The Sunflower: A Novel

by Evans, Richard Paul

She shook her head. “This is so not Dayton.”

  “No, this isn’t Dayton.” She leaned back into him and he put his arm around her and pulled her tighter. A few miles later the carts pulled off the main road, and the ride declined into a rutted dirt path that led up the palm-lined road of the Don Carlos Hotel.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  I have come to believe that the only true way we can serve God is to serve His children.

  PAUL COOK’S DIARY

  “Looks like we’re roommates now,” Christine said to Joan.

  “Lucky you. I snore.”

  “It’s okay, so does Jessica.”

  They carried their luggage up to their room, then hurried back to the hotel lobby as instructed. Paul was leaning against the front counter. When Christine saw him, she came and stood next to him. He said to her, “I count twenty-four. Who are we missing?”

  “Did you count me?”

  He smiled. “We’re all here.” He walked to the center of the lobby. “All right, they’re waiting for us at the school. We’ve got a lot to do, but before we start, the children have a little program planned for us. So don’t go in until I lead you in.”

  The carts delivered them to the school, less than a mile away. They gathered outside while Paul went alone inside the gate. A moment later the Peruvian national anthem blared from loudspeakers, and Paul walked back out, waving the group forward. “They’re ready,” he said.

  Only half of the gate was unlocked and they entered single file. The children were lined up on both sides of the walkway and cheered as they entered, throwing confetti at them as if they were returning heroes.

  They were led to folding chairs that had been set up on one side of the schoolyard. When they were all seated, the children disappeared into a school building, then came back out bearing a refreshment for each of their honored guests—a green coconut with a straw protruding from a hole drilled in the top.

  “Coconut milk?” Christine asked Paul.

  He nodded. “It’s not as sweet as you might expect. But it’s not bad.”

  She took a sip; it was refreshing. The music stopped and the school’s headmistress picked up a microphone. She spoke in Spanish, stopping after each sentence to tilt the microphone toward Paul so he could translate.

  “We welcome our American friends…Thank you for coming so far to help our little school…The boys and girls of San Juan School hope you have a good stay in our country. And come back soon…We will now be pleased to offer you a dance from our country.”

  Paul added, “These children’s costumes and dance represent the three regions of Peru: the sea, the mountains and the jungle.”

  Three children, a boy and two girls, came and stood before them. The music started and each child danced in turn. When the children finished, the group clapped loudly. Then the other children shouted “Thank you” in English and the teachers led the children back into their rooms.

  Paul picked up the microphone. “All right, let’s get to work. Our job today is to fix their bathrooms. We need three groups—a roofing group and two painting groups. Jaime will lead the roofing group. Mason will lead the painting and cleanup group for inside the latrine. And Christine will lead the painting group for the building’s outside.”

  Christine looked surprised.

  “Is that okay?” Paul asked. “I know you have experience.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Great.”

  Jaime selected seven men and handed them work gloves as the rest of the group assigned themselves to one group or the other.

  It was dark when the roof was finally completed. The sun had fallen and the grounds and latrine were lit by the lights outside the school. The workers stood together to have a picture taken of them standing in front of their project.

  “When do we eat?” one of the men asked.

  “I have a treat for you,” Paul said. “American-style pizza. The owner of this restaurant has a brother in Seattle, so the pizza is pretty authentic. At least as far as I remember.”

  They walked the six blocks to the center of town and the pizza parlor. American music from the eighties played inside the restaurant. A large brick woodburning oven stood in the corner of the restaurant, and a man shoved pizzas into its open mouth.

  They were the only foreigners in the place. A young woman led them to a back room where there was a long, rectangular table. As they sat down, Paul said, “Señorita, tráiganos cuatro pizzas grandes. Una con jamón y piña. Dos con todo y una con sólo queso. Tráiganos también dos litros de agua fría sin gas.” Miss, bring us four large pizzas, One with ham and pineapple, two with everything and one with just cheese. Bring us a couple liters of cold bottled water.”

  The woman ran off to fill the order. Paul sat back in his chair. Several of the teenagers lay with their heads on the table, exhausted from the day’s work. “You guys did great work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there an Internet café around here?” Christine asked.

  “In the next block. Would you like me to show you?”

  “No, I can find it. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Out these doors and turn left. Look for the Internet sign.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right back.” Christine walked out into the street. There was a group of young men sitting on motorcycles and scooters, and they all stopped talking to look at her. She felt more flattered than ogled. She crossed the street, and halfway down the block saw the sign with the @ symbol.

  The room was filled with cubicles, each with a computer, running up one side and halfway down the other. Hanging from the ceiling was a TV with poor reception; a soccer game was being broadcast. At the entry was a laminate-topped desk; behind it a young man sat back on a wooden chair, his feet up on the desk as he watched the game. He looked up at Christine.

  “¿Qué pasa? ¿Qué desea?”

  “I need a computer, please.”

  He nodded, then led her over to a cubicle and logged on. He held up one finger and said slowly, “Una hora, tres soles.”

  “Sí. Gracias,” she said.

  Christine sat down to the monitor. The words on the screen were in Spanish but the symbols were universal. She pulled up her e-mail. There was something from her mother.

  Dear Christine,

  I hope you are safe and well and having a good time in Peru. You are in all my prayers. Martin came by the house the other day. Will wonders never cease? He said he was having trouble finding you. You would have liked to have seen his face when I told him that you were in Peru. Needless to say he was very surprised. He stayed a while and we talked. He apologized several times about breaking off the wedding and he seemed sincerely remorseful. He said he had something very important to speak with you about. He asked if you had a phone number where he could call you. I told him that I didn’t think so as I didn’t have one. Let me know. Please be safe and call when you can.

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. BE SAFE!

  Two weeks ago she would have been running for the nearest phone. Now she felt distanced from Martin, almost as if the events of the last three months had happened to someone else. The greatest emotion she felt was curiosity. What would bring Martin to her house? Soothing a guilty conscience? Or was there more? She read the e-mail again, this time smiling at her mother’s continual concern for her safety. She wrote back:

  Dear Mom,

  I am safe and well. Jessica and I are having a great time. I forgot to tell you that I found a really great bell for your collection. We have seen many fascinating things and met some really great people. The highlight of my trip, so far, was when we worked in an orphanage. I fell in love with a little deaf girl named Roxana. I wish you could have seen her. We are going into the jungle tomorrow. There’s no way to reach me until we’re back. If Martin has something to say to me, please tell him to e-mail me at this address.

  Even as she typed the words, she was amazed at her own coolness. Just then
Paul entered. He spotted her in the corner and walked back, leaning over the cubicle’s low wall. “Hey, beautiful, pizza’s ready.”

  She looked up, and seeing him at that moment felt right. Whatever she now felt about Martin, she was certain that Paul had something to do with it. His friendship had made her strong.

  “Thank you. I’m almost done. I just need another minute.”

  “I’ll go pay.”

  Christine finished the e-mail, then clicked SEND. She walked to the front of the building. Paul was reading from a newspaper tacked to the wall. He turned to her. “News from home?”

  “From my mom.”

  “Anything important?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Not really.” She took his hand. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  It’s always fascinating to watch the Americans meet the Amaracayre—they are so amused with the tribe’s peculiarities that they fail to see that the Amaracayre are equally amused by theirs. One teenage girl thought it odd that the chief had a bone through his nose and didn’t notice that he was just as fascinated by the metal posts in her nose, tongue and ears.

  PAUL COOK’S DIARY

  They woke the next morning to a steady drizzle of rain that turned the foliage an even more vibrant green. Christine and Joan lugged their bags down to the lobby. They each grabbed a carton of juice, a sweet roll and banana and boarded the bus. Paul was already on board and Christine and Joan sat down next to him.

  “Good morning, Dr. Cook,” Christine said.

  “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  Christine smiled. “I had good dreams.”

  The bus started up. Paul stood and counted heads then turned to the driver. “Vámonos.”

  As the bus turned onto the open road, Paul stood. “Okay, campers. Today the adventure begins. It will take us all day to get to the lodge. We’ll be making a short stop at the village of the Amaracayre tribe to drop off some books and medicine. So keep your cameras handy.”

  The first eighteen miles to Laberinto were on paved streets, then the bus turned onto red dirt roads past large fields of sugarcane and sorghum. The red clay soon turned to mud, slowing their journey.

  It was nearly an hour before they reached the town. Chickens and dogs ran free in the muddy streets, and the people watched the bus navigate past small shops and an open fish market down a slope to the riverbank. When they reached the waterfront, the driver set the brake and shut off the engine. Paul stood, clinging to a rail. “Those on the left side of the bus can see our boat. Take your bags off the bus and leave them on the shore next to the boarding plank. Our guides will pack your luggage on the boat. If anyone needs to use the bathroom, there’s a public restroom fifty yards up the road. It’s pretty dodgy, but it’s all there is. I recommend that you avail yourself since we’ll be on the boats for the next four to five hours. There’s a charge for the bathroom, half a sol. See you at the boat.”

  They all took their bags to the boat, then headed up the road to the restrooms. The lavatories were constructed of cinder block, with tile walls and concrete floors that were constantly wet as they were sprayed down every few hours. For half a sol each, they were given entrance and a small package of tissue paper. The building was crowded and dirty and the toilet was just a hole in the floor. Christine gagged as she entered the stall, and Joan shouted from the stall next to her, “Somebody just kill me.”

  When Christine returned, Paul was loading the last of the luggage onto the boat.

  “You weren’t exaggerating about how awful it is,” she said.

  He smiled wryly. “You should have seen it before they remodeled.”

  The wooden boat was nearly sixty feet long, with dull red paint peeling from its hull. Two long seats with foam rubber cushions ran along the sides of the boat with a three-foot space between them to move forward and aft. The seats were sheltered beneath a faded green-and-white canvas canopy; the bow of the boat had been filled to capacity with backpacks and luggage. It started to rain again; a plastic tarp was thrown over the luggage and plastic sheeting was unrolled from the canopy, covering the open sides of the boat.

  With everyone on board, one of the guides untied the thick rope from shore and pushed out, jumping at the last minute onto the bow.

  “Our guides are Marcos and Gilberto,” said Paul. “They are both real jungle men and you’ll be glad they’re with us.”

  The men went about their work without acknowledging Paul’s introduction.

  The boat had an outboard motor with a propeller extended about eight feet out on the end of a long pole so the driver could lift it from the water if necessary. The Madre de Dios was filled with debris and a fixed prop could easily be damaged. Gilberto throttled the engine to full and they headed upriver into the jungle. Marcos put on a plastic poncho and sat on the front of the boat looking over the bow for debris and giving hand signals to Gilberto in back.

  Christine sat near Paul at the front of the boat. The river widened and the trees rose in height to more than a hundred feet. Paul rearranged some of the bags, then lay back on them, pulling his fedora down over his eyes. Christine dragged her hand over the side of the boat, the cool green water gliding between her fingers. Marcos looked over at her. “No, Señorita,” he said, “no ponga la mano en el río.”

  “What did he say?” she asked Paul.

  “He wants you to take your hand out of the water,” Paul said, then casually added, “probably because of the piranhas.” Christine jerked her hand out. Marcos laughed and Paul’s mouth rose in a smile beneath the hat’s brim.

  The rain turned to a mist. Christine lay back against her pack and closed her eyes. The lapping of the water against the stern was comforting.

  An hour and a half into the ride, Marcos whistled to Gilberto and pointed portside to a small cove. Gilberto steered the boat toward the shore and cut back on the engine.

  Christine looked up. “Are we already there?” she asked.

  Paul lifted his hat and looked around. He stood up, looking down the hull of the boat. “Listen up, everyone. This is the village of the Amaracayre. You are welcome to get off the boat, but there are a couple things you should know. The chief will likely be the first one to greet us. Do not take his photograph or videotape him without his permission. He will let you take his picture, but he will expect you to tip him. It is customary to pay him five to ten soles a picture. Also, some of the tribe members might offer to sell you beads. They are not expensive and make very cool souvenirs. Most of them have teeth or claws on them, usually from wild boars or parrots. Do not purchase from them until someone has purchased from the chief. It’s how things work here. The chief is considered very holy and what he says is law.”

  The boat struck the shore and Marcos jumped off, pulling the boat up on the muddy bank. The boat came to rest beneath an overhang of tree limbs, which shielded them from the rain.

  “By the way,” Paul said, “don’t be shocked, but the women don’t wear shirts. It’s not pornographic, it’s national geographic. Most of the Amaracayre are elderly, and like most of these Amazonian tribes, they are dying out. You might have heard the fact that every hour two species become extinct due to deforestation. But it’s not just the animals. In the last century ninety Amazon tribes have ceased to exist.”

  Marcos shouted something to Gilberto and the motor shut off. Paul started up toward the bow. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Marcos tied the rope around a nearby tree, then waded in through the thick mud to give them a hand in climbing off. One by one they leapt from the bow to the marshlike earth beneath them.

  As they disembarked, a short, broad-chested man appeared on the shore. He wore no shoes or shirt, just a simple loincloth. He had a small bone through his nose. Paul turned toward the group. “This is the chief.”

  Christine was the first up the bank, followed by Paul. The chief, who was two inches shorter than Christine, stepped forward and embraced her.r />
  “Woomenbooey,” he said.

  She turned to Paul, not sure how to respond.

  “Woomenbooey means ‘brother’ or ‘sister’,” Paul said. “It’s a term of endearment. Just say it back to him.”

  “Woomenbooey,” Christine said, and the chief laughed. Then he stepped toward Paul.

  “Marinka!” he shouted, and embraced him.

  “Woomenbooey,” Paul said.

  The rest of the group filed up the bank and the chief greeted each of them.

  “Paul, what did he say to you?” Christine asked.

  “He has a nickname for me. He calls me Marinka. In their legend there was a tree that grew to Heaven called the Marinka. Anyone who climbs the tree is ‘Marinka,’ or ‘He Who Looks for God.’ ”

  The village was a collection of small wooden huts built in a semicircle under a tall canopy of trees that kept much of the rain from reaching the ground. There was a fire pit in the center of the village with logs placed around it for sitting. The one feature that looked very much out of place was a large satellite dish.

  “They have TV?” Joan asked.

  “No. It’s for radio. The government set it up for them. They do have communication with the outside world.”

  “What language do they speak?” Christine asked.

  “It’s their own dialect. I only understand a few phrases. But missionaries come through here from time to time, and a few years back they taught the chief and a few others some Spanish.”

  An elderly Amaracayre woman, barely five feet tall and missing most of her teeth, approached Paul jabbering happily. She wore no shirt, but a brown shawl was draped over her shoulders.

  “What’s she saying?” Christine asked.

  “I have no idea,” Paul said, leaning over to hug her.

  She looked at Christine and said something, then embraced her as well. Then she walked off.

  “What’s she wearing?” Christine asked.

  “It’s a shawl made of tree bark.”