Red Jungle (25 page)

“What about the car? Your car?” she asked.

“I’m leaving it there at the airport,” he said. She nodded. “I checked my stuff in early,” he said. “That way we could get two seats together.” More lies.

He’d lied when he told her he had no intention of going on with Mahler. He’d told her the night they made love out there that he was going to give the plantation to the government and leave. Get away from it all. That it was all crazy. How could anyone try to hold onto a Mayan city, he’d said, holding her naked in the heat of the jungle night. The fire burned high to keep the mosquitoes away, the light falling on Mahler’s head as he slept across from them. It had all been a lie— everything he’d told her.
He
was going to try to hold onto a whole fucking Mayan city. Why not? Hold on long enough, anyway, to get what he wanted out of it.

Once he had her in the airport, it would be over. He’d gotten Selva to mark Katherine as
persona non grata;
if she tried to come back, she wouldn’t get past customs. She would never see the country again. It was a mean thing to do, he knew, but he’d felt he had to do it for her own good. Carlos had promised him she would be safe at the airport.

“I’m so glad you love me,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve been in love before. Not like this, anyway.”

He couldn’t look at her. Instead he looked into the rearview mirror and saw Selva’s chase car following close behind them.

•••

He wondered, as they made their way across the black tile concourse at Aurora airport, if he didn’t love her more than he thought. It wasn’t like Beatrice. He knew that; what he felt for Katherine was different. He cared about what happened to Katherine, about the men she would have in her life back there in the States. About who she would become, about another country she might go to, and his not being there to protect her. For a moment, as they approached the ticket counter at American Airlines, he wondered what his life would be like if he left right now with her.

But the craziness inside of him wouldn’t let him do that. He might love Katherine, but he wanted to possess Beatrice. He wanted to prove to Beatrice he was just as good a man as Carlos. He realized that part of his love for Beatrice was tied up in stealing her from the General.

Aurora airport was surprisingly busy. The red-eye flights for the States were leaving soon. An American, a United, and a Taca flight left for the States almost simultaneously every night. They’d bought her a ticket for Miami. The general’s brother-in-law ran Taca Airlines, so it was all set.

Russell saw the Taca ticket counter on his right. He glanced behind him. Two of the men from Selva’s chase car had followed them into the airport, and were behind them.

He put her suitcase down. Katherine stopped and looked at him. He knew she was expecting them to go to the American Airlines counter, because that was the only flight to New York.

“Look . . . I’m sorry, Katherine. You’re going to Miami. After that, you can go wherever you want,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” She reached for his hand. He pulled his away. One of Selva’s bodyguards went on to the Taca counter and picked up the ticket that was waiting for her.

“You have to leave. I can’t go with you,” he said. He couldn’t look her in the face. A customs official came up to them and asked for Katherine’s passport.

“I don’t understand, Russell. You said you loved me.” She sounded like a little girl.

“I do.” And he realized he really meant it.

“What’s this mean?”

“Señora, pasaporte,”
the man said. The other bodyguard stood beside her now.

“It means I can’t go with you. Not right now,” he said. He watched the customs man take her passport and walk towards the gate. The other bodyguard, holding her ticket now, came up to Russell and nodded.

“Listo?”
Ready? the bodyguard said to him.

“You have to go with him. He’s going to go with you to Miami, just in case. I was worried that on the plane—someone —I don’t know, I just was worried. This way, you’ll be all right,” he said. “He’ll watch over you all the way there.”

“Russell,
please
don’t leave me. I love you.” Katherine was looking at him, tears in her eyes now. He hadn’t expected that. He thought she would get angry, but not that. “I love you. I know you love me. She’s not good for you. I want to be your wife. She can’t ever do that, Russell, can’t you see that? She belongs to
him
. Why can’t you see that?”

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “Don’t you see, I had to. You weren’t going to leave.” He nodded to the men. One of them picked up her suitcase. She started to sob. He couldn’t stand it, and turned around.

“Please . . . Russell! Please.” He heard her sobbing, and kept walking. There were all kinds of people coming for the red-eye to Miami. He forced himself to keep walking across the busy, well-lit concourse, and then out the big sliding glass doors and out into the night, which smelled of diesel and decaying city. The smell hit him in the face. He noticed that Selva’s backup car was gone. He stopped for a moment by the taxi stand. He heard the drivers asking him if he wanted a taxi.

“Taxi, Señor?”
He wanted desperately to turn around. Somewhere in his gut, he knew Katherine was right. Beatrice wasn’t the right woman. But he couldn’t help himself.

“Taxi, Señor?”
He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered Katherine the way he wanted to remember her: the way she had been that first morning driving down to the coast, her hands on the steering wheel, so sure of herself and her place in the world.

“No, thank you. Not tonight,” Russell answered, and walked on.

TWENTY-TWO

There’s going to be a devaluation of the quetzal. I just heard,” Antonio said.

They had all met at De La Madrid’s house, the entire would-be cabinet, including Senator Valladolid. The senator was scheduled to be De La Madrid’s foreign minister. Probably a mistake, Russell thought, glancing at the old man.

“Are you sure?” Russell said.

“Yes. My brother just called.” Madrid’s brother was head of the Bank of Guatemala. “It gets worse. It’s going to be eight to one,” Antonio said, looking at him.

“Jesus!” He was still reeling from leaving Katherine at the airport. Russell went to a space on the couch and sat down between the would-be minister of the interior and a young woman who was slated to be minister of defense. If Madrid was elected, she would be the first woman in Guatemalan history to hold the post.

Russell didn’t think they had a chance now. The political situation—if there was a devaluation—would be chaotic at best.

“Why now?” Russell asked as he sat down.

“The government can’t make the payment on a dollar loan coming due next week—five hundred million,” Antonio explained. “They don’t have the reserves, and they can’t borrow any more because of the coffee crisis. The World Bank will provide a bailout package, but only if we submit to an IMF restructuring. Devaluation of the currency is the center-piece of the plan, of course. It’s supposed to make our coffee more competitive.”

“The whole country is bankrupt!” Senator Vallodalid said cheerfully. “Pretty soon we’ll be paying them to buy our coffee.” He raised his glass and smiled at Russell. He was drinking scotch out of a Waterford tumbler and wore a pink cravat. He looked like he was going to Cap Ferret, not facing a political and financial crisis.

“We were wondering what you thought we should do, young man? You seem to know all about these financial matters,” Valladolid said. “I just think they want cheap coffee.” All the men and the woman shook their heads in agreement. “After all, Europe and America are having a recession,” the senator said. “They want a bargain.”

“It’s criminal. It means we get even less for our coffee,” the young woman next to him said. She was a young human rights lawyer whom Madrid had selected because her good liberal credentials would steal votes from the more radical left elements. “It means the price for hard bean superior would be. . . .”

“About ten dollars a kilo,” Russell finished her sentence.

“That’s impossible. It can’t be allowed,” Madrid said.

“The unemployment rate will go to fifty percent if the IMF gets its way,” Russell said. “It will open the door again to the Communists.”

The devaluation would create a financial death spiral, Russell knew. It was essentially the same thing that had just happened to Argentina. Once the international currency speculators got wind of the IMF plan, they would drive the currency down even further. The government’s bonds would be worthless, and interest rates would skyrocket. Dollar reserves, so crucial to any modern banking system, would leave the country almost immediately as the rich pulled their dollars out of the country’s banks.

“My brother says that President Blanco has already approved,” Madrid said.

They were all looking at Russell. None of them had trained as economists.

“There has to be a solution,” Madrid said. “We can’t let the country slip away again.”

There was silence. Everyone in the room, including Russell, had lost someone in the war.

Russell looked at the faces in the lamplight. They were frightened. No one wanted another Argentina. No one wanted the Communists to come back as a political force. No one wanted more violence.

“The government could declare a debt payment holiday while they try to renegotiate with the creditors. Then maybe they could build reserves, defend the Quetzal. But if you declare a debt holiday, Guatemalan bonds are going to collapse. And new loans will be impossible to get, because the IMF will blacklist you. You can’t win…. There is no solution. The IMF and the World Bank hold all the cards. On the other hand, if they devalue there will be massive inflation and unemployment. I think the war will start all over. The reds are already making noises,” Russell said. “They’re probably talking to Castro in Havana right now. It’s their big chance to make a comeback. They’re probably praying for a devaluation.”

“It’s what the Americans want, isn’t it?” Valladolid said. “I mean, they want Selva to win. They don’t care if there’s political chaos. In fact, I think it serves their purpose. When has peace and prosperity served the colonists?” the old man said. “We’re finished. We were finished a long time ago.”

“Why don’t you stop blaming the fucking Americans for everything? They didn’t borrow the fucking money from Citibank and then steal it. They didn’t send it to accounts in Switzerland. And they didn’t stop you from investing here instead of sending your money out of the country for the last hundred years,” Russell said angrily. “That’s the problem with you people. You haven’t taken responsibility for your own damn country. Where are the factories, the highways, the railroads? You’re as much to blame as the Americans are, for Christ’s sake!”

The young woman lawyer stood up angrily. Madrid told her to sit down.

“He’s right,” Valladolid said. “He’s right. All of you have bank accounts in Miami. I know I do. That’s the horrible truth. We, the class that mattered here, when did we really believe in the country? The boy is right.”

Russell poured himself a glass of wine and went to the window. He felt ashamed of his outburst. The others started to talk about party politics. He listened for a while. Their internecine squabbles seemed ludicrous in the face of the economic crisis that would sweep them all away.

It was late. He drained his second glass of wine and walked back to the couch. Everyone had left but the Senator and Madrid. There was no consensus on how to face the devaluation. It looked as though Madrid’s coalition would break apart. A privatization of the telephone company, which had been the centerpiece of their platform, seemed impossible now. Who would want to buy it now, with the country in chaos?

“There’s one solution,” Russell said, coming back to the couch.

“Well, go ahead boy, don’t keep us in suspense,” the senator said.

“A coup,” he said. “We get rid of Blanco and take power. Ignore the IMF’s suggestions. Do it before the election. Then you privatize the telephone and the water and electricity companies. With the money you get, you defend the quetzal. It’s a gamble, but it might work. The international capital markets will love the privatization, and might just not sell the country’s debt off once they hear the plan. They certainly won’t care much about the coup, given how bad things are anyway. As long as we make it clear the new government is pro-business. . . . Interest rates might actually go down,” Russell said. “It’s a big gamble. But you’ll have to move quick. President Blanco has to go. And the army has to be brought to heel.” The two older men looked at him, open-mouthed.

“It might work, Rudy,” Madrid said finally.
“Jesus
. . . it just might work. We’ll hold elections in a year after the coup.”

“The embassy will come to Blanco’s defense,” Valladolid said. “But I like it. Blanco is a prick. I never liked the man,” the senator said.

“I think the telephone company alone is worth maybe a billion dollars. Let’s say in four months, you have five or six billion in the treasury. That’s enough. You wouldn’t have to devaluate,” Russell said. “You could start paying on the defaulted loans.”