The Devil's Brew

by Jack Treby

  ‘Dear, you shouldn’t talk business over the dinner table,’ Jane Talbot admonished her husband, in a clipped, no-nonsense tone. She was the severe looking woman with the nose and the side parting. ‘You’ll be in danger of boring Mr Buxton.’ In that, she was not far wrong.

  ‘How long have you lived in Guatemala?’ I asked her.

  ‘About six years, I believe.’

  ‘In the city?’ She nodded. I tore off a piece of bread from the communal plate and dipped it in the soup. ‘How do you find it?’

  Mrs Talbot considered before replying. ‘I’ve got used to it now. It did take us some time to acclimatize.’

  ‘Jane had never been out of England before,’ her husband explained.

  ‘There are so many different types of people here,’ she observed distastefully. ‘Different racial groups, different stratas of society. It can be rather confusing.’

  ‘Lord, yes,’ I agreed. ‘Difficult to get a handle on where everyone fits in.’

  ‘It’s really very simple,’ a brash American voice cut in. This was Arthur Montana, an executive from United Fruit. He was a hefty, determined looking fellow in his early forties. He had a rugged face and heavily cropped brown hair which only partially disguised a badly receding hairline. ‘It’s a basic pyramid structure,’ he declared forcefully. ‘You’ve got the negroes in one corner at the bottom, with the Indians on the other side. Then there are the half-breeds, the mestizos. They’re on the next level up. And above them are the Hispanics, who are nominally in charge.’ That notion seemed to amuse him somewhat. ‘Although the West Indian negroes often look down on them, for some reason. And then, of course, at the top of the heap you have the whites, the North Americans and the Western Europeans.’ His voice boomed across the table and brooked no contradiction.

  Mrs Talbot was not in the least intimidated. ‘All rather confusing,’ she repeated, ‘but one does because accustomed to it eventually.’

  The mention of Hispanics prompted George Talbot to gesture to the far end of the table. ‘Have you met our engineer, Señor Gonzalez?’ he asked me, adjusting his spectacles. The little Guatemalan was sitting quietly out of sight a few chairs to my right. ‘He’s overseeing the road building. Gunther invited him along this evening, as a thank you for all his hard work.’ Not the sort of person, I gathered, who would normally receive an invitation to a house party. Talbot turned to his right. ‘Oh, and this is his wife, of course, Consuela Gonzalez.’

  Mrs Gonzales was a short but striking mestizo woman – half Indian, half Hispanic at a guess – with dark penetrating eyes and a slightly sad air about her, for all her comparative youth. She was squeezed uncomfortably between George Talbot on the one side and the American gentleman on the other. She was wearing the same light brown dress she had sported on her arrival that afternoon.

  ‘Yes, we met earlier on,’ I said, meeting her eyes with a smile. ‘I hope you’re enjoying the soup.’ I looked down at the pallid broth, which the rough bread was doing nothing to improve. It was thin and reedy with just a few chunks of meat bobbing about below the surface. Hardly the most appetising of starters.

  Consuela Gonzales smiled back at me. ‘Very much,’ she said.

  Arthur Montana, who was sitting to her right, had studiously ignored the native woman while the opening course was being served. I could understand his discomfort – he was probably not used to socializing with mestizos – but that was no excuse for being rude. One has to be polite on these occasions.

  ‘Do you live near here?’ I asked the woman.

  ‘Yes, in the next town.’ Mrs Gonzales had a light but surprisingly confident voice. ‘My husband works for the Ministry of Agriculture.’

  ‘In the Department of Roads,’ the man himself put in.

  ‘Sounds like a responsible job,’ I said, dipping another chunk of bread into the soup. On the far side of the table, the house boy Moses was starting to clear away a few of the bowls.

  ‘Not yet, boy!’ Arthur Montana snapped.

  The lad flinched, as if he had been slapped, and mumbled a quick apology.

  Candles and oil lamps were the order of the day as the evening progressed. ‘We always switch off the generator at ten o’clock,’ Gunther Weiman explained, ‘to save fuel in the evenings.’ The white haired German smiled warmly. ‘And also to facilitate a good night’s sleep for those wishing to retire early.’ The menfolk had moved out into the courtyard for the brandy and cigars – a welcome relief after the inevitable round of coffee which had followed dessert – while the women congregated in the living room on the east side of the house. To my delight, a deck of cards had been produced and we were soon engrossed in a pleasantly vicious game of pontoon.

  ‘You want to keep an eye on Steven,’ Freddie laughed, when Mr Catesby drew the highest card and got the plum job of banker. ‘One of his ancestors tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘I thought that was Guy Fawkes,’ I said, as Catesby dealt out the opening hand. I picked up my first two cards and grimaced.

  ‘Him too.’ Freddie glanced down at his hand. ‘Stick,’ he said.

  I threw in a small coin. ‘Twist. So what brought you to this part of the world, Mr Catesby?’

  Steven Catesby was a thin-faced fellow with solid blue eyes and a mop of curly black hair. An unsuccessful moustache hovered above a rather thin mouth but he was well turned out, in a casual evening suit, and had a small flower in his lapel. ‘I was born in Cuba,’ he said. ‘My uncle – Susan’s father – owned a sugar plantation there.’ He flipped me the queen of spades.

  I growled and threw down my cards. ‘Bust.’

  ‘After university I got a job working on a banana plantation in Costa Rica, for United Fruit. My wife sadly died a couple of years ago. Malaria. It’s endemic there.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll stick,’ Arthur Montana declared.

  ‘After that, I needed to get away. Susan and I grew up together, in Havana.’ He looked across to the real-life banker.

  ‘Stick,’ George Talbot said.

  ‘She suggested I come here and help Gunther run the farm.’

  ‘Twist, please,’ Gunther Weiman said. Steven dealt him a card.

  ‘He’s often away on business. I thought I’d be here for six months.’

  ‘And stick.’

  Catesby turned up his own cards – a five and a seven – and dealt himself an eight of clubs. The lucky sod. ‘Play twenty-ones,’ he declared. ‘And here I am, two years later.’

  ‘Nice to be out of the swamp, I shouldn’t wonder,’ I said.

  The other men threw in their cards and Catesby collected his winnings.

  ‘There are noticeably fewer insects at this altitude,’ George Talbot agreed. The plump-faced banker sat back in his chair and took a sip of brandy. ‘Far less disease as well.’

  ‘Mind you, the blacks are immune to that sort of thing,’ Arthur Montana declared, puffing on his cigar.

  Catesby shuffled the pack and prepared to deal out the next hand.

  ‘That’s the only reason anyone employs them,’ Montana added. The American had some experience in this area, I gathered. As an executive for United Fruit, labour relations would be part of his remit. I doubted, however, that he would be a particularly enlightened employer.

  ‘They do have their fair share of illness,’ Catesby said, dealing out the second set of cards. ‘But they’re good workers. Easier to motivate than the indigenous people.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Montana agreed, tapping out the end of his cigar in an ashtray and picking up the new hand. ‘We could do with importing a few more of them. The Indians are useless. They’re far too lazy.’

  ‘Twist,’ said Freddie, throwing in a coin.

  ‘You prefer the blacks?’ I asked. That was a surprise, given his unflattering comments about them at supper. Montana had made it quite clear that he considered negroes to be inherently inferior to anyone of European extraction. It was not a point of view I
shared – given a decent education, I supposed a black man would acquit himself as well as anybody else – but it was a common enough belief. I picked up a king and a five.

  Catesby tossed out a card to Freddie.

  ‘Bust.’

  ‘They do have several advantages,’ Montana admitted. ‘Unfortunately, the law dictates that seventy-five per cent of all workers have to be native Guatemalans. It’s crazy.’

  ‘Er...twist,’ I said, throwing in a coin.

  ‘And even United Fruit has to pay lip service to that.’

  I scowled as Catesby dealt me out an eight of hearts. I threw down my cards in disgust. ‘Bust. Is there much tension, between the negroes and the Indians?’

  Arthur Montana grunted. ‘Always. I’ll stick. The blacks are better workers and they get paid more for it. But it’s not all plain sailing. The West Indian blacks, the Jamaicans.’ He pursed his lips. ‘They don’t pay us the proper respect.’ By “us”, I gathered, he meant white people.

  ‘I’ll stick,’ George Talbot declared.

  ‘Negroes are built for hard labour. That’s why they make such good boxers. But they need to be taught their place; to show respect for their betters.’

  ‘Twist,’ said Gunther Weiman. Catesby tossed him a card. The nine of clubs. The German smiled and abandoned his hand. ‘Bust.’

  ‘And the Indians,’ I said. ‘You don’t rate them at all?’

  The American snorted again.

  ‘They do their fair share of the work,’ Catesby put in diplomatically, as he turned up his own cards. A ten and a seven. ‘Play eighteens.’

  Only George Talbot had a better hand.

  ‘They’re...Mayans aren’t they?’ I enquired.

  ‘That’s right,’ Catesby said, as he collected his winnings and paid out to Mr Talbot.

  I scratched my chin. ‘Aren’t they the fellows who built the pyramids?’

  ‘That’s them.’ Catesby took a moment to gather up the cards.

  ‘Have you had a chance to visit the pyramids yet?’ Talbot asked me, taking a quick sip of brandy.

  ‘No, I haven’t. Rather difficult to get to, so I’ve heard. But I’ve seen the photographs. Remarkable buildings.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the banker agreed.

  ‘It’s always struck me as a bit strange,’ Freddie said. ‘I mean, that they had wherewithal to build these enormous great buildings and now they’re reduced to manual labour.’

  ‘It was probably manual labour that allowed the pyramids to be constructed in the first place,’ Talbot pointed out. ‘But yes, they do seem to have regressed rather.’

  ‘Godless heathens,’ Montana muttered, stubbing out his cigar. ‘Too stupid to build anything on their own. George is right. It was slave labour that built the pyramids. And, you know what?’ His eyes gleamed with pride. ‘It was our people at United Fruit who put them back together again.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. That was interesting.

  Steven Catesby smiled slyly. ‘As a propaganda exercise.’

  The other man shrugged. ‘There’s nothing wrong in that.’

  ‘Using local labour, I presume?’

  ‘It was a collaboration,’ Montana admitted. ‘That’s what I’m saying. These natives, they have the muscle, but they lack direction. They need a firm hand, from people like us. People who know how to get things done.’

  ‘Firm but fair,’ Catesby agreed. ‘Like with these new roads. We’ll all benefit from that. If they’re ever completed.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s early days, of course, and there’s no real money about. We’re lucky to have Señor Gonzales to help us.’

  The engineer had retired to bed shortly after supper, which was probably just as well. I doubted he would have had the wherewithal to join us at the card table, even with the small amounts we were gambling. I was fortunate, as a fellow government employee, in having a couple of annuities to help me out in addition to my regular wage. It wasn’t what I was used to, of course, but it meant at least that I could afford to employ a valet and enjoy a few rounds of cards of an evening without fear of bankrupting myself.

  ‘Did you enjoy the coffee at dinner?’ Gunther Weiman asked, changing the subject.

  ‘It was superb,’ Freddie declared. ‘I’ve said it before, Gunther, and I’ll say it again: you’ve got a marvellous place here.’

  Catesby shuffled the pack.

  ‘It’ll be nice to have a proper wander around tomorrow,’ he added. ‘Out into the fields. It was raining too much the last time I was here.’

  The German smiled. ‘I have organised a tour for all of you tomorrow morning,’ he explained, for my benefit. ‘At nine thirty. It may be a little taxing so I suggest a hearty breakfast before you leave.’

  I tried hard not to grimace. The thought of trekking up and down a mountainside first thing in the morning was not in the least bit appealing. I would probably give it a miss if I could. I had already done my duty as a guest, drinking their foul coffee.

  ‘It’ll be good exercise,’ Arthur Montana said. ‘It’s one hell of an estate. I’ve seen it a dozen times but I never grow tired of it.’

  Catesby was about to deal out the next hand but he held off as the ladies emerged from the living room. Arthur Montana’s wife, an attractive Italian woman called Anita, was laughing loudly at something Emily Bunting had said to her. The men pulled themselves up from their chairs as the women moved out into the courtyard. A few pleasantries were exchanged and then they made their way to the back stairs.

  Susan Weiman – our hostess – was the last to leave. ‘I hope you’ve all had an enjoyable evening,’ she said. Mrs Weiman was an amiable woman in her early forties with dark, shoulder length hair, pale skin and wide brown eyes. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I will see you all in the morning.’ We replied effusively in kind. ‘Don’t stay up too late, Gunther,’ she added.

  We watched in silence as the group made their way upstairs and then around the upper corridors to the various bedrooms on the first floor.

  ‘I could do with another drink,’ Montana said. ‘Where is that boy of yours?’

  Weiman glanced at his wristwatch. It was gone eleven now. ‘He’ll have gone to bed, I am afraid. But the drinks are on the table there. Steven, would you mind?’

  Catesby rose smoothly to his feet. One of the patio tables had been commandeered as a makeshift bar for the evening. ‘Any other takers?’ he enquired. The Englishman did not have to ask twice.

  I pulled myself up from the table, keen to take advantage of the brief pause in the game. ‘Excuse me for a minute.’ My stomach was still feeling the after-effects of that soup. ‘Won’t be two ticks.’

  ‘You know where it is?’ Catesby asked.

  ‘Yes, by the front stairs.’ I headed quickly through the arches and under the covered way, out into the hallway on the far side. A set of steps ran up from here to the first floor. The bathroom was just behind them. I grabbed an oil lamp from the small table outside and quickly nipped into the WC.

  There was no lock on the inside of the door, which was rather worrying, but the flickering lamplight was enough to warn people that the room was occupied. I checked the lavatory bowl for insects and then swiftly completed my ablutions. It was only when I emerged from the closet that I noticed a figure moving about in the gloom of the corridor. ‘Who’s that?’ I called.

  It was Moses, the house boy. ‘Just me, mister,’ he said.

  I grunted. ‘You shouldn’t go creeping about like that.’ I had thought he had gone to bed. ‘You could give someone a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry, mister.’ There was a small slip of paper in his hand. ‘I have a note for you.’

  ‘A note, for me? Who is it from?’

  ‘A friend, mister.’ He proffered the piece of paper.

  A friend? What the devil was he talking about? I placed the oil lamp down on the table and took hold of the note. Moses scurried away before I had the chance to unfold it. I crouched down next to the lamp to get some decent light. There
wasn’t much to read there, just an illiterate scrawl in heavy capital letters.

  It said: “DO NOT TRUST MR KATEBY. I NOW ABOWT MR MARKUM. COME TO DRY STORR AT 11 TOMORRO MORNING.”

  ‘Good lord,’ I breathed.

  Chapter Four

  The first thing I was aware of was a loud clatter, as the wooden shutters were pulled back from the window. The bedroom was south facing but the morning had progressed sufficiently that a shaft of sunlight was cutting across the top of the bed, slapping me hard across the face like an irate nanny. I groaned and turned my head into the pillow. My head was throbbing and my mouth felt as dry as the Peruvian Altiplano. ‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ Maurice declared, stepping back from the window and moving across to the side of the bed to pour me a glass of water.

  ‘Is it?’ I mumbled. I heard the slosh of liquid and managed to pry open a crusted eyelid. As far as I could recall, I had gone to bed at two or three in the morning, after several stiff brandies. In my younger days, it would have been six am and a couple of dozen, but age was catching up with me. ‘What time is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten o’clock, Monsieur.’

  I nodded and took the water. ‘So I’ve missed the tour then?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ That was a relief. ‘I understood from Monsieur Reeves that you did not wish to join this morning’s expedition.’

  I downed the water in one. ‘No, I didn’t.’ As if anyone in their right mind would want to trek through a load of coffee fields first thing in the morning. I handed the glass back to Maurice and he poured out another. I was tempted to ask for a whisky – hair of the dog and all that – but I knew I would need a clear head this morning. I drained the second glass and pulled myself up. I was still wearing my shirt sleeves from the night before. I had barely managed to get my jacket off before I had crashed into bed.

  Maurice secured the door and closed the blinds, then came across to unfasten my shirt. I slipped out of it gratefully. The valet unwound my bandages, which were beginning to chafe, and then secured a fresh set. I took a moment to wash my face in a bowl, while Maurice laid out my trousers and a clean shirt. The whole ritual was completed in blissful silence. This was one morning when my man’s lack of conversational initiative was deeply appreciated. I had managed to avoid a full-blown hangover but I was still feeling a little delicate. Maurice bent down and banged out my shoes on the wooden floor. I did not complain. It was as well to make sure no scorpions or other creepy crawlies had taken up residence during the night. I laced up the shoes as he pulled back the blinds a second time, then stood up and walked over to the chair where I had slung my jacket the night before. I dug inside for the note and handed it across. ‘What do you make of this?’