What You Wish For

by Janet Dawson

  “Her name is Flor Guzmán,” Nazario said. “She lived with her husband and son in the house where we found the picture. The other woman is Prudencia Muñoz.”

  The survivors described what had happened in San Blas, the grim tale winding out, like the tape on Merle’s recorder, an orgy of rape and slaughter. “They took Efraín,” Flor cried, “snatched him from me. Others, too. A baby, and a little girl. They took them away.”

  “We’ve heard of the army taking children,” Beatriz said.

  Flor rubbed away the tears. “These were Don Humberto’s men.”

  “Humberto Aragón is a dead man,” Nazario snarled. “Some day I will kill him.”

  “We must list their names,” Prudence said. “So no one forgets.”

  The bell in the Los Árboles church tower began to toll the hour. The tolling of the names of the dead of San Blas went on far longer.

  * * *

  Early next morning, Nazario rapped on the door of Merle’s hotel room, identifying himself. She threw back the covers, instantly alert, belted her robe over her pajamas, and unlocked the door. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going back to San Blas. To see if I can find out something about the children. Will you come with me?”

  Merle ran a hand through her sleep-tousled hair. She’d updated her article about San Blas and its survivors yesterday afternoon, in a burst of white-hot energy. The story was finished—or was it? San Blas nagged at her, needing a follow-up. Those children, kidnapped, when most of the other inhabitants had been slaughtered. “I’ll go,” she said.

  She dressed quickly in faded jeans, T-shirt, khaki jacket, a blue bandanna around her neck. She took only the Minolta and the telephoto lens, both in leather cases with straps, and filled her jacket pockets with film canisters. Her waist pack held her passport, press credential, and money. The story she’d updated last night and the rolls of film she’d shot were in a manila envelope in her suitcase, tucked into the plastic sack that she used to collect soiled clothes.

  When they stepped out of the trees above San Blas, Merle thought they’d wound up in the wrong valley. Everything was gone, scraped away by the bulldozer. The earthen dam above the village had been breached, another dam thrown up below. Water covered the site, its surface deceptively smooth, reflecting the morning sun. San Blas was now a lake.

  “They buried the bodies,” Nazario said, “then demolished the buildings, to make it look like there was never a village here. There’s nothing left.”

  Merle began taking pictures, looking through the telephoto lens. “Yes, there is. I can see the church below the surface.”

  They walked down the slope, circling the shoreline of the new lake to the dam, a crude construct of dirt, rocks, lumber and gravel. Bulldozer tracks waffled the mud at its base. It must have taken most of Monday to knock down the rude huts that had housed the campesinos, build this dam and destroy the other, erasing the memory of the people who had lived here. But there hadn’t been enough time for the water to cover the church.

  They scrambled to the top of the new dam and looked into the shallow water at the charred ghost of the church. Merle switched to her regular lens, then waded into the water, the camera’s motor drive whirring. She reached the end of the roll and splashed back to shore. She changed rolls and tucked the spent film into a canister, shoving it into the front pocket of her fanny pack, separate from the unused film. She climbed back to the top of the new dam and began shooting pictures again.

  Nazario grabbed her arm, startling her. “We must go, now.”

  They started up the hill. Just past the spot where the old dam had been, Merle looked back and saw a Jeep crest the hill. Two men leapt from the vehicle, shouting. She heard the crack of gunfire and stumbled, feeling as though someone had punched her in the thigh. Nazario hauled her to her feet. Merle took a step, but her leg wouldn’t work. She sat down hard. Blood oozed from a hole above her left knee, bright red on blue denim. Merle felt a wave of nausea. Don’t look, she told herself. The bullet wound didn’t hurt much, not then. Shock, probably. The two men from the Jeep were gaining on them.

  She pulled the film she’d just shot from her pack and handed it to Nazario. “Go.” He shook his head. She grinned, with a bravado she didn’t feel. “Hey, they can’t kill me. I’m an American, I’m a reporter.”

  “They’ll kill you because you’re a reporter. Your American passport won’t protect you.”

  “It has to. I can’t climb that hill and you can’t carry me. No point in both of us getting caught. They have to stop for me. That gives you time to get to the truck. Take the film and go. Get the story and pictures to my news service.” She told him where to find the envelope, hidden in the laundry sack.

  She reached into the pack and took out two business cards—Joe Redfern’s and the news service in Los Angeles that was paying her for this adventure. “Call the Los Angeles people. They’ll tell you what to do with the film and the story. Call this man. He’ll get me out. Go now.”

  Maybe Joe was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to El Salvador after all.

  The bullet had gone through her thigh, leaving an exit wound at the back. She figured that was better than having the slug still in there. She hoped it hadn’t hit anything important. Her leg throbbed with pain, as though she’d been stung by the biggest goddamned bee on the planet. She wrapped her bandanna tightly around the wound, tying the ends of the cloth to keep it in place.

  Her captors were shockingly young to have perpetrated the massacre she’d seen yesterday. Not that the old had cornered the market on decency. One man stopped in front of her, pointing a gun at her head. The second man continued up the hill. Moments later he returned, reporting that the rebel got away. Nazario was on his way to Los Árboles. He’d make those calls.

  The first man slung his weapon onto his shoulder and reached down, grabbing the cases that held the camera and lens. He opened the camera case and pulled out the Minolta, his fingers fumbling with the catch at the back. He tore open the camera and pulled out the film, exposing it to the light. Then he smashed the Minolta and the telephoto lens against a tree. Merle winced at the tangled mess of glass and metal. Damn, that was her best camera.

  Joe always said the best defense was an offense. Might as well brazen it out. “Take me to Humberto Aragón,” she demanded in Spanish. “I’m an American journalist.”

  The man who’d smashed her camera sneered. “I should kill you, puta.”

  “Aragón would be angry. Killing a journalist isn’t very smart.”

  He glowered at her as he ripped her watch from her wrist and shoved it into his pocket. Then he dragged her to her feet, shoving her back against the log. He went through her jacket pockets, pulling out rolls of unused film. These he handed to the second man, telling him to expose it. While his companion ripped open the film canisters, the first man fumbled at her waist. For a panicked second she thought he was trying to unfasten her jeans. Instead, with a contemptuous glare, he released the buckle on the waist pack. He unzipped it and rifled through the contents, pocketing the money. Then he pulled out her passport and her press credential. He looked them over, comparing her passport photo with her face.

  “I’m scheduled to interview the American ambassador in San Salvador tomorrow,” she lied. “The embassy and my news service will ask questions if I don’t show up.”

  The two men stared at the documents, conferring in whispers. Then they grabbed Merle’s arms and dragged her to her feet. She gasped. Pain pounded like a sledgehammer. Her captors manhandled her down the hillside to their Jeep and boosted her up into the backseat. Merle leaned back against the grimy, worn upholstery. Sweat trickled down her face and she tried to slow her breathing.

  The driver gunned the Jeep over the hill, past the coffee processing plant, through rolling, cultivated hills, acres and acres of coffee trees hung with green coffee berries, then up a driveway to a two-story house encircled by a wide veranda. Merle saw the bulldozer inside a nearby shed. Her ca
ptors parked and hauled Merle from the Jeep, quickly surrounded by uniformed men who stared at her as though she’d dropped from Mars.

  Then they parted, making way for a bulky man with a hard brutal face. He listened impatiently to his men, as his thick fingers flipped through her passport and press credential. “You should have put a bullet in her head and left her in the mountains.”

  Merle stiffened her spine and her voice. “I want to see Humberto Aragón.”

  The big man hadn’t expected her to speak Spanish. He slapped her. “Shut up, bitch.”

  The screen door at the back of the house opened. The man who stepped onto the veranda wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt and khakis. He had cropped black hair and a moustache. He lit a cigarette and shoved the pack and lighter back into his pocket. “What’s this, Cruz?”

  “An American reporter, Major,” Cruz said, a shade of deference to his tone as he handed over Merle’s passport and press credential. “My men found her and a rebel at San Blas. The coward ran off and left her. She speaks Spanish.”

  Major. Severino, the landowner’s son, the one Nazario said was in the Salvadoran army. He examined the documents, then looked at Merle, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Trespassing on private property is a serious matter in El Salvador.”

  The wound in Merle’s thigh throbbed. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip and she gnawed the inside of her cheek.

  “Bring her inside. She’s hurt.” The woman in the doorway spoke crisp Spanish. She wore blue slacks and a blue shirt. She pulled a scarf from her pocket and used it to tie back her long blond hair.

  Severino frowned. “That complicates matters. Take her to the office.”

  Cruz propelled Merle up the porch steps and into a big kitchen, past a frightened-looking middle-aged woman, then to a central hallway, where Merle saw the underside of a staircase. Then Cruz shoved her into a small square room and a hard wooden chair. A window opened onto the back veranda.

  A tall dark-haired man appeared in the hallway outside the office. He stared at Merle and spoke in English. “What the hell is going on?”

  The blond woman answered, her voice low so Merle couldn’t hear. The middle-aged woman appeared, bearing a tray with a basin of water, cloth, and a first-aid kit. She set these on the desk.

  “Gracias, Ana.” The woman pulled up a stool and sat in front of Merle. She said in English, “Let’s take a look.” She opened the first-aid kit. With scissors she cut away the bandanna and the denim above the wound, then dampened a cloth and wiped away the blood. “The bullet went all the way through. Here’s the exit wound.” The woman took a brown bottle from the kit and tipped liquid onto gauze. Merle winced as the woman cleaned the entrance and exit wounds, then smeared them with antibiotic cream. She bandaged the thigh tightly with gauze and tape, and stood, wiping her hands on the damp cloth. She opened a bottle, shaking several tablets into the cap. “Aspirin. Take these.” She filled a glass from a carafe of water on the desk and handed it to Merle, who swallowed the pills. The woman took the glass from her.

  The woman’s English was good, Merle thought. She must have been educated in the United States. Now what happens? A sound intruded. Was that a baby crying? Merle couldn’t tell for sure whether the wail came from inside the house or somewhere outside.

  Curses exploded in the air. A man loomed in the doorway, with iron-gray hair and a thickset body clad in khaki work clothes. Humberto Aragón, Merle guessed.

  “I am surrounded by fools and idiots,” the landowner bellowed in Spanish, scowling at Merle. “They should have put a bullet in her head.”

  “She speaks Spanish,” Severino warned.

  The woman in blue took Humberto’s arm. “Let’s go outside.” She, Severino and the landowner left the office, followed by the tall dark man in the hallway. Cruz remained at the office door. As though I’m going to make a break for it with this leg, Merle thought.

  Ana came into the office and picked up the tray, fear in her eyes. “I heard a baby crying,” Merle whispered in Spanish. “Are there children here? Three children? From San Blas?”

  Ana looked startled, then terrified as she glanced at Cruz. She nodded, a quick, brief movement of her chin.

  So the children were here in the house, Merle thought as Ana left the office. She listened, hoping to hear something, anything that would help her assess the situation. She figured it was precarious. Then she heard Humberto’s voice, unexpectedly loud, and realized that the landowner was on the veranda, near the office window. What she heard made her go cold.

  “...kill her now and get it over with.”

  The woman spoke, from farther away. “...bad idea.”

  “...too late for that.” Severino’s voice came in and out, as though he were pacing along the veranda. “...broker from Dunlin...”

  Merle couldn’t hear all of the woman’s reply. “...if she winds up dead or missing...you don’t want...take her to San Salvador.”

  “Just let her go?” Humberto Aragón shouted.

  The other voices were farther away now and Merle heard only fragments of the conversation, indistinct. “...Cristina, call Fran­cisco...” Severino said, then he moved away.

  A jumble of voices made it difficult to determine who was saying what. Then she heard Humberto say, “...dupe of the rebels.”

  Severino’s voice chimed in, closer now. “...she has no proof.”

  Yes, I do, you smug bastard, Merle thought. Plenty of evidence. There were two eyewitnesses to the slaughter in San Blas. Merle had photos of the site, before and after it was flooded. She’d already written the story, including those eyewitness interviews. Nazario would make sure the story and the film got to her bureau office in San Salvador. Merle was already planning to write one hell of a follow-up story. People would believe. She’d make them believe.

  If she got out of this mess alive.

  20

  Merle rubbed her leg, just above the left knee. “It bothers me sometimes, right here where the bullet went through. Particularly when it’s cold and damp.”

  Lindsey closed the file folder in her lap and set it on the low table between them. Merle was right. Viewing the photographic evidence of the San Blas massacre took a strong stomach. “What happened after you left the finca?”

  “Severino took me to the airport in San Salvador. A government official—Severino called him Francisco—met us at the airport, with two soldiers. He tore up my press credential, handed me my passport, and told me I was being tossed out of the country. As easy as that, because the Aragóns made their phone calls. The soldiers put me on the next flight to the United States. I wound up in Houston with the clothes I was wearing, my passport, and no money. I’d left everything in the hotel in Los Árboles and Humberto’s thugs took my money.”

  Merle sipped coffee and set her mug on the end table. “When I got to Houston I called Joe and the news service. Joe told me Nazario had already called. He had collected the story, film and my luggage, took them to San Salvador, and gave them to a journalist colleague who was heading for Los Angeles. Joe bought me a plane ticket and met me at LAX with a suitcase full of clothes. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life.”

  “Then the story and pictures were published,” Lindsey said.

  “Yes. It created a minor sensation. But ultimately nobody believed me. Let’s put it another way. My story had no effect. There was no justice for the people of San Blas. Those who believed my story already had their minds made up about El Salvador. The Aragóns ­denied the whole thing. Not just the massacre. They denied there had ever been a village called San Blas. They denied the very existence of the people who had lived there, who’d worked for them.”

  “But surely the village appeared on a map,” Lindsey said.

  “Yes, but that valley is called San Blas. So is the creek that runs through it, the creek they dammed to form the pond. The village was an afterthought, thrown up when the coffee plant was built, one of several company towns for the campesinos on the Aragón finca.
San Blas was there, and then it wasn’t. Bulldozed and flooded in late April, the end of the dry season. The rainy season started in May and the elements obliterated whatever evidence was left—just as the Aragóns hoped.”

  “You had eyewitnesses, Flor and Prudencia. The other people who lived there must have had relatives. What about the pictures of the bodies? And the buildings that were flooded?”

  “The campesinos in El Salvador are rootless,” Merle said. “They move from place to place, searching for work. That snapshot of Flor’s family—just peasants in front of a church. It didn’t prove that the village of San Blas ever existed. Who’s to say who lived where, and when? The Aragóns claimed I took those pictures of bodies at some battle and made up the story. The photos of the flooded village could have been taken anywhere, certainly not on Aragón land. As for my eyewitnesses, Nazario was concerned they might wind up dead, so he got them out of Los Árboles. Beatriz was killed a few months later. Nazario was my only witness, a rebel with his own agenda. The Aragóns did a bang-up job with their cover-up. I was just another flaming left-wing journalist out to smear the Salvadoran government and the landowners. Humberto called me a dupe of the rebels, painted me with that brush, and it stuck.

  “The massacre and the cover-up took place. I know what I saw. Those people were murdered. They deserve to have someone say they lived and died. But that’s the way the story played out. After a while, Joe told me to let it go and move on. So I did.”

  Merle shrugged. “Truth is the first casualty of war. I found that out in El Salvador. Humberto Aragón always described himself as a hardworking self-made man, but he inherited his wealth from his father and grandfather. He and others like him boast about how they built El Salvador into the country it is today. The Aragóns are part of that twenty percent of the population that controls sixty percent of El Salvador’s wealth. The peasants still live in desperate poverty. That’s the country El Salvador is today, all right.”