Backward-Facing Man (28 page)

Along stretches of unspoiled country, newly erected poles carried electricity into what was once jungle. Occasionally, a truck transporting animals or a school bus or a speedy little car passed them from the other direction, and the sun beat mercilessly on the van. Manny put his boot to the accelerator. They passed large fields with orange and palm trees tended by brown-skinned Mayans and groups of men sitting at tables in the shade playing cards and drinking cola. They passed gas stations, a church, a shack selling used tires with a sign that said
MEKANIC
and, underneath,
WORLDS BEST HOT DOG
. Carlos yelled to Artie from the backseat, “Where you from?”

“C-C-Cuba,” Artie answered.

“Cuuuuuuuba, huh?” Carlos said, laughing.
“Cómo estas?”

Artie didn't answer.

“Cómo estas?”
Carlos repeated, leaning over the seat. Artie pressed his face against the doorjamb and said nothing. “Manny,” Carlos yelled. “Is your friend mute?” Manny kept his eyes on the road.
“Cómo estas?”
Carlos yelled again, this time into Artie's ear, making a megaphone with his hands.

Artie looked at his driver.

“C'mon, Carlos,” Manny said. “He stutters. He can't help it. Ain't that right, Mr. Alex?”

A truck barreled by from the opposite direction, and a blast of hot air filled the van. “What are you doing in Belize, Mr. Alex?” Carlos asked. He had a pretty good idea from what Jim had told them, but he thought he would have some fun.

“Vac-cation,” Artie said.

“A Cuban who stutters in English!” Carlos said, laughing. “Have you seen the Blue Hole? Have you been to the zoo?”

Artie shook his head no.

“Why don't we take Mr. Alex to the zoo, Manny?” Carlos said, as if he'd suddenly hit on a fantastic idea. “We can show him the baboon sanctuary. I hear they have an ape named Fidel.” Manny burst out laughing, blowing bits of saliva into the windshield.

“A-a-actually,” Artie said, soaked with sweat now, “I would like to get settled in S-S-S-S-San Ignacio as soon as—”

“Or maybe we should take him for a hike in the jungle,” Carlos yelled.

“He wants to get to San Ignacio before the banks close,” Manny said.

Artie leaned back and inhaled earth and fertilizer and recent rainfall. It was his experience that the way to survive this kind of taunting was to ignore it. With his right arm, he rolled down his window and pushed his face into the hot breeze, and with his eyes half open, he counted electric poles, and, as he'd hoped, Carlos quit his harangue. A moment later, the van was filled with a smell, sharp and pungent. Artie turned as Carlos handed his brother a spliff, and Manny, with one hand on the wheel, narrowed his eyes and took several long hits.

At the Mopan, Artie had heard about strict new antidrug laws that Belize had passed to qualify for U.S. aid. Artie hugged the satchel tighter. What a disaster it would be if they were pulled over and searched, or if Manny got so high that he drove the van into a ditch. In his worst-case scenarios, he hadn't contemplated getting arrested.

Carlos pointed to a makeshift sign by the side of the road that said
BAIT—5 KM
, and something else in Spanish. This struck Manny as funny, and the two of them began laughing uncontrollably. The landscape was becoming lush, Eden-like. Manny started whistling—a kind of nursery rhyme that might have been a pop song. The wind created a kind of white noise, and the three of them fell silent until Carlos stuck his hand forward and pointed to something in the distance.

“Roadblock,” he said, pointing. “Give me your passport.” Carlos touched Artie's left shoulder, which made him wince.

Artie squinted. A teenager in a brown military uniform materialized in front of a Jeep that was blocking both lanes about five hundred feet ahead. As Manny pressed the brake, Artie looked around the cab, frantic. His passport was in his shirt pocket; woven in by mosquito netting Mrs. Johnson had tied around the satchel. “I ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-ca…” he sputtered.

“I'm not fucking around now,” Carlos hissed, his mouth against Artie's ear. “Give me your fucking passport.” From the backseat, he tried reaching into Artie's jacket.

Artie winced. Even if he'd wanted to give Carlos his passport, he couldn't have done so without untying the netting. “I ca-ca-ca-ca-ca…”

A uniformed man waved them over. “N-n-n-n-ooooo.” Artie was wailing now, a combination of pain and fear. Carlos smacked him across the top of his head, knocking his hat and his glasses to the floor.

“Either shut up and let me get your passport out, or these guys will put us in jail!” Carlos said, dead serious now. The soldier made a gesture indicating the van should stop. Carlos leaned over the front seat holding his machete.

When Artie saw the blade, he started wiggling, like a man in a straightjacket. “Help! Help!” he cried out as they got nearer to the roadblock. “I'm being r-r-robbed!”

“Relax, Mr. Alex,” Manny said. “They're looking for illegals. We just have to show ID.”

But Artie was inconsolable. “They're going t-to kill me!” he insisted, leaning out the window.

As the van slowed, Carlos brought the blunt end of the machete down hard between Artie's head and his right shoulder so that, instantly, the fat man fell quiet and slumped forward. With the knife edge, Carlos slit the netting and pulled the satchel away from Artie's body, tossing it on the floor. For a second, Carlos fumbled in Artie's jacket for his papers, while Manny waved to the soldier. With his ass in the air, Carlos picked up Artie's fedora and used a towel from the backseat to prop up his head. As Manny brought the van to a stop, Carlos yanked the black bag up over the seat and tossed it behind him.

On the driver's side, Manny showed his ID.
“Cómo estás?”
he said. The guard looked inside.
“Turista,”
Manny said, smiling sheepishly and pointing to Artie. “We were supposed to go to the falls,” Carlos added enthusiastically, “but our American friend had too much to drink.” Carlos spoke in a jovial tone, one conspirator to another. The guard smiled. He couldn't have been more than eighteen. A truck piled high with fruit pulled up behind them, and the guard waved the blue van through. As they accelerated, Artie's head flopped forward toward the dashboard.

“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Manny said.

Carlos put his fingers to the fat man's neck. “Too much fat,” he said, unable to find a pulse. There was a little bit of blood, sticky and warm, and a welt coming up on the back of his neck. “He's alive,” Carlos said nervously.

They drove in silence. “Now what?” Manny asked.

A minute later, after unzipping the black satchel, Carlos was squealing like a kid. Mr. Alex, the English-speaking tourist from Cuba, was carrying more cash than the Belizean boys would see in their entire lifetimes.

 

Along the Western Highway, the Mennonites had cut dirt roads leading into their groves, some of which stretched for miles to the edge of the jungle. “Turn here,” Carlos told his brother. From above, you would have seen a tiny blue dot crawling like an ant, followed by a cloud of dust. Manny cut their speed. The trail sloped, the dirt turned to grass, and then mud; Manny put the van in four-wheel drive. Carlos propped Artie up against the passenger door, adjusting the towel between his shoulder and his head. They rode in silence, the brothers lost in their own thoughts: Manny, afraid his brother may have killed a tourist; and Carlos, thinking he might never have to worry about money again.

At the end of the road was a trailhead that the tour guides used for especially adventurous groups who wanted to see Sepulcher Cave. Manny pulled into a clearing and cut the engine. Carlos slid the side door open and carried the black satchel to the trailhead. When he returned, Manny was standing by the passenger door, wringing his hands.

They worked in silence. Artie was so heavy it took the brothers almost ten minutes to drag him to the edge of the jungle. After a little while, the fat man's eyes fluttered, and he started moaning. What may have formed in his brain as expletives came out as a mess of consonants. He came to his senses slowly—first, taking in the trees above; then, focusing on Carlos and Manny standing; finally, seeing the black bag at the base of a tree. A look of horror crossed his face. “Take me to the American embassy!” he demanded.

Carlos laughed. “Mr. Alex wants to defect! He's unhappy with how Castro has treated him.”

“I know my r-rights,” Artie managed. “Your government would lock you up if they knew—”

“And what would our policemen do if they knew you what you were up to?” Carlos said, grinning.

“This is kidnapping. It's against the l-law!” Artie tried to stand, but he couldn't use his left arm to support his weight. “Thugs!” he spat, lunging for the satchel.

The brothers helped him up. “Aw, Mr. Alex,” Manny said. “It's not that bad.”

Carlos lifted the satchel. “Come, Mr. Alex. We're gonna take a little hike.” Manny led, clearing the trail, whacking at roots and branches with his machete, while Carlos prodded Artie, who limped along, wincing. The flora was dense and the canopy made it feel like dusk, even though it was just after noon. Without his glasses, Artie stumbled forward, barely able to see, swallowing a codeine pill every now and again to dull the pain. When Artie stopped, Carlos crept up behind him and whispered, “The coral snake is brightly colored. He lives in soil, and has short fangs that sink into flesh and just hang there.” Fighting fatigue, Artie soldiered on.

After about two hours, the terrain changed, and the long, narrow trunks gave way to saplings, reeds, and rock. The trail, which took more frequent turns, was easier to follow, particularly when the sun broke through. Many times, Artie paused—angry, exhausted, and dizzy—but Carlos kept him moving. During one of those stretches, they came to the crest of a hill and stopped. Off to their left, between two giant rocks, was a drop of about fifteen feet; at the bottom was a pool of water fed from a waterfall. Straight ahead, the canopy seemed to stretch forever. Manny laid the machete on the ground and set his backpack against a tree. Carlos took the canteen from his backpack, took a long swig, and then passed it to his brother.

An hour later, after a steep decline, the three men entered a deeply shaded grove. In the center of the clearing was a fire pit with a few partially burnt logs and a blackened can. About fifty feet away the trees ended and the ground gave way to a ravine. Carlos took the black satchel off his shoulder and spilled the contents on the ground. “Drink,” he said to Artie, pointing to a creek. Artie lay down and pressed his face against the black soil, gulping, then splashing water on his neck and head. The sight of his money spread over the ground seemed to unhinge him. Carlos pointed a pistol at the base of a spindly tree. “Sit,” he said.

“I'm a reasonable man, Mr. Alex.” Carlos began lifting wads of currency from the bag, stacking them one beside another so that they stretched from Artie's knees to Manny's machete, four feet away. “And I'm prepared to make a deal with you. You help us, and we'll help you.” Manny was mesmerized by the money. He'd never seen so much of it in one place. Carlos was drawing circles in the dirt. “There are laws against transporting stolen currency—”

“It isn't stolen,” Artie said angrily.

Carlos smiled. “Cut the crap, Mr. Alex. We know you're not from Cuba, and we know you're not here on vacation. We're not stupid.” He put the pistol under Artie's chin. Then he leaned in close and whispered, “Where's it from, man? Who's going to come looking for it?” Artie turned away.

Carlos spoke next to his brother. “You know what the problem is, Manny?” Carlos said. “Mr. Alex here still thinks of us as a couple of wetbacks for hire.” He was staring directly into Artie's face. “Give me the machete,” he said, extending his hand. Manny handed his brother the blade. “He needs to think of us now as partners…. Tie him up,” he said.

Manny took the mosquito netting out of his pack and wrapped it around Artie's torso. With his foot, Carlos moved a stump to within inches of the tree.

“You can have h-half of it,” Artie said. “I swear you c-can take half!” Carlos pushed his face up close to Artie's. “I w-won't tell a soul,” Artie whimpered.

“That's better,” Carlos said, watching Manny make a knot. “That's much better.” Artie shook his head from side to side. “Noooooo.”

“Besides sharing things,” Carlos continued, “partners show their commitment in other ways.” He had the same gleam in his eye that Artie recognized from kids on the playground—boys who grew up and got in trouble, who got sent away to reform school and jail, some of whom died violent deaths. Carlos took Artie's hand in his and spread his fingers on the stump. Then he put his hip against Artie's neck to prevent him from moving. A large bird fluttered from a stand of trees nearby and then the jungle grew quiet. There was a brief struggle, and then Artie made an owlish sound as Carlos brought the machete blade down, releasing flesh and bone—everything from the first knuckle of his index finger down. When he came to, his right arm was above his head, tethered to the tree, his fist wrapped in one of his spare shirts. Manny was kneeling beside him with a bottle of water. “Now we are partners, Mr. Alex,” Carlos said. Artie looked up at his hand and passed out again.

 

When he finally woke, it was nighttime, and the sounds in the jungle were louder than city traffic. His entire torso, from his neck down to his belly, was burning and it felt as if his shoulder had slipped out of its socket. His hand was completely numb, except for the stump, which ached as though the finger was still attached and had been stabbed with a hot fork. A rivulet of blood had trickled down his arm and dried, crusty. Carlos was kneeling in front of a small fire that he tended with a stick. A thin streak of blood had sprayed across the securities that were stacked neatly in piles next to the cash. The sound of insects was everywhere. Manny was walking back from the creek.