Survivors: A Novel of the Coming Collapse

swim. The only downside was that they often got to practice how to politely brush off the occasional lovelorn or just plain lusty business travelers. Only the Japanese ones took pictures.

During his third evening lesson with Consuelo, she and her husband, Pablo, invited Ian to come with them for a swim following the next Saturday lesson. Not wishing to be obvious, Ian didn’t ask if Blanca might be meeting them there, but he thought the chances were good.

At the Tegucigalpa Multiplaza, Ian picked out a new swimsuit-opting for the long “surfer suit” look-a dark beach towel, a lightweight Windbreaker, and a pair of the best-quality leather huarache sandals that they sold.

A half hour after their swim session began, Ian emerged from the pool after a set of laps. He was thrilled to see Blanca Araneta had arrived and was sitting on a lounge chair, chatting with Consuelo.

Toweling himself dry, he walked toward them, doing his best to look nonchalant. Consuelo introduced him to Blanca in Spanish. Senora Dalgon was, after all, a strict believer in true immersion Spanish.

Ignoring Consuelo’s cue, Blanca switched to English.

“A pleasure to be meeting you, Ian.”

Hearing the cute way she pronounced his name-more like “Eon” than “Ian”-was delightful to Doyle.

Avoiding the open chair next to Blanca, he sat down on the lounge that was beyond Consuelo’s and Pablo’s: he thought it best to talk to Blanca at first from a longer distance, rather than seem overly anxious or intrusive of her space.

Speaking to Blanca, over the top of Consuelo’s back, Ian said, “Senorita Araneta, I have heard your voice before, from the control tower. I usually fly ‘Viper 1-2-4,’ and you’ve probably heard my call sign, ‘Subgunner.’”

“Oh, yes, I know your call sign.”

Doyle replied, “Yes, that’s me. I always wanted to put a face to your name. I must say, you have a pretty voice, and a very pretty face to go with it.”

Blanca just smiled and laughed politely.

Again trying to seem nonchalant, Ian added, “Well, enjoy your swim,” and he reclined on an unoccupied lounge chair and put on his sunglasses. Lying there, he wondered if he had botched the introduction. His mind was racing. He felt very self-conscious, and oh, so pale-skinned among so many people with olive complexions. He dared not speak. Silently, he recited to himself Proverbs 17:28: “Even a fool is counted wise, when he holds his peace. When he shuts his lips he is considered perceptive.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blanca stand up and whip off the ankle-length swimming skirt-wrap that she had been wearing. She tossed it on top of her flight bag. He noticed that she carried that bag everywhere. Beneath, she was wearing what by modern standards was a very conservative one-piece swimsuit with an integral skirt, but it couldn’t hide her traffic-stopping figure. Ian Doyle gulped and whispered to himself, “Ay, ay, ay.”

Blanca spent almost fifteen minutes in the pool, swimming lap after lap. After she got out and returned to her chair, Ian rose, smiled, and took his own turn in the pool, swimming in a medley of strokes for about ten minutes. He thought that at this stage it was best to seem slightly standoffish and more interested in swimming than in chatting her up.

After he climbed up the pool’s ladder, he could see that Consuelo and Blanca had turned on their chairs and were applying sunscreen to each other’s noses. Ian again toweled but just slightly, returned to his chaise, and put on his sunglasses.

Consuelo asked, “?Bloqueador solar, Ian?”

He answered, “Si, muchas gracias por su amabilidad, senora,” and raised his hands as if ready to catch the bottle.

But instead of tossing the bottle, Consuelo pivoted to hand him the bottle directly. Leaning forward, she whispered, “She has been very curious about you.”

As Ian slathered the waterproof sunblock on, he explained, “With my skin, I don’t tan, I just burn. I’m feeling a little too white to fit in here. I’m just another ugly ghost-pale gringo.”

As Ian handed the bottle back to her, Consuelo said matter-of-factly, “You know, here in our country, many people would be jealous of your fair skin. The more fair, the more aristocratic.”

Doyle realized that he had lot to learn about Honduras.

Blanca eyed Doyle for a minute and, speaking over Consuelo’s back, asked, “Has Consuelo been talking about me to you?”

“A little.”

“So, what did she say?”

“Something about your father, tu papa, that he was un experto de jugar al tenis.”

“Not actually a champion. He was a bronze medaler-I mean medalist-in doubles of tennis.”

She cocked her head and asked with a hopeful lilt to her voice, “Do you like tennis?”

“I’ve played the game, but you know, I never really liked it. No me gusta el tenis. It is just a whole lot of sweating just to hit a ball back and forth, back and forth. And it’s kind of an aggravating game. I found it a little too competitive: even if you practice a lot and hit the ball just right, there is always someone who can hit it just a little bit better, or who is just a little bit faster, and they can ace you out. So, no offense, but it’s not for me. If I want to practice my hand-to-eye coordination, I’d rather be in a flight simulator or, better yet, up in the air, formation flying or doing aerobatics.”

Blanca smiled. “Aerobatics?”

“Oh, yeah. The F16 is built for it-well, with a big turning radius, that is. Lots of power, great handling. The controls are a dream. Incredibly responsive.”

“Ay, that sounds wonderful.”

Consuelo jumped in: “Ian, you should show Blanca those videos you shot from the backseat that you showed me and Pablo.”

“Si, senora, me encantaria… uh…” At a loss for the right words in Spanish, he finished: “… to do so.” After a moment he added, “That video may make you dizzy to watch, and there is not much narration, just me and the pilot grunting, you know, tightening our abdominal muscles, doing our best to pull the g’s.”

“No, it won’t make me dizzy!” Blanca said. She then just smiled, nodded dismissively, and lay back down, putting on sunglasses, and pulling her sun hat over her head. But Doyle noticed that she was looking in his direction.

With her large dark sunglasses, he couldn’t be sure if she was sleeping, or staring at him. He was having trouble reading her. Was she genuinely interested, or just being polite and properly social? He decided that it was best to just give her more of the “silence and sunbathing” treatment. He reached down and pulled out his Sony Discman portable CD player and put the headphones on. He closed his eyes and got lost in the music for a few minutes. Then he noticed something had shaded his face. He opened his eyes to see Blanca standing over him.

“Oh, hola, Senorita Araneta,” he said casually.

Gesturing to his CD player, she asked, “What are you playing on that thing?”

“Oh, this? Here, take a listen.” Blanca perched on the edge of Consuelo’s lounge chair and Ian handed her the Discman. He leaned forward to put the headphones on her head. It was the first time that he had ever touched Blanca. It gave him a tingle.

Blanca put on a huge grin the instant she heard the music.

“You like Ottmar Liebert? No way! This is his first album, Nouveau Flamenco. You really like it?”

“Yeah, I sure do. I’m a recent convert to that music. I’ve really gotten hooked on flamenco guitar since I came down here.”

She nodded. “Well, Ian, what is currently your favorite band?”

“I’d have to say the Gipsy Kings. It’s almost hypnotic. From the first time I heard them sing ‘Bamboleo,’ I just couldn’t get it out of my head.”

Blanca shook her head in disbelief, then smiled and said softly, “Wow, I really like them too.”

The next time that Ian met Blanca was at a weeknight dinner party, just three days later, hosted by Consuelo