GENESIS (Projekt Saucer)

by W. A. Harbinson

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I see. Come with me.’

  ‘You’re from the German?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Over there.’ The man pointed impatiently at the village. ‘Let’s go. He expects you.’

  They made their way along the jetty, past the staring contrabandistas, the air stinking of urine and sewage and diesel fuel, the sun glinting off the oil in the river, off pistols and knives. Stanford took note of the weapons, could scarcely credit the sheer amount of them, had the feeling that he was in a war zone, death ready to pounce on him. This thought heightened his tension, swelled his feeling of unreality, and he blinked and wiped more sweat from his face, tried to keep his head clear. The big man was just ahead, the knife bouncing against his hip, stepping down into the dust of the clearing, chickens scattering around him. Stanford followed him down, feeling drained and exhausted, breathing dust, the heat burning his exposed skin, the light hurting his eyes.

  There were two trucks in the clearing, their paint flaking, revealing rust, and the Ache Indians were now grouped just in front of them, being prodded and poked. The Indians were being examined. The Federales were watching them. A tall man in gray slacks and white shirt was walking to and fro, studying them. This man was very thin, almost cadaverous, brown eyes in a sunburnt brown face, brown hair graying and thinning. He did not touch the Indians, merely studied them with distaste, standing back while Chavez extolled their virtues, showed their teeth, stripped their clothes off.

  ‘Quatsch!’ the tall man sneered. ‘This is rubbish you bring me. Old men and sick women and children, not worth ten guaranis.’

  Chavez spluttered his protestations, his hands waving histrionically, then he stripped the blouse off a woman’s shoulders and held her breasts high. The woman’s narrow eyes widened, filled with fear and dreadful shame, when Chavez jiggled her breasts in his hands as if bouncing two rubber balls.

  ‘Look, señor,’ he said. ‘They are ripe and filled with milk. Still a good breeder, señor. And so soft, señor. Soft!’

  ‘Dreck!’ the tall man sneered. ‘They are unclean and diseased. They are not fit to work in the fields. You should bury them now.’

  Looking at the Indians, Stanford saw their humiliation. He shook with fury and then studied the tall man and wanted to murder him. Chavez glanced over his shoulder, saw Stanford, grinned slyly, then pointed in Stanford’s direction and whispered to the tall man. Stanford stepped forward. The tall man came toward him. They stopped about a foot from one another, the dust drifting between them.

  ‘You are Stanford,’ the tall man said.

  ‘Yes,’ Stanford said.

  ‘You have the money?’

  ‘I have half the money. The rest is in Asunción.’

  ‘You don’t trust me,’ the German said.

  ‘I can’t afford to,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Good,’ the German said. ‘That is intelligent. I cannot deal with fools.’ He grinned bleakly and turned aside, looked at Chavez, waved at the trucks. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I have no choice but to accept them. Put the schweine into the trucks and drive them out of my sight.’

  Stanford was enraged, but knew he had to control himself. There was nothing he could do for the Indians; not now and not ever. Still, it made him burn. He heard the bawling and saw the blows. The Federales punched the Indians, thumped them brutally with their rifle butts, forcing them up into the rear of the trucks, the women and children all wailing. The tall German hardly saw this. He was negotiating with Chavez. Their hands were waving and they were shouting at each other and then they reached an agreement. They actually shook hands. Stanford thought that ridiculous: a travesty of civilized behaviour. The trucks roared into life and churned up the reddish dust and rumbled out of the clearing. Stanford glanced around the village. The huts were primitive and filthy. Hogs and goats wandered freely, infants sucked at sagging breasts, Indians squatted around fires of glowing ash, staring at him with dulled eyes. Chavez waved at the tall German. He then walked up to Stanford. He stopped to offer his sly, gap-toothed grin, his brown eyes still mischievous.

  ‘Keep your eyes and ears open,’ he whispered. ‘Adios, compañero!’

  He sauntered back to the gunboat, his shirttails flapping behind him, as the German walked up to Stanford, his gaunt face dark and sweaty.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you came.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stanford said, ‘I came.’

  ‘And how do you like Paraguay?’

  ‘I’m not wildly impressed.’

  The German laughed at the remark, a high-pitched, barking sound, then the laughter turned into a ragged coughing that made his whole body shake. He cursed and turned aside, covered his mouth with a handkerchief, kept it there until the coughing had subsided, then wiped blood from his lips.

  ‘Scheisse,’ he hissed dramatically. ‘This filthy forest is killing me. I must return to Europe as soon as possible for some civilized care.’

  ‘Germany?’

  ‘Where else? I need a competent doctor. The Paraguayans have the surgical skills of butchers. I would not let them touch me.’

  ‘I thought you liked it here,’ Stanford said. ‘I mean, you’ve been here for about thirty years.’

  ‘Not by choice,’ the German said. ‘As you well know. I do not require your sarcasm.’

  He stared steadily at Stanford, his dark eyes hard and searching, then he sniffed and turned his gaze on the large man who had brought Stanford to him. The large man moved forward slightly, his knife and pistol flashing, and stopped when he was right beside Stanford, his thick arms dangling loosely.

  ‘This is Atilio,’ the German said. ‘He’s from Argentinia. He is now what we call a cuchillero, and is very reliable.’

  ‘What’s a cuchillero?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘A knifer,’ the German said. He turned his head and glanced around him, his lips curling in visible distaste at sight of the village. ‘Diese Halunken,’ he hissed. ‘Unbelievable. Come. Let us go.’

  He led them across the clearing, scattering children and chickens, Atilio right behind him, Stanford just behind Atilio, their feet kicking up the reddish dust, the fires smouldering on all sides. The fires were not for warmth. The Indians were roasting sweet potatoes. The German glanced down and spat on a fire as he passed the drab huts. He stopped at the edge of the forest. The trees shadowed a parked jeep. The German took a back seat, Stanford clambered in beside him, then Atilio sat behind the steering wheel and turned on the ignition.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘To my compound,’ the German said. ‘You want information and shall have it, but I must have my comforts. It is not too far away. Ten kilometers from here. I feel safer when I’m deep in the forest where the planes cannot see me.’

  The jeep roared into life, churning up soil and stones, lurched forward and headed into the forest where the trees kept the sun out. Stanford expected it to be cooler, was shocked to find that it wasn’t: the humidity was much worse, overpowering him, making him feel suffocated. He glanced around him, seeing a riot of vegetation, tangled vines and soaring trees in a chattering green gloom, isolated shafts of sunlight beaming down on the steaming banana leaves. The narrow track was very rough, hacked out by hand and pitted with potholes, winding left and right between the trees and disappearing ahead of them. The tall German said nothing. Stanford glanced sideways at him. The German skeletal, his cheekbones too prominent, his gelid eyes buried deep in his head, his lips thin and disdainful. The jeep coughed and rattled, bouncing up and down a lot, going through the shafts of sunlight that bored down through the trees and illuminated the steaming vegetation. Stanford felt suffocated. He was sweating and feeling feverish. He glanced again at the German, saw his dark, remote eyes, took a deep breath and licked his parched lips and wished the journey would end.

  ‘So,’ the German said. ‘You want to know about the saucers. You have come a long way for your information. You must want it badly.’
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  ‘I brought the money,’ Stanford said. ‘I want it that much.’

  ‘Why?’ the German said. ‘Why this interest in the saucers? Everyone wants to know about the saucers, but it does them no good.’

  ‘You’ve had others?’

  ‘Of course,’ the German said. ‘Did you think you were the first to locate me? Such vanity, mein Herr!’

  The German laughed at his own joke, the same high-pitched, barking sound, and again the laughter turned into a coughing that made him split blood. He cursed and wiped his lips, shook his head and muttered something, his thin body being jolted by the jeep as it bounced over the rough ground of the forest.

  ‘How many others?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘Just a few,’ the German said. ‘Three or four over the past ten years or so – all wanting the same thing.’

  ‘Who were they?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘Men like you,’ the German said. ‘Men with a great need to know, two Americans, a Russian…’ The German coughed again and cursed softly. ‘It will do you no good,’ he said. ‘Those who know what I know will not admit that it’s true; those who don’t know would refuse to believe it… It will do you no good.’

  Stanford didn’t reply. He thought the German might be right. He looked around the forest, at the steaming vegetation, saw striations of light in the gloom and felt as if he were dreaming. Then the jeep burst into sunlight: into a clearing in the forest. Lines of barbed wire formed a fence around a large wooden building, its sloping roof covered in vines and banana leaves, supported by planed tree trunks. The jeep skidded to a halt. Clouds of dust swirled up around it. Stanford coughed and covered his eyes with his hands until the dust had settled down again.

  ‘Sehr gut,’ the German said. ‘We are home. I live humbly, mein freund.’

  Stanford followed the German down, the dust settling around his feet, the heat monstrous, pouring down upon the clearing as if through a huge sheet of glass. He rubbed his eyes and checked the clearing, saw the curved line of the trees, the large, L-shaped building, a wooden house, directly in front of him, surrounded by more barbed wire. The compound was busy, filled with Indians and cuchilleros, the latter keeping watch on the former, their guns and knives threatening.

  ‘The barbed wire is electrified,’ the German said, ‘so make sure you don’t touch it. Over here. Come this way.’

  They walked across a stretch of ground, past the Indians and cuchilleros, reached the house and climbed a few wood steps to a porch protected by a thatched awning. There was a table and some chairs. An Ache woman stood by the table. She was wearing a red blouse and long black skirt, a towel draped over her right arm. She bowed low to the German. He simply grunted and sat down. He waved languidly at Stanford who joined him at the table, which held a bottle of brandy and two glasses, a clay cup full of wriggling worms. The worms were white and fat. The German reached over and picked one up. He bit its head off and held it up and said, ‘Koro worms! Try one.’ Stanford shuddered and shook his head, saying, ‘No.’ The German chortled and swallowed the worm. He put his feet up on a stool and the Ache woman went down on her knees and laboriously pulled off both his boots and wiped his bare feet with the towel. When this was done, she moved backward. She did not get off her knees. The German barked a command and the woman stood up and filled the two glasses with brandy. Stanford watched her, saying nothing. The German clapped his hands. The woman bowed and disappeared inside the house, her bare feet making squelching sounds.

  ‘So,’ the German said, ‘we are home. We are relaxed. We can talk.’

  He picked up his glass, sipped some brandy, set the glass down, stared at Stanford with a humorless smile that made Stanford’s flesh creep. Stanford picked his own glass up, drained it dry, set it down, then he pulled the leather bag from his shoulder and placed it between them.

  ‘Your money,’ he said.

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘When we’ve finished our business here to my satisfaction, one of your men can escort me back to Asunciόn and I’ll give him the other half.’

  ‘You might not do that,’ the German said.

  ‘Then your man will kill me,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Good,’ the German said. ‘You understand that. This makes me feel better.’

  He finished his brandy, refilled both glasses, then leaned back in his chair and offered Stanford that humorless smile.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Stanford said, wiping the smile from the German’s face. ‘I didn’t just come for information. I also want proof.’

  The German straightened up, then leaned forward to stare at Stanford with steely, barely concealed anger.

  ‘Proof?’ he said quietly.

  ‘You heard me,’ Stanford said. ‘I know for a fact that you can prove it – and that’s what I’m here for.’

  The German stared at him for a long time, hardly moving, expressionless, then his lips slowly curled into a smile as he sat back in his chair.

  ‘We have a jungle up north,’ he said.

  ‘I know that,’ Stanford said.

  ‘That jungle is hell,’ the German said. ‘You can take it or leave it.’

  Stanford pushed his chair back, took his glass and stood up, then went to the leaf-covered railing and looked over the compound. The sun was sinking behind the forest, the sky violet and serene, the conifers and cypress silhouetted as twilight descended. A faint breeze stirred the dust up, blew it lazily across the barbed wire, let it drift around the Indians and cuchilleros, their shadows stretched out and merging. Stanford studied the forest. It seemed dense and somehow threatening. Stanford shivered and turned away, let his rage defeat his fear, then grinned and held his glass up to the German in a mock salute.

  ‘Here’s to hell,’ Stanford said.

  They moved out the next morning, in the dawn’s bloody haze, heading into the forest, following a narrow, dwindling path, shafts of crimson light boring through the gloom between the dense, soaring trees. The Ache beaters were out ahead, their machetes hacking and slicing, clearing a path for the short line of men stretched out behind them. Stanford marched beside the German, the huge Atilio protecting both of them, a few disheveled cuchilleros behind them, their guns and knives rattling. The forest was still cold, the dew glistening and dripping, the leaves underfoot damp and treacherous, branches whipping and spitting. The forest rustled and chattered. Stanford heard it and loathed it. The morning sun was fighting to break through and bleed into the chilling gloom.

  ‘ Sehr gut,’ the German said. ‘A good morning. It will soon be less cold.’

  Stanford marched with some care, a small pack on his back, feeling cold and almost ill from lack of sleep, still not fully awake. He had slept in the German’s house. The German’s snoring had tormented him. He had tossed and turned uncomfortably on the hammock, the sounds of the forest in his ears. The forest never slept. The long night had taught him that much. He had heard jagged cries, staccato cackling, distant growling, the leaves rustling with a life of their own, the ground shifting and sliding. It was not much different now. Stanford glanced nervously around him. He saw tangled vegetation in the gloom, heard more unfamiliar, troubling sounds as his boots sank in mud. He did not like it one bit.

  ‘How long will it take?’ he asked.

  ‘All day,’ the German said. ‘It is a very long hike, my American friend, and will possibly wreck you.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ Stanford said.

  ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ the German said. ‘You are good for the second half of the money and that makes you worth helping.’

  Stanford tugged at the pack straps, felt the tingling of his skin, sweating even in the chill of morning, dreading the heat yet to come. He saw Atilio just ahead, his gross hips rolling rhythmically, a pistol and a couple of knives stuck down behind his broad belt. The forest seemed to be endless. It grew deeper and darker. The path dwindled away to nothing, disappeared, and the forest closed in on them. Stanford fingered his pack straps. His shou
lders had started aching. He looked ahead and saw the machetes of the Ache beaters hacking down the tangled liana and banana leaves. Stanford felt tired already, heard the rasping of his lungs. He glanced resentfully at the German, saw his gaunt, weathered profile, and wondered how that frail, gangling body could endure such punishment.

  ‘You are with us?’ the German asked.

  ‘I’m still here,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Sehr gut,’ the German said. ‘You must suffer. It is part of your penance.’

  ‘What penance?’ Stanford said.

  ‘Why ask me?’ the German retorted. ‘But a man does not come to this place just because of the saucers.’

  ‘That saucers are a mystery.’

  ‘And you came here for a mystery?’

  ‘I came because I lost a couple of friends and I want to know why.’

  The German nodded and grinned. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I see. And those friends were involved with the saucers. Ja? Am I right?’

  Stanford didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think about it. The forest chattered and slithered on all sides, and he felt his flesh creep. He would never find the answers. There were too many questions. He tried to think, but the sweat dripped into his stinging eyes and reduced him to pettiness. All right, think: he would think. He thought of Epstein in the mountains. He closed his eyes and saw the blackness rushing at him and exposing the stars above. His old friend had gone away. The months since then had not been pleasant. During the day, at night, whether awake or deep in sleep, he had suffered the dreams of those who knew that they were haunted and lived with their helplessness. Stanford knew he was being followed. He didn’t know, but he was certain. Yet each time he tried to think objectively about it, he collapsed into what seemed like paranoia. He now understood paranoia. He knew what the frightened felt. He had turned into an old man overnight and might never recover. Stanford fingered his chafing pack straps. He glanced nervously around him. The forest rustled and slithered with alien life forms that did not offer comfort.

  ‘Your friends disappeared?’ the German said.

  ‘Yes,’ Stanford replied.