The Rocket Man (40 page)

‘Can I help you? We have single or double rooms, breakfast included, all air-conditioned.' He spoke Spanish with a heavy German accent.

Katie said, in German, ‘Just one room, for me. Someone may be joining me later.'

‘Then you need a double; let me show you.' The rooms were in another building across the courtyard. He led her into one; it was reasonably clean, but small and absolutely basic; just two small, hard beds and a massive air-conditioner on the wall. The man turned it on; the noise was terrible. He switched it off again. ‘There is a bathroom,' he said, indicating a door at the side. ‘The other rooms are smaller and cheaper.'

‘No; this will do,' said Katie.

‘My name is Feldman; welcome. You are not German, but you speak it very well. Where are you from?'

‘I am English,' said Katie, ‘But I lived in Vienna.'

‘Would you like anything to eat?'

She had a plain supper of grilled meat, rice and manioc. At seven, the driver came back. Katie said, ‘I'm not feeling very well. I don't want to drive back. We'll stay the night here – I can get you a room.' She was embarrassed by him. She didn't want him to see Dmitry if he arrived. She wondered if there was anywhere else she could send him.

‘Don't worry, I will sleep in the car,' said Mito. Katie went back to the hotel room and sat on the hard bed in the darkness. At this point she wanted only to cry; she didn't think that Mitya would come and she was afraid of Bob coming after her. She worried about what would go through his mind; he would be anxious rather than suspicious; he would ring Asunción, find she had not arrived, and then what would he do? He would be crazy with worry. Perhaps she should call him and say where she was, that she'd felt ill and decided to stay here; but he might come to find her. Then if Mitya arrived, there would be a dreadful scene.

But Mitya might not come; she would go back to Asunción in the morning and wait for him there. After a while she began to think this was the best thing. She didn't know what to say to him; she was nervous of how she would respond to him; she didn't want to make love to him here, she felt it would somehow be wrong, as if real love could not exist in such sordid surroundings. Why ever hadn't she said she would meet him in Asunción? But even now he was probably on the road.

She lay down. She couldn't sleep. She kept listening out for any sound, any car pulling up outside, that might be Bob, or might be Dmitry. She kept looking at her watch. Hours went past, so slowly that the night was endless. It was dreadfully hot, oppressive, as if there might be a storm, but she couldn't bear the noise of the air-conditioner. For the twentieth time she looked at her watch; it was nearly midnight.

Then she heard the sound of a car and voices outside.

The flight from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazú took just under two hours. Coming down, once they had descended through the cloud, the plane banked over the Iguazú Falls; Dmitry could see them spread out before him in the jungle, clouds of white spray rising up out of the foaming water.

Most of the people on the plane were tourists; from the airport buses ran to the cataracts and across the border to Foz do Iguaçu in Brazil. The sky was overcast and the air was damp as Dmitry climbed into the Brazil-bound bus. He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was eight-thirty. The bus carried him along a straight road through the sub-tropical jungle. Before the bridge the customs officials and police showed no interest in checking passports but waved them through; this bode well, thought Dmitry, for crossing into Paraguay.

It began to rain. Foz do Iguaçu, especially without sunlight, was a depressing place. The traffic was jammed, the skyscrapers loomed behind the huge hoardings, everywhere people were scurrying to work, their thin shirts soaked by the rain. At the bus station Dmitry did not know what to do next. He stood with his briefcase in his hand, wondering whether it was best to get another bus or try to get a lift in a private car. He hovered there, unable to decide. This was absurd; he should turn back; this really was the point of no return.

He walked in the rain down towards the bridge. He was wet through, but it didn't matter, it was so warm. The rain eased; a moist wind blew in his face. Across the river the new town of Ciudad del Este sprawled in front of him, hideous with its tower blocks, building sites and shanty towns. The road sloped down to the bridge; underneath it ran the Paraná, unexpectedly narrow in its deep channel through the red earth.

A steady stream of traffic crossed the bridge; most of it seemed to be waved through without a hitch, at least on the Brazilian side. Dmitry turned around and held out his arm to hitch a lift. The first few cars sped past; then a large lorry; then a battered car with Paraguayan number-plates pulled up. Dmitry asked, in Spanish, ‘Can you take me across the bridge?' The man shrugged and Dmitry opened the door and got in. The driver started the car. The steering seemed wobbly and the engine made an unhealthy noise.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Only to Ciudad del Este.'

‘American? German? Tourist?'

‘Tourist, yes.'

‘You have been to see the cataracts?'

‘
Sí.
' They were a major tourist attraction; people must cross the border all the time to see them. He thought, if they ask to see my passport I could tell them I'd been over to the Iguazú Falls and left my passport behind in the hotel.

They crossed to the Paraguayan side and the frontier police did not take the slightest notice of them. The driver pulled up and said, ‘You want to get out here?' Dmitry nodded. He felt like laughing; it was absurd that he had expended so much energy over the question of how he was going to cross the border. The car drove off leaving a trail of noxious fumes and Dmitry set out in search of a bank and a garage from which to hire a car.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached the outskirts of Asunción. He drove into the centre, and was surprised to see a yellow tram trundling down the middle of the road; it reminded him instantly of Vienna. Another tram came up behind him; he had to drive onto the pavement to avoid it. He felt confused, so tired he could no longer drive safely. He thought that if he didn't get anything to eat or drink he would collapse. He parked the car behind a stand of yellow taxis and wandered down the street.

Near the corner was a bar with a wooden sign which said: ‘Bavaria Bar.' It occurred to Dmitry that he could ask for information there; perhaps they might know the Hotel Alemán. He wandered inside, sat down at the bar and beckoned to the middle-aged Paraguayan woman who was serving. He looked around. The bar had a low wooden ceiling and paintings of chalets and cows in green meadows on the panelled walls. The woman came over and took his order, beer and some sausages.

‘Is the owner German?' he asked.

‘Yes – Ludwig Grüber. He'll be here shortly. You want to speak to him?'

‘If it's possible.'

‘Sit down over there. It won't be long.'

Dmitry moved away from the bar and sat down at the table she had pointed out. He looked at his watch. It would take at least five or six hours to reach Mariscal Estigarribia, depending on the state of the roads. He thought again of Katie waiting in the hotel. The girl brought a plate of spicy sausages and salad and a cold beer. She asked, ‘You are German too?'

‘No, but I speak German. I wanted to ask for some advice about going to the Chaco.'

‘To Filadelfia? To the Mennonite colonies?'

‘To Mariscal Estigarribia.'

‘Why? There's nothing there, it's a military town. Do you have some special reason? I'll ask Señor Grüber…'

Dmitry ate and drank. The air was now dusky in the street; the bar began to fill up. An overpowering smell of spicy sausages wafted over him and the heat from the grill fought with the heat from the street outside. After a while, a sour-faced German of about fifty came over to him. ‘Yes?'

‘I'm going to Mariscal Estigarribia, I wondered how long it would take me, how good the roads are.'

‘It will take about six or seven hours. The road's good to the turn-off to Filadelfia, they've started to asphalt it but I don't know how far they've got. There aren't many gas stations, fill up when you see one. Take plenty of water. Why are you going to the Chaco? Hunting?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘The problem is that this is a military zone. If you're going beyond Mariscal Estigarribia it helps to have some kind of written permit. There have been lots of stories of people being stopped and turned back north of there. In any case, there are military checkpoints along the trans-Chaco highway. You have to carry your passport and maybe some kind of
permiso
.'

Dmitry listened in silence. Suddenly the whole thing seemed impossible; he was overcome with a sense of futility. Why hadn't he thought this through? A bead of sweat dripped down his nose and he didn't have the energy to wipe it away. He stared at the naive paintings of cows in green fields with desperation.

Grüber tapped his shoulder. ‘Here, why don't you talk to the colonel? He knows all about the Chaco.' He called over to a man sitting nearby, ‘César, this man wants to know about the Chaco,' and introduced him – ‘Colonel César Madregón. He is retired, he fell out with the previous regime.' The phone rang, Grüber excused himself and went out of the door at the back.

The colonel came over and sat down beside Dmitry. Even in ordinary clothes he had a definite military bearing. He was in his fifties; he had probably put on weight recently and his belt was pulled tightly over his belly. His face was creased and he had a warm and friendly look in his eyes. He had brought his beer with him and poured out another glass. It was so cold that the sides of the glass frosted instantly.

‘The Chaco,' he said. ‘You are going to the Chaco? Have you some special purpose?'

Dmitry said, finding it an effort to get the words out, ‘Señor Grüber mentioned hunting.'

‘Ah! You want to hunt the
tigre
, eh? Well, this I can arrange if you would like it. You will have to come with me. It is illegal, of course, but that is of no consequence. You want to hire me as your guide?'

Dmitry sat upright; he grinned; in an instant this man had become his salvation. He asked, ‘How much?'

‘A hundred dollars a day. When are you wanting to go?'

‘Tonight.'

‘Tonight.' César Madregón raised his eyebrows. He repeated, as if he had not quite understood him, ‘You want to go tonight.'

‘Now, in fact.'

‘Now.' Madregón looked at him; then he suddenly slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. ‘Well,' he said, ‘Why not now? Of course, why not?'

Dmitry looked him in the eye and decided that he liked this man. César Madregón stood up. ‘Well, then,' he said, ‘Finish your beer. Do you have a vehicle? Anyway, it's better if we go in mine. You can buy the petrol. We'll go past my house and pick up some things. It's on the way. You have any equipment?'

‘Equipment?'

‘For shooting
tigre
.' He held up his hands to mimic the action of firing a rifle.

Dmitry laughed. ‘They don't let you bring them on the aeroplane, you know.'

‘Of course, of course. You have everything with you?'

Dmitry pointed at his briefcase. ‘Everything.'

‘You travel light, eh?'

‘The airline lost my luggage.'

‘Hah!' Madregón roared with laughter. ‘Well. Come.'

Madregón's jeep was parked outside. They bought petrol, Madregón tossed four large bottles of mineral water and a supply of cigarettes in the back. Dmitry pulled three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to Madregón. ‘And the petrol – here's something to cover that.' Madregón grinned and put the money in his wallet. He reversed the jeep into the road and they drove for ten or fifteen minutes to a suburban street where Madregón pulled up outside a wooden bungalow. In a matter of minutes he had collected some bags, a crate of beer and a case of what Dmitry assumed were rifles and flung them into the back of the vehicle. Within minutes they were speeding through the city. César Madregón pointed out various landmarks, which mostly seemed to represent some site of plot or intrigue. ‘This is the Club des Officiales where the coup that ousted Stroessner was planned. This is Stroessner's old house – two journalists were arrested recently for taking photographs of it. Do you want to see Rodriguez' house? No? Well, it's not on our way. It's an enormous mansion, a chateau, there's not another house like it in all Paraguay. And where do you think he got the money for it, eh?'