by PJ Skinner
‘When will women’s liberation arrives in Calderon?’ asked Marta
‘It’s taking a long time to arrive,’ said Gloria. ‘Men here are the worst.’
They both sighed.
Sam could not help herself. ‘Do you think it’s coming on a plane?’ she asked. ‘You have to liberate yourselves. There’s no other way.’
‘Who asked you?’ retorted Marta.
‘Marta, the gringa doesn’t mean anything by it. She just doesn’t have any manners yet,’ said Gloria.
Sam, who was sure that she had exquisite manners, was not impressed by this comment but decided that perhaps manners varied from culture to culture. She sighed and rolled her eyes. It seemed that this was the correct response, as Marta took this as an apology. Peace reigned. They sipped their coffees in companionable silence.
***
When Sam woke up the next morning, she felt like death. She had altitude sickness combined with the aptly named Montezuma’s revenge. She could not eat or breathe. Her nose was dry as a desert, as were her eyes and throat. She drank lots of mineral water that she promptly threw up and spent exaggerated amounts of time in the bathroom deciding whether it was more urgent to evacuate her bowels from the top or from the bottom.
Mike was unsympathetic.
‘For God’s sake, Sam. Didn’t you know about altitude sickness? Everyone knows they should take it easy for the first week or two in Calderon. It’s over a mile above sea-level.’
‘I would have, if you’d told me’ muttered Sam to herself.
‘I need you to be on form this morning. I’ve arranged a meeting here with Wilson Malvado, a Sierramarian geologist who’s been talking to me about some prospective concessions. I want you to tell me if you think they have any merit.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’ll be fine,’ replied Sam with grim determination. She was not going to fall at the first hurdle. Marta made her a drink, a disgusting mixture of salt and sugar flavours, to rehydrate her. She sat in a corner, waiting for it to kick in.
When Wilson arrived at the flat, even Sam managed to focus long enough to peruse him from head to foot. Wilson was a tall, handsome man with a big, black moustache, which he constantly stroked and adjusted. He had large, dark brown eyes under a mop of thick black hair. He wore a black shirt and black polyester trousers with short black boots. When he arrived for the meeting, he had been wearing a large black fedora, which he had promptly removed. This outfit was his equivalent of a uniform. He never wore any colour other than black. Wilson was thirty-three and looked considerably older. He had been named after the American president Woodrow Wilson. The mania for adopting names of famous people was a very common one in Sierramar. The names of American presidents were very popular as first names. Also common were dictators’ names, like Mussolini, Stalin, Lenin and Hitler.
Marta was roped in to translate for the meeting, as Wilson spoke only pigeon English. She had her head bowed most of the time, but she looked at him from underneath her false eyelashes with what seemed to be adoration. When he glanced at her for reassurance on some point, she went pink and squirmed in her chair. Sam could see that he was used to this sort of attention, as he sat back in his chair and flung his knees apart in the wide-legged position often taken by confident men on public transport.
Wilson had brought folders containing official documents giving permission for exploration work on several tracts of land in the west of Sierramar. One of them covered the banks of a river, which flowed down into the Pacific.
‘These rivers that are staked out by the exploration concessions that I’m offering you and have terraces which contain gold along the river banks. We can buy these concessions for twenty thousand dollars each and have all the gold for ourselves.’
‘How much gold is in the terraces Wilson?’ asked Mike.
‘Oh, I would say about a million ounces. But there could be more.’
‘Have they done any exploration on these terraces?’ asked Sam.
Wilson continued without acknowledging Sam’s question. ‘The natives pan the gold for money to buy beer and cigarettes. It must be high grade for them to be able to take out so much with their primitive methods.’
‘So, there’s no measured resource, then,’ persisted Sam.
‘Not as such, but it’s a very rich deposit,’ said Wilson. ‘We could start exploiting it straight away if we had the machinery.’
‘Where would we get the machinery? Would it cost much?’ asked Mike
‘Oh, that’s the easy part. I know a man who can hire us everything we need. We don’t need to buy anything.’
‘That sounds like an excellent plan. I am sure I could persuade Edward to part with the money if we put a budget together,’ said Mike, who was several steps ahead of Sam.
Wilson opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.
‘Whoa there. Just a minute,’ said Sam. ‘It’s certainly an interesting concept but I recommend that we reconnoitre the river to do some sampling before we make any decisions about investing in the project. We need to establish the presence of gold in the terraces and get an idea of the amount. It may cost more to mine than it’s worth. We need a mining plan before we decide to invest.’
Wilson flashed an annoyed look at Sam but changed his expression immediately when she stared right back.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Mike can come with me to the area next week and see for himself.’
Mike laughed.
‘I’m sorry, Wilson, but you’ll have to make do with Sam. I’ve a dicky heart and the jungle is too far from a hospital for me if something goes wrong.’
Marta translated. Wilson looked at Mike in surprise. Sam pretended not to notice.
‘I’m a geologist too, Wilson. Didn’t Mike tell you?’ she asked, knowing full well that she had been introduced as Mike’s geologist to Wilson when he arrived at the meeting.
‘I don’t think that a woman can deal with the conditions in the jungle. They’re too weak. I can’t be responsible for Sam’s safety,’ Wilson said to Mike, ignoring Sam. His condescending tone floated into the air and stayed there as Marta tried to translate the bald statement into a politer version.
Sam was shocked by his arrogance. It was hard to believe anyone still talked this way about a woman when she was present. She was livid. But she swallowed the bile that had risen to her throat.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Sam. ‘I’m as tough as a mule. I’ll look after myself.’
‘Sam will be fine, Wilson. Don’t you worry about her,’ said Mike.
Mike had not picked up on Sam’s fury or Wilson’s reluctance, as he was already imagining how much gold they would mine from the terraces.
‘When can you go, Wilson?’
‘I can organise a trip in a week’s time, if that suits you?’
‘Yes, that will be fine. That’s settled then. Sam, why don’t you go into town with Wilson and buy some supplies for the trip? That way you can get to know each other.’
Mike was disappointed that he could not just invest immediately but he admired Sam for standing up to them both. He was surprised to find that he had chosen a woman who had appeared easy to manipulate, but who had a hidden core of steel. He had hired Sam in the hope of preventing any more unfortunate investments, without having much to go on except her availability and cheapness. Now he was convinced that he had made the right decision. Wilson would have his hands full with Sam.
***
Sam and Wilson left to buy supplies in the market at the centre of the old town. They went by cab as neither could drive, although Sam was planning on taking advantage of the lax licencing laws to get mobile as soon as she could. On their trip to the market, Wilson pedantically insisted that Sam speak only Spanish, which cut down the possibilities for conversation to a minimum.
‘So what is the name of your degree? How many years did you have to study?’ Wilson asked.
‘I did a degree in Geology. I studied for four years.’
&n
bsp; ‘Ha! Bachelor’s degree! If you were Sierramarian, you would only be qualified to be a teacher. My degree was in Engineering Geology and I studied at the university for seven years. It is far superior to your degree.’
Sam knew that a longer degree was not necessarily a better one but she did not bother to disabuse him of this fond theory. Instead she said ‘I see. Did you know that I’ve also got a Master’s degree in Geology?’
It was his turn to look cross, as it made her far superior to him by his own terms of reference. He stopped asking her questions and chain-smoked instead. Sam found the time spent buying supplies with Wilson somewhat wearing and was worried about the prospect of being in his company twenty-four hours a day in the field. He made her feel queasy in a way she could not put her finger on. She would definitely bring lots of batteries for her Walkman.
***
When Wilson left the apartment in Avenida Miranda later that day, he was in a great mood. He could feel his fat wallet in his pocket, loaded with an advance in dollars from Mike Morton. Wilson was amazed at how trusting Mike was. In other circumstances, Wilson would have taken the cash and walked away for good. This time, he was sure that Mike was the nearest thing to the lottery in human form he had ever met. And he had a winning ticket. He was convinced there was much more money where that came from and intended to milk his golden ticket for all it was worth.
Wilson was quite good at his job, being of more than average intelligence and education. He just was not honest or diligent and had been fired from all his previous jobs when money went missing or he went AWOL. He was an inveterate womaniser, frequenter of bordellos and prone to drunken binges that lasted for days. He was very deeply in debt and meeting Mike with his new rich friends, in one of the classier bordellos, had been a stroke of luck.
Wilson was being chased by some very nasty people who took exception to his inability to pay what he owed. He was only one step ahead of them and his time was running out. When Mike had mentioned that he could do with some help with his projects in the jungle, Wilson jumped at the chance. They were both happy with the outcome. Mike needed Wilson as much as Wilson needed the money, because he could not send Sam in alone, as her Spanish was not yet good enough to direct operations.
The only person on the staff who knew something about Wilson’s unsavoury reputation was Gloria, who sometimes frequented the same night spots as him, due to the paucity of choice. She only found out that Mike had employed him when she saw Wilson in the office. She was no angel herself, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming that he was trying to go straight, as she was. She still kept an eye on him, just in case.
In his other pocket, Wilson was rubbing a slip of paper between his fingers on which Marta’s phone number was written. Now, there was a project. All coy and girly in her fuck-me heels and her lacquered quiff; Wilson was not fooled. Marta was sure to be easy. In his experience, women were all the same. He used them and disposed of them in a totally uninterested way, running a mile from any display of emotion or clingy behaviour.
He had not wanted to get married in the first place but his wife’s three brothers had not given him a choice. He had been forced to do the correct thing when they had discovered that she was pregnant and had threatened to kill him. His wife now regretted every minute of their marriage. But she was Roman Catholic and divorce was not acceptable. So they stayed married, although neither could stand the other. Wilson was happy to be separated, so he could carry on whoring and drinking, which were the only things he enjoyed, instead of being nagged by his wife. Wilson lit a cigarette and headed down the street to the bus stop. The money was burning a hole in his pocket. He knew just where to spend it.
***
The brothel was in the southern part of old Calderon on a sordid-looking side street. The outside of the building did not advertise the trade carried on inside its sturdy door. The only clue was a large peephole with a shutter that was drawn back when someone knocked.
Wilson did not have to wait for long after he banged on the door. The peephole was opened and closed in one fluid movement. The door opened so fast that Wilson fell into the gloomy interior.
‘So,’ said a voice, ‘you decided to pay us a visit. How nice.’ Heavy sarcasm was evident in the gravelly tone. Esteban Nunez stepped out of the gloom and stood under the dim bulb in the hallway, his greasy face shining.
‘I told you not to show your face in here again until you’d paid off every penny. You’re taking a big chance coming here.’
Wilson smiled.
‘Brother, why are you treating me like this when I have come to pay you and spend my money in your establishment?’
‘Pay me? Ha!’ Esteban opened the door and looked out at the sky. He shut the door and glared at Wilson.
‘There are no flying pigs going by,’ he said.
‘Esteban, would I lie to you?’ asked Wilson.
‘Yes. And you do all the time.’
Wilson pushed his way past Esteban. Inside the brothel the décor was clichéd, with red velvet sofas in booths of dark mahogany, the fabric now dark with use. The cheap chandeliers held dim lightbulbs. Several heavily made-up, world-weary women of uncertain vintage were draped unconvincingly around the bar. A tired young woman gyrated without enthusiasm to cantina music on a filthy stage.
‘I’m hurt. But I forgive you. Just set me up in a booth with Conchita and a bottle of whiskey, and I’ll forget it ever happened.’
‘Are you nuts? Where’s my money?’ asked Esteban, turning purple with fury.
Wilson reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.
‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Seven-hundred and fifty, wasn’t it? I’ll give you a thousand so I have some credit to spend in here.’ He handed over the dollars with a flourish.
‘Seven-hundred and fifty-six dollars and thirty cents exactly. And that doesn’t include interest. Where did you get the money? I heard you got fired again.’
‘None of your business, Esteban. Now, where’s Conchita? I’ve got a tremendous thirst.’
Mollified, Esteban waved to one of the women at the bar and signalled to her that she had a client with cash. The woman shimmied over to the booth and tried to look pleased as Wilson joined her.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’
V
Sam started settling into Calderon, absorbing its culture and values. She was lucky to have a flair for languages and very soon picked up a bit of pigeon Spanish, enough to be polite to Tati and Marta and to take a taxi and order food in a restaurant. She was fascinated by the huge wealth gap in Calderon society and was desperate to be able to understand more of what people discussed. She was invited to all the social events, due to her friendship with Gloria, but she often felt left out by her inability to converse in Spanish. She worked hard on picking up the rudiments, which were improved by some cassettes she found in Mike’s flat. Gloria corrected her worst mistakes and encouraged her as she struggled to string a lucid sentence together. When Sam got particularly frustrated and refused to try any more, Gloria put her back on the horse.
‘Chica,’ Gloria said, ‘there are gringos who have been here ten years who can’t do more than ask for a beer in Spanish. It will be worth it. You will see when you go into the jungle and need a taxi.’
Sam glanced up and saw that she was having her leg pulled. She smiled ruefully and resolved not to give up. She liked Gloria and her down-to-earth manner, even if she still felt sorry for the children left at home with the maid. It was normal behaviour in Calderon. Sam tried not to comment. When she did, she felt as though she were being viewed as a cultural fascist. Gringos did not know everything, in spite of what they might think. She could see that the people from Sierramar were determined not to be judged by outside standards. They had their own way of doing things. Anyway, Gloria was kind and funny, and Sam needed a friend, so she tried to be more open-minded than usual.
A couple of days later Sam, Wilson and Mik
e got into the car which was packed to the roof with the supplies purchased in the market. Mike drove Sam and Wilson to San Martin, a town about an hour from Calderon. They were to stay the night at a small hotel and to catch the train to the jungle at dawn the next morning.
The trip to San Martin took them along winding roads cut through several banded rock formations, whose relief stood out in the moonlight. Sam was thrilled to see a large multi-layered fold in one of the rock faces and wanted to ask Mike to stop the car to look at them and take photographs. She realised that this would not go over well with him as he was driving with grim determination. She would do it another time. The dry landscape supported only a few scrubby bushes and some small dusty towns.
When they arrived at San Martin, they unloaded all the supplies and checked into the Hotel California. Mike took one look at the state of the hotel and drove back to Calderon rather than stay the night. With a misplaced sense of economy, he insisted that Sam and Wilson share a room, despite the difference only being a couple of dollars. Sam was taken aback at the thrifty attitude, considering the luxury in which he kept himself in Calderon.
The Hotel California had a dining room with a huge poster of the Golden Gate Bridge plastered over one wall. There were touches of red velvet on the chairs and bare wiring hanging from the ceilings, which was par for the course in these cheap hotels. Some young local men sat at a table in the corner, drinking beer and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. They flirted with Sam across the room, making her laugh and blush. She enjoyed the Latin lack of reserve more than she had imagined she would.
‘Boys,’ sniffed Wilson. He turned around to glare at them.
The room allocated to Sam and Wilson turned out to be L-shaped with a bed at each end. This gave a certain amount of privacy, so Sam felt less exposed. Wilson wandered off to get something that she did not understand. She took an early night, hoping to avoid talking to him again that evening. She lay in bed shivering under the thin blanket, feeling the nylon sheets sparking under her. Quivering with anticipation of her trip, she could not get to sleep.