the far bank clearly visible.

  Rafael showed no signs of fear. In fact he seemed over-confident when he entered the water a second time. Partly for bravado, and partly because he was shivering, he went into the water in a hurry. He was more concerned with making a splash to frighten the fish, than with paying out the line as Singer had helped him do on the first swim. In the faster-moving current he couldn’t spare a hand for the line. He struggled against the flow, striking his shoulder upon a rock. An eddy pulled him round so that his feet hit a tangle of roots. The rope wrapped round him but he was able to get his arm free. He grabbed a mangrove root and that saved him from being swept away. But now the river almost had him in its grasp.

  ‘Don’t cut the rope,’ Singer muttered. Paz shouted the same advice.

  It was good advice and a prudent command. He needed the rope to save him and they needed it to cross the river. But it was too late for such advice, and in any case he couldn’t hear it. Water was spewing over the trapped boy and its roar drowned out every other sound. The yellow coils seemed to be constricting him like a serpent. Granted that sudden strength that panic provides, he loosened the rope that was round his arm. Slowly he got his hand to the knife at his belt and drew it free. Inch by inch he forced the blade up under the coils. The water boiling over his fist made the blade waver. It flashed in the dull light, and he almost cut into his face as he stretched the rope tighter and laboriously started to cut through it.

  Rafael sawed at the strong nylon for breathless minutes before it was severed. The frayed ends slashed across his face. Now, as he reached for the mangrove root, the knife was snatched from his grasp and washed away. With both hands holding tight to the root, the water was hammering upon his chest like the fists of an angry woman. Rafael had never guessed at the colossal force of the current. He kept his lips closed tight. The water went up his nose and into his lungs.

  He knew that if he stayed where he was he would be forcibly drowned. Yet he clung to the slippery roots unable to face the prospect of being swept away downstream. There was no rope now that would save him. God knows how far he would be carried in this
sort of mainstream current: a week’s march perhaps. They’d not search for him. Who could expect them to? His grip tightened on the slimy roots. He was blinded by the water that poured over him and deafened by its roar. This was why he did not hear the engine of the boat.

  Singer and Paz had watched him. From their position on the high bank they could see him as he went into the water. By some sixth sense Singer guessed what was about to happen.

  ‘I’ll go help,’ Singer said.

  For a moment Paz was about to let Singer try. Singer had been an all-round athlete at Princeton. Given his build and his strength he was probably the strongest swimmer they had with them. ‘No,’ said Paz, remembering that Singer was to be guarded and protected. Paz looked for Lucas to get his advice, but he had wandered off somewhere and the woman was with him.

  ‘You’re going to lose that kid,’ Singer warned urgently.

  Some commanders could save their own skins while despatching their men on dangerous tasks. They could do it without prejudicing their authority as leaders. Lucas and Singer were such men, calculating men, poker players who preserved themselves with the same unashamed care that they had for the food and the ammunition supply. Angel Paz knew that this was not the sort of relationship he had with his men. Angel Paz was under obligation to lead. If he allowed Lucas or Singer to do such things as swim the river, or save any other situation, command would go to them by default. Paz was determined that that would never happen. He kicked off his boots and threw aside his belt and gun. After one long stare at Rafael, who was now deluged under the foaming water, Paz removed his glasses and put them inside his boot for safety. As he walked along the high riverbank to jump down towards the water he lightly touched the yellow nylon rope that was strung from here to the mud-flat. If the current proved too much for him, this would provide a second chance. He was poised to enter the water when he heard the engine.

  ‘Helicopter,’ someone shouted.

  Everyone dropped flat. Singer went to ground and with an automatic action rolled into the high grass so that he was out of sight. Some of the men closed their eyes tightly, as if that might lessen the danger of their being spotted. Paz was staring upwards trying to guess from the engine noise which way it was coming. ‘No,’ Singer called. ‘Look: a boat!’