She was, Mingolla thought, quite convincing, and if what she was saying was true, it might explain much about her. But he couldn’t swallow it. Her opening up to him was too sudden, too coincidental with his growing lack of trust in her, and it might be best to act on impulse and get rid of her now. But then, he realized, he’d have to deal with Tully, and he didn’t want that. He could be wrong, after all, and even if he wasn’t, she would be no threat as long as he kept an eye on her.
Ignoring her railing, her emoting, he shoved her ahead of him toward the front door.
‘Go with God,’ said the priest, and then laughed. ‘Or whatever.’
Mingolla paused in the doorway, looking back at him, feeling a momentary sympathy for a fellow New Yorker. ‘This ain’t for real, man,’ he said. ‘Y’know that?’
‘Sometimes I feel that way,’ said the priest. ‘But’—he shrugged, grinned—‘I gotta be me.’
‘Well… good luck.’
‘Hey,’ said the priest. ‘How the Mets doing?’
‘I don’t follow ’em, I’m a Yankee fan.’
The priest adopted a stern expression. ‘Blasphemer,’ he said, and then, with a friendly wave, he closed the door.
Soon they began to see the war in the sky, eerie sunset glows visible at every hour of the day as swirls of pink and golden light bathing the clouds. The people in the villages where they bought gas told them that the battle zone stretched for miles and that no trails existed to circumvent it. That war should have such a lovely reflection made the prospect of encountering it all the more menacing, but there was nothing to do except to go forward. The jungle became less dense, the evidence of conflict increasingly apparent. Once they came to a grassy slope upon which lay dozens of yellowish brown shapes that at a distance resembled giant footprints, but on closer inspection were revealed to be dessicated corpses that had been pressed flat, perhaps by the passage of tanks; their faces were eyeless masks, their fingers splayed like those of the clay men Mingolla had fashioned as a child. Less than a day’s travel farther on, they discovered a mass grave that had been left uncovered, and that same evening they reached the base of a volcano that rose from the midst of an extensive stand of mahogany trees: Mingolla spotted large wooden platforms high in the trees, and as the Bronco threaded its way among the trunks, he saw men descending on ropes from the heights of the trees ahead of them. Though the men did not appear to be bearing arms, he threw off the safety of his rifle and told Debora to pull up. He and Tully and Debora climbed out, training their rifles on the two men who approached them.
‘Hello!’ one of the men called. He was a balding, stocky American in his fifties, wearing shorts and a tattered khaki shirt with a general’s star on the collar; he had the sort of healthy openness to his face that Mingolla associated with scoutmasters and camp directors. His companion was an Indian, older, wrinkled, dressed in jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, ‘God, it’s good to see new faces,’ said the stocky man. ‘Where you bound?’
‘Panama,’ said Debora.
‘Well, then you’ll have to stay the night, won’t you?’ said the American. ‘My name’s Blackford. Frank Blackford, US Army, retired. And this’—he gestured at the Indian—‘is Gregorio, my brother-in-law. You might say we’re co-mayors of our little community. Come on up. We’ll feed you and…’
‘Thanks,’ said Mingolla. ‘But we want to make a few more miles before dark.’
Blackford’s good cheer evaporated. ‘You can’t do that. You’ll be in great danger.’
‘From what?’ said Tully.
Gregorio muttered something in his own language. Blackford nodded and said, ‘There’s a rather large animal that inhabits this area. Nocturnal, and very fierce. Weapons don’t have much effect on it… which is why we’ve taken to the heights.’
‘What kind of animal?’ Debora asked.
‘Malo,’ said Gregorio. ‘Muy malo.’
‘That’s a long story,’ said Blackford. ‘Look, you can’t get much farther tonight. You’ll be right in the heart of the most dangerous area. Why not stay with us, and I’ll tell you about it.’
He seemed genuinely concerned for them, but, taking no chances, Mingolla reinforced his concern and that of Gregorio. ‘All right,’ he said. What about the car?’
‘Be perfectly safe here.’ Blackford chuckled. ‘The Beast has no use for it.’
‘The Beast?’ Debora glanced at Mingolla, alarmed.
‘Crazy motherfuckers,’ said Tully under his breath.
Blackford heard him. Crazy, perhaps. But alive! Alive! And in these times, that’s the only form of sanity worth recognizing.
From the edge of a wooden platform encircling the trunk of a mahogany tree, Mingolla could see other platforms through the interstices of the branches. Charcoal fires in iron braziers glowed like faceted orange jewels among sprays of dark green leaves; women were hunkered beside them, and children sat beneath lean-tos set closer to the trunks. The smells of cooking came on the breeze, mixed with the clean scent of the trees. Men slid from platform to platform on systems of ropes, passing one another in mid-air. Just below, water jumped like a silvery fish from the jagged end of a pipe, spilled into a trough that ran from tree to tree; a pump thudded somewhere nearby. Wind frayed the sounds of conversational voices and babies crying. The platform where Mingolla was standing was roofed with interlaced branches and furnished with pallets and cushions. Propped in one comer was a pale green combat suit and helmet, and after they had eaten a meal of beans and rice served in banana leaves, Mingolla asked Blackford about the suit.
‘It’s mine,’ said Blackford.
‘I didn’t know generals took part in combat,’ Mingolla said.
‘They don’t,’ said Blackford; he flicked his starred collar. ‘This is what they give you for twenty-five years’ service with the quartermaster corps. The suit’—he seemed to be searching for the right words—it was part of a fantasy I once had. It comes in handy these days.’
‘How come you people livin’ wit’ de fuckin’ birds?’ Tully asked. He was sitting against the trunk, his arm around Corazon. Ruy was lying on a pallet, staring at Debora, who sat cross-legged beside Mingolla. Darkness was settling over the treetop village, and a few stars could be seen between the separations of the leaves; to the west, visible beneath a branch, the last of sunset was a neon scar on the horizon.
Blackford stretched out his legs, took a pull from a bottle of rum. ‘I guess I have time for a story before I get to work.’
‘You work at night?’ Debora asked.
He nodded, picked at the label of the bottle. ‘For most of my time down here,’ he said, ‘I was stationed in Salvador. I was a damn good organizer, but nothing of a military man, and that had always bothered me. I figured that if they’d give me the chance, I’d be as good as any of the glory boys. What was war, I asked myself, if not organized violence? If I could organize shipping schedules and deliveries, wouldn’t I be just as efficient at running a battle? I applied for front-line assignments, but they kept turning me down. Said I was more valuable where I was. But I heard their jokes. The thought of Frank T. Blackford in combat made them dizzy with laughter. So I decided that I’d show ’em.’
Blackford’s sigh accompanied a sudden dimming in the west. ‘Looking back, I can see what a foolish idea it was. I suppose I was a fool, then. At the least I was ignorant about war. Even though I should have known better, I saw war as opportunity, a field upon which a man could make his mark. And so to prove my mettle, I pulled some strings and wangled myself temporary command of a combat unit in Nicaragua, one of the long range recon patrols. This was done under an assumed name, you understand. I had some R & R coming, and my plan was to take the patrol and do great things. Impossible things. Then return to Salvador and shake my combat record under the noses of my superiors. Well, after three days in the field, I’d lost… I was about to say I’d lost control of my men, but the truth is I’d never had control. They’d just started using Sammy in those days, and the safe dosage was still a matter of conjecture. My men were lunatics, and once I began doing the drug with them, trying to be one of the boys, I became as crazy as they were. I remember coming into the villages, peaceful little places with fountains in the plazas. I moved through them spinning, a kind of mad dance, spraying bursts of fire that seemed to be writing weird names on the walls. I laughed at the men I shot. Shouted at them. Like a kid playing soldier.’