The Shadow Knows

by Kenneth Rosen

  ***

  The rainy season had begun a little earlier than usual that year but no rain fell on us the day I first went up to David with Ray for one of the Inter-American conferences. The town is the antithesis of Panama City, clean and uncrowded and slow, aesthetically pleasing to the eye and as politically neutral as it is possible for any Central American town to be. Ray had arranged for us to meet a Costa Rican friend of his and her sister after the opening session adjourned in the early evening. He had explained that it was fairly common practice for Costa Ricans to cross the border and come down to David on weekends for a little change of social pace. As quiet as David first seemed to me, I wondered about the kind of social life available further north, but Ray was eloquent on the beauty of Costa Rican women and I was looking forward to the evening.

  “Pues, que tal, Ramon? It is very pleasant to meet you again. And your young friend is ---?”

  Ray was pointing out some of the delegates and saying hello to some of the observers when a Cuban captain in pressed fatigues greeted him. The officer was almost dapper with his polished jump-boots and neatly knotted yellow infantryman’s scarf tucked carefully into his blouse; I noted the trimmed beard and the blue eyes and the complete absence of any unit insignias or medals as he introduced himself as Captain Carlos, a small smile and a steady observant gaze briefly sent my way before he moved on. Ray had introduced me as the new observer sent up by the school to see what new courses might be added to the curriculum to satisfy the needs of students from some of the smaller South and Central American armies. Carlos had listened to Ray politely, had undoubtedly made his own observations, and had gone on to a group of Panamanian Guardia staff officers who seemed to be waiting for his approach.

  “That, my friend, is what we quaintly call some of the competition. I have no idea what his last name is -- maybe it’s really Carlos -- but some people say he was with Fidel in the early days in the mountains and that he still has some special access. I don’t know about that, but I do know that nothing moves across this northern border -- including people -- without his knowledge. Always felt he was a good person not to antagonize too much.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “No, not very. Met him a few times at meetings like this but he spends most of his time with much bigger fish than us. He’s usually an observer at these affairs, officially, but the delegates from the less stable countries -- and sometimes even Mexico -- are usually in conference with him between the public speeches. My guess is he’s the point man for the local distribution of some of his country’s hardware and these are handy places to talk to most of his customers, to find out what they think they need and to get assurances in exchange for deliveries or promised deliveries. He must also find these events convenient for assessing the relative strengths and weaknesses of his Pan American neighbors in terms of their requests and their interest, or lack of interest, in specific training techniques and material.”

  “Just like us, isn’t he -- in a way?” The hint of cynicism was part of the rapport that had begun to develop between us, but I didn’t yet know him well enough to dispense with the tone of qualification. That would come later.

  “In a way. The stuff he’s peddling right now, though, is probably usable but outdated and Russian; it won’t be long before he’ll be able to supply his customers with state-of-the-art stuff of his own. When that time comes it’ll take people who are a hell of a lot more sophisticated than thee and me to keep up with him.”

  For the rest of the afternoon we listened to the various speeches, sat in on a discussion between a general from Nicaragua and two Panamanian colonels about the need for more sophisticated assault rifles for their national police forces, and circulated as much as possible during the breaks for coffee, each of us going our own way and at our own speed. Ray knew many of the participants and he tended to move at regular intervals from group to group, but I found myself listening to one or two discussions for extended periods of time, unable to move away casually once I’d concluded there was little to be learned there, feeling as if my veil of interest in the various topics was transparent and my rushing from one group to another would be seen as insulting or disrespectful. Just before the adjournment for the day there was a brief cocktail hour in one of the largest of the conference rooms and Ray joined me at the makeshift bar.

  “Relax a little, son, or you’ll burn out at an early age. You act as if you’re working without a net in the center ring, and it just ain’t so. What we do here is of little interest to most of these people and the few who do care already know we’re just trying to pick up the odd little tidbit for someone else to chew on; they’re probably doing the same thing themselves.”

  “I know. Just have to get used to the rhythm of it all, I guess. No problem -- just a slight case of a new boy on the block.”

  “True, and speaking of which I think it’s time to initiate you in the ways of Costa Rican charm and hospitality. If we leave now we can meet the girls at the ---.”

  We both noticed him looking our way as he turned from his conversation with one of the Costa Rican delegates and moved slowly toward us. The yellow scarf was as neatly adjusted now as it had been at the beginning of the day. He addressed us with a drink in his hand, almost as if we were fellow workers who had shared a long and difficult day at the office.

  “A long session, wouldn’t you agree? Shall we relax and share some wine tonight? I know of a place where the food is good and the entertainment interesting. Quite a few of your countrymen go there.”

  I could tell by a glance at Ray’s expression that my planned initiation would have to wait for another trip up north. It wasn’t that he appeared anxious to accept Carlos’ invitation; it was more as if his professional curiosity were piqued, as if he welcomed the opportunity to see another side, the social side, of the man’s world. Maybe I was just projecting my own interest, too, which was considerable, but Ray didn’t hesitate at all.

  “Sounds like a good idea. We’ll have to cancel a few arrangements -- a phone call should be enough -- if you give us directions we’ll meet you there whenever you wish.”

  “It’s called El Relampago and it’s in the barrio section. Any taxi driver will find it for you. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

  We agreed and he nodded and walked off into the crowd. Ray and I returned to the nearby hotel in which we were billeted and he made the phone call to his friend, explaining that some pressing business had come up suddenly and that we would certainly try to contact them the next time we got to David. He hung up with a rather rueful look.

  “That may have been a mistake. She said that she and her sister had even gotten their hair done this afternoon. I’m not sure if my credit with her is good enough to assure us dates with them the next time around. Oh, well -- wherever night overtakes me I will lay my head. Just another glaring example of a man being unable to have it both ways. I think our spending the evening with the good captain, though, is too fine a chance to pass up. I assume you concur.”

  “Definitely, but what sacrifices we make for our country.”

  “Come on, you know as well as I do that we couldn’t justify tonight on any expense account even if we tried -- don’t know about you, but I think old Carlos gives off enough of the danger and mystery stuff to be worth spending at least a little time with -- to keep the adrenaline flowing, if nothing else.”

  “Quite so. I doubt if we’ll learn anything from him. He doesn’t strike me as the careless type. But I’ve got to admit I’m not really as disappointed in the change of plans as I probably should be. Just for the hell of it, though, why not describe her sister for me one more time, in detail?”

  When we arrived the place was already busy. The dining room wasn’t so bad but the bar was elbow to elbow and the dance floor was crowded. It was a mixed group, some local Panamanians who seemed well dressed and somewhat out of their element in this part of town, some rather sleazy types who looked as if they got turned
away from the fancy casinos down in the capital on a regular basis, and a great many gringos who looked like off-duty soldiers on three-day passes who had come from the Zone to let off some steam away from their home turf. We saw Carlos in the dining room, presiding over an otherwise empty table for four, and we joined him.

  “Bienvenidos. Mi casa, su casa. It seemed as if soon there would be no more tables so I seated myself. A Bacardi light without ice, I believe, and ---?”

  “Bacardi dark and coke, thanks. Ice if they have it.”

  I noticed the changes he’d made in his appearance since we’d last seen him. The uniform had been abandoned for civilian clothes much like our own, but the overall effect was almost a transformation. Instead of the pressed and well tailored fatigues of the afternoon that had complemented his slim and obviously powerful frame, he now wore a white Panamanian shirt that was slightly too big for him over a pair of wrinkled black polyester slacks. As he stood up to greet us and take our orders to relay to one of the waiters I tried to figure out what else was different; the appearance of a somewhat sloppy and shapeless ineptitude was the result of almost obsessive attention to detail. His hair, carefully combed and parted earlier, was now brushed straight back to give it the look of a partially grown-out crew-cut, not unlike those worn by many of the customers in the place; his slightly too-short slacks revealed white cotton socks and scuffed black U.S. Army dress shoes; his shirt, worn outside his slacks as is the custom, was long-sleeved and the top button was buttoned, as if the man was less than proud of revealing any part of his body. Before he sat down again I noticed his posture was slightly stooped, adding the perfect touch of undisciplined haphazardness to the picture.

  My surprise must have been evident to both of them because Ray was chuckling quietly and Carlos, smiling and with a touch of pride, said, “I am a great believer in flying the flag of convenience. It allows a person, on certain occasions, to move safely through some otherwise dangerous waters. Don’t you agree?”

  We did and the meal was leisurely and pleasant, punctuated by regular refills of decent wine and easy conversation about non-controversial topics; we avoided Cuban-American relations and the build-up and support of the various militias and popular-front groups in the region and settled, instead, for swapping stories about our experiences before joining our respective armies. Carlos had an engaging and self-deprecating way of talking about himself as a young man growing up fast on the streets of some very tough Cuban towns and we paid our bill and moved to the lounge, I for one feeling rather euphorically that the evening was turning out well after all.

  The floorshow had begun as we squeezed around a tiny table well back from the dance floor which now served as a stage. The entertainment was, as had been promised, interesting, and the other off-duty Americans were the most loudly appreciative members of the audience. After an excellent folk singing guitarist came two female strippers with a routine of competitively creative undressing that had male and female customers alike applauding for more. As one performer very affectionately helped the other off stage at the end of a contest that was obviously meant to end in a draw, the light dimmed and a purple spotlight came on, outlining an unusually tall San Blas Indian standing regally still at the very center of the stage, dressed in a black velveteen robe tied at the throat with a bright yellow cord. As the three-piece combo that had been backing the two strippers by simply banging out the rhythm now switched to a very slow and sultry jazz tune, the two now returned, naked, and proceeded to disrobe the man. As the yellow cord was finally pulled the black robe fell to the floor to reveal the Indian in all his unclothed and rampant glory, a moment of stunned silence was followed by audible gasps and then a burst of applause and wild cheering. The man grinned, nodded his head once in mock modesty, and then the three performers took turns in satisfying each other -- or at least appearing to do so. At the height of what turned out to be the Indian’s final orgasm of the night all hell broke loose in the audience.

  An American, very drunk and confusedly trying to copy the latest position of intercourse on the stage, must have been helped onto a table by his friends and as he dropped his trousers and wildly flung wide his arms he screamed, “Look, Ma, no hands!”

  One of his friends, clearly feeling no pain either, yelled his encouragement to one of the female performers.

  “Pull train, baby! Oh, yes, that’s beautiful.” In his enthusiasm he fell against the table. The first soldier came crashing down on a group of locals, splintering their table and sending glasses and beer bottles everywhere. One of the Panamanians, knocked from his chair by the American’s fall, came off the floor with a knife in his right hand.

  “Gringo bastard, I’m gonna cut you three ways -- wide, deep, and often.” From where I sat he sounded sober and people moved out of his way quickly.

  I didn’t even see Carlos leave his seat. The fallen soldier had managed to disentangle himself and get to his feet and as he swayed unsteadily, trying to pull up his trousers, the man with the knife moved in quickly. As he sprang out of the crouch he’d assumed, obviously going for the throat on the first lunge, a white-socked and slightly turned foot on a fully extended leg caught him on the side of his head and the blade sliced only air. Carlos’ kick surprised him but it didn’t knock him down; with the agility of the experienced street fighter he recovered his balance and went for Carlos in the same explosive movement. This time he came in low, aiming for the groin with the knife and feinting to the left for distraction. One of Carlos’ hastily discarded shoes probably kept the blow from being fatal; the man stumbled on the shoe for only a fraction of a second but it was enough to allow the knife to cut harmlessly through a polyester trouser leg. He tried to recover from the miss quickly, but Carlos stepped in under his overextended knife arm and delivered a backhanded chop with the blade of his right hand that caught the man in the throat and crushed his windpipe. He went down slowly but I knew he was as good as dead when he started to fall.

  A quick glance at Ray caused me to lose sight of Carlos as the shouting started and the crowd now surged forward. I thought I glimpsed him pushing his way out through a side door, but I couldn’t be sure in all of the confusion and Ray and I had all we could do to make our way through the kitchen and out the rear delivery entrance. By the time we stopped running we were almost out of the barrio.