The Codex (11 page)

“It must’ve been difficult having a father like that.”

“It was. I don’t know how many tennis matches I played when he left early because he didn’t want to see me lose. He was a ruthless chess player—but if he realized he was going to beat one of us, he’d quit the game. He couldn’t bear to see us lose, even to him. When the grades arrived he never said anything, but you could see the disappointment in his eyes. Anything less than straight A’s was such a catastrophe that he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it.”

“Did you ever get straight A’s?”

“Once. He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave me an affectionate squeeze. That was all. But it said volumes.”

“I’m sorry, how terrible.”

“Each of us found a refuge. I found mine first in fossil collecting—I wanted to be a paleontologist—and then in animals. They didn’t judge you. They didn’t ask you to be someone else. A horse accepts you for what you are.”

Tom fell silent. It was amazing to him how much it hurt to think back on his childhood, even now at thirty-three.

“I’m sorry,” said Sally, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Tom waved his hand. “I don’t mean to tear him down. He was a good father in his own way. Maybe he loved us too much.”

“Well,” said Sally after a moment, standing up. “At the moment, we need to find ourselves a guide to take us up the Patuca River, and I have no idea where to start.” She picked up the phone book and began leafing through it. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I wonder if there’s a listing in here for ‘Adventure Travel’ or something.”

“I’ve a better idea. We need to find the local watering hole for foreign journalists. They’re the savviest travelers in the world.”

“Chalk one up to you.”

She bent over and pulled out a pair of pants and tossed them at him, followed by a shirt, a pair of socks, and a pair of lightweight hiking shoes. They all landed in a pile in front of him. “Now you can take off those macho cowboy boots.”

Tom scooped up his clothes and went into his room and put them on. They seemed to be mostly pockets. When he emerged, Sally eyed him sideways and said, “After a few days in the jungle, maybe you won’t look quite so silly.”

“Thanks.” Tom went to the phone and called the front desk. The journalists, it seemed, hung out in a bar called Los Charcos.

Tom was surprised to find Los Charcos not the cheap dive he imagined but an elegant, wood-paneled affair off the lobby of a fine old hotel. It was air-conditioned to just above Arctic conditions, and the place was filled with the aroma of fine cigars.

“Let me do the talking,” Sally said. “My Spanish is better than yours.”

“You’re better looking, too.”

Sally frowned. “I don’t find gender jokes very funny.”

They took seats at the bar.

“Hola” said Sally cheerfully to the bartender, a man with a heavy-lidded face. “I’m looking for the man from the New York Times.”

“Mr. Sewell? I haven’t seen him since the hurricane, señorita.”

“How about the reporter for the Wall Street Journal?”

“We have no Wall Street Journal reporter here. We are but a poor country.”

“Well, what reporters do you have?”

“There is Roberto Rodriguez from El Diario.”

“No, no, I’m looking for an American. Someone who knows the country.”

“Would an Englishman suffice?”

“Fine.”

“Over there,” he murmured, pointing with his lips, “is Derek Dunn. He is writing a book.”

“What about?”

“Travel and adventure.”

“Has he written any other books? Give me a title.”

“Slow Water was his last book.”

Sally dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and headed toward Dunn. Tom followed. This is going to be good, he thought. Dunn was sitting by himself in a snug, working on a drink, a man with a shock of blond hair over a beefy red face. Sally halted, pointed, and exclaimed, “Say, you’re Derek Dunn, aren’t you?”

“I have been known to answer by that name, yes,” he said. His nose and cheeks were flushed a permanent pink.

“Oh, how exciting! Slow Water is one of my favorite books! I loved it!”

Dunn rose, exposing a robust frame, trim and fit, dressed in worn khaki pants and a simple short-sleeved cotton shirt. He was a handsome man of the British Empire type.

“Thank you very much indeed,” he said. “And you are?”

“Sally Colorado.” She pumped his hand.

She’s already got him grinning like an idiot, thought Tom. He felt foolish in his new clothes that smelled of a menswear shop. Dunn, in contrast, looked like he had been to the ends of the earth and back.

“Won’t you join me for a drink?”

“It would be an honor,” cried Sally.

Dunn guided her into the banquette next to him.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said.

“Gin and tonic.” Dunn waved at the bartender and then glanced up at Tom. “You’re welcome to sit, too, you know.”

Tom took a seat, saying nothing. He was starting to lose his enthusiasm for this idea. He did not like the red-faced Mr. Dunn, who was looking very intently at Sally—and not just at her face.

The bartender came over. Dunn spoke in Spanish. “Gin and tonic for me and the lady. And—?” He glanced at Tom.

“Lemonade,” said Tom sourly.

“Y una limonada,” added Dunn, his tone conveying exactly what he thought of Tom’s choice of beverage.

“I’m so glad to have run into you!” Sally said. “What a coincidence!”

“So you read Slow Water,” said Dunn, with a smile.

“One of the best travel books I’ve ever read.”

“It certainly was,” said Tom.

“You read it, too?” Dunn turned to him with an expectant look.

Tom noted that Dunn had already polished off half his drink.

“I certainly did read it,” said Tom. “I especially liked the part where you fell in the elephant shit. That was hilarious.”

Dunn paused. “Elephant shit?”

“Wasn’t there elephant shit in your book?”

“There are no elephants in Central America.”

“Oh. I must be mixing it up with another book. Beg your pardon.”

Tom saw Sally’s green eyes fixed on him. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or suppressing a laugh.

Dunn turned in his chair, placing his square back to Tom, devoting his attention to Sally. “You might be interested to know I’m working on a new book.”

“How exciting!”

“I’m calling it Mosquitia Nights. It’s about the Mosquito Coast.”

“Oh, that’s just where we’re going!” Sally clapped her hands in excitement, like a girl. Tom took a sip, regretting his choice of drink. He was going to need something a little stronger to get through this. He should never have agreed to let Sally do the talking.

“There are more than five thousand square miles of swamps and highland rainforest in eastern Honduras that remain completely unexplored. Parts of it are not even mapped by air.”

“I had no idea!”

Tom shoved the lemonade aside and looked around for the waiter.

“My book chronicles a journey I took along the length of the Mosquito Coast, through the maze of lagoons that mark where the jungle meets the sea. I was the first white man to make the trip.”

“Incredible. How on earth did you do it?”

“Motorized dugout. The only mode of transportation in those parts besides foot travel.”

“When did you make this amazing journey?”

“About eight years ago.”

“Eight years?”

“I’ve had a bit of publisher trouble. You can’t rush a good book, you know.” He polished off the drink and waved his hand for another round. “It’s tough country down there.”

“Really?”

Dunn seemed to take this as his cue. He leaned back. “For starters, there are the usual mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, blackfly, and botfly. They don’t kill you, but they can make life a trifle nasty. I had a botfly bite once, on my forehead. Felt like a mosquito at first. It began to swell and turn red. Hurt like the devil. A month later it erupted, and inch-long botfly maggots started squirming out and dropping to the ground. Once you’re bitten, the best thing to do is let it run its course. If you try to dig ’em out you only make a muck of it.”

“I sincerely hope the experience didn’t affect your brain,” said Tom.

Dunn ignored him. “Then there’s Chagas disease.”

“Chagas disease?”

“Trypanosoma cruzi. An insect carrying the disease bites you and shits at the same time. The parasite lives in the shit, and when you scratch the bite you infect yourself. You aren’t aware anything is wrong—until ten or twenty years later. First you notice your belly swelling up. Then you become short of breath, can’t swallow. Finally your heart swells up—and bursts. No known cure.”

“Lovely,” said Tom. He had finally got the waiter’s attention. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

Dunn continued looking at Tom, a smile playing about his lips. “Are you familiar with the fer-de-lance?”

“Can’t say that I am.” Gruesome stories of the jungle, it seemed, were Derek Dunn’s stock in trade.

“The most poisonous snake known to man. Brown and yellow bugger; the locals call it a barba amarilla. When young they live in trees and branches. Drop down on you when disturbed. The bite stops your heart in thirty seconds. Then there’s the bushmaster, the largest poisonous snake in the world. Twelve feet long and as thick as your thigh. Not nearly as deadly as the fer-de-lance—with a bushmaster bite, you might live, say, twenty minutes.”

Dunn chuckled and took another gulp.

Sally murmured something about how dreadful it sounded.

“Naturally you’ve heard of toothpick fish? This isn’t a story for the ladies.” Dunn glanced over at Tom, winked.

“Do tell,” said Tom. “Sally’s no stranger to crudity.”

Sally flashed him a look.

“Lives in the rivers around here. Let’s say you go for a nice morning dip. The toothpick fish swims right up your Johnson, then flares out a set of spines and anchors itself in your urethra.”

Tom’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.

“Blocks the urethra. If you don’t find a surgeon damn quick, your bladder bursts.”

“Surgeon?” Tom said weakly.

Dunn leaned back. “That’s right.”

Tom’s throat had gone dry. “What kind of surgery?”

“Amputation.”

The drink finally made it to Tom’s mouth, where he took a slug, and then another.

Dunn laughed loudly. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the piranhas, leishmaniasis, electric eels, anacondas, and that sort of thing.” Dunn waved his hand disparagingly. “The dangers of those are greatly exaggerated. The piranhas only go after you if you’re bleeding, and anacondas are rare this far north and don’t eat people. There is one advantage to the Honduran swamps: no leeches. Watch out for the monkey spiders, though—”

“So sorry, but we’ll have to leave the monkey spiders for another day,” said Tom, looking at his watch. He realized that Mr. Derek Dunn had his hand under the table, resting on Sally’s knee.

“Not having second thoughts are you, old chap? This is not a country for pantywaists.”

“Not at all,” said Tom. “It’s just that I’d rather hear about your encounter with the toothpick fish.”

Derek Dunn stared at Tom unsmiling. “That’s a rather stale joke, my friend.”

“Well!” said Sally brightly. “Did you make the trip alone? We’ve been looking for a guide and wondered if you could recommend someone.”

“Where are you chaps headed?”

“Brus Laguna.”

“You are getting off the tourist trail.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “You’re not a writer, are you?”

Sally laughed. “Oh no, I’m an archaeologist, and he’s a horse vet. But we’re just here as tourists. We like to have adventures.”

“An archaeologist? There aren’t many ruins around here. You can’t build in a swamp. And no civilized people would ever live in those interior mountains. Up there in the Sierra Azul there’s no denser rainforest on earth, and the hills are so steep you can hardly crawl up and down them. There isn’t a flat place to pitch a tent for a hundred miles. You’ve got to cut your way through, and in a hard day of travel you’re lucky to make a mile. A trail macheted through there will knit itself up so tight in a week you’d never know it existed. If it’s ruins you’re after, Sally, why don’t you head over to Copán? Perhaps I could tell you more about it over dinner.”

The hand was still on her knee, squeezing and rubbing.

“Right,” said Sally. “Maybe. Getting back to the guide. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Guide? Oh yes. The man for you is Don Orlando Ocotal. A Tawahka Indian. Absolutely reliable. Won’t cheat you like the others. Knows the country like the back of his hand. He was with me on my last trip.”

“How do we find him?”

“He lives up the Patuca River, a place called Pito Solo, the last real settlement on the river before the big interior swamps begin. That’s forty, maybe fifty miles upriver from Brus. Stay in the main channel of the river or you’ll never get out alive. This time of year the forests are flooded, and there’re a zillion side channels going every which way. That country is virtually unexplored, from the swamps all the way past the Sierra Azul down to the Guayambré River. Forty thousand square kilometers of terra incognita.”