feet, a coin worth a decade of its usual payments. “I commission you to build me a new dream, one more elaborate than that of the palace. When I return it had better be ready.” And with that the ghost rode off in pursuit of the king, its steed leaving a trail of hoofprints from which an ineffable smoke arose, signs clear enough so that any spirit peering down from the heavens might take note of them and follow.’
Garrido butted his cigar, making a nest of sparks on the limestone. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
‘Coulda used a hair more dialogue,’ said Mingolla. ‘But not bad.’
Letting out a hiss of disgust, Garrido pulled himself up by his hammock rope. ‘Good night,’ he said. He slipped into the hammock and pulled the mosquito netting over his head.
Despite himself, Mingolla had been impressed by the story, although his secondary reaction had been to consider asking Garrido why he hadn’t simply said, ‘For the money.’ But he realized this would have been unfair. He would have liked to question Garrido further, for it had occurred to him that not only were there a great many things he did not understand, but there well might be a great many other things to whose very existence he had been blind. He gave thought to cultivating Garrido’s friendship, but after reflection decided against it, feeling that friendship would blur his judgments, and that the argument between them would in the long run prove more entertaining than any conversation generated by an accord.
He managed to get to sleep despite the frost, though sleep was hardly restful, a tapestry of anxiety dreams, and when he was awakened by a bright light shining in his eyes, he wondered if he had cried out and disturbed Garrido. ‘What is it?’ he asked, shielding his eyes, his hand tangling with the mosquito netting.
‘Son of a bitch!’ said a voice with a hillbilly twang. ‘This ol’ beaner talks American.’
‘I am American.’ He struggled up. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Something jabbed him hard in the chest, shoving him back; through the white mesh, he saw a rifle barrel and a hand holding a flashlight.
‘Sure looks like a beaner,’ said somebody else.
‘I’m an agent… a spy. Who are you people?’
‘We own this place, man,’ said the hillbilly voice, loaded with menace, ‘And you trespassin’.’
A chill washed away the dregs of Mingolla’s drowsiness, and he pushed with his mind; but rather than meeting mild electrical resistance and enforcing his will, he was flung back, repelled: it was as if he had been riding in a car, had stepped out while it was still moving, and instead of running smoothly along, had been flipped up into the air. He tried again, achieved the same result.
‘That’s a disguise, huh?’ said the hillbilly. ‘How we gonna tell for sure? Lotsa Cubans do real good American. Maybe we scrape ’way a little bitta that color, see what’s under it.’
A chorus of dopey-sounding laughter.
‘Whyn’t ya do like them ol’ war movies, Sarge? Ast him questions ’bout baseball and stuff?’ Another voice.
‘Yeah!’ Hillbilly. ‘How ’bout that, friend. S’pose you tell us who plays centerfield for the Chicago Bears.’
‘Your pal in disguise, too?’ Still another voice.
‘What you guys want?’ Mingolla tried to push the rifle barrel away. ‘Lemme up!’
‘Guess his buddy’s a beaner for real,’ said the hillbilly. ‘Go ’head and do him.’
A burst of automatic fire.
Mingolla stiffened. ‘Garrido?’
‘He answers ya, man,’ said the hillbilly, ‘and I’m gettin’ outta here.’
‘You crazy motherfucker!’ Mingolla said. ‘We’re…’
The rifle punched harder into his chest. ‘You ain’t outta the woods yo’self, boy. Now you wanna answer my question?’
Mingolla suppressed an urge to scream, to heave up from the hammock. ‘What question?’
‘’Bout who plays centerfield for the Bears.’
Snickering.
‘The Bears play football,’ said Mingolla.
‘Well, I’m convinced! Take a reg’lar American to know that,’ said the hillbilly amid renewed laughter. ‘Trouble is’—the humor left his voice—‘we don’t cotton that much to Americans, neither.’
Silence, insects chittering.
‘Who are you?’ Mingolla asked.
‘Name’s Coffee… Special Forces, formerly ’tached to the First Infantry. But y’might say we seen the light an opted outta the military. You gotta name, boy?’
‘Mingolla… David Mingolla.’ He thought he knew them now, and to make sure he asked, ‘What do you mean, “seen the light”?’
‘The light’s holy in Emerald, man. Y’sit under the beams what shine through the leaves, let ’em soak into ya, and they’ll stir truth from your mind.’
‘That right?’ Mingolla pushed again, and again achieved nothing.
‘Think we’re nuts, don’tcha?’ said Coffee. ‘You ’mind me of my ol’ lieutenant. Man used to tell me I’s crazy, and I say, “I ain’t ordinary crazy, lieutenant sir. I’m crazy gone to Jesus.” And I’d tell him ’bout the kingdom we was gonna build. No machines, no pollution. Y’gonna thrive here, David, if you can pass muster. Learn to hunt with a knife, track tapir by the smell. Hear what weather’s comin’ in the cry of a bird.’
‘How ’bout the lieutenant?’ Mingolla asked distractedly, trying to gain a purchase in Coffee’s mind. ‘He learn all that?’
‘Y’know how it is with lieutenants, David. Sometimes they just don’t work out.’
The mosquito netting was flung back, and he was hauled from the hammock, forced to his knees, a rope cinched about his wrists. He saw the shadowy cocoon of Garrido’s hammock in the indirect glow from the flashlight: it looked to be bulged down lower than before, as if death had weighed out heavier than life. He was yanked upright, spun around to face a gaunt rack of a man with rotting teeth and blown-away pupils; an unkempt beard bibbed his chest, and dark hair fell in snarls to his shoulders. He was holding the flashlight under his chin so that Mingolla could see his grin. Behind him stood his men, all of a cut, bearded and thin, smaller than their leader. Their fatigues holed, rifles outmoded.
‘Pleased to meetcha, David,’ said Coffee, lowering the flashlight. ‘You up for a little night march?’
‘Maybe he should pop a couple?’ said one of the others.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Coffee dug into his pocket, then shone the flashlight into his palm, illuminating two silver foil bullets. ‘Ever do Sammy?’
‘Listen,’ said Mingolla. ‘I’ve got—’
Coffee drove a fist into his stomach, bending him double. Only the fact that someone was holding the rope around his wrists prevented him from falling. He couldn’t breathe for several seconds, and when he had recovered sufficiently to breathe through his mouth, Coffee grabbed his chin and straightened him. ‘That’s the first lesson,’ he said. ‘Y’answer when you spoke to. Now y’ever done Sammy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t get all anxious… it’s purely a joy and a triumph.’ Coffee held up one of the ampules. ‘Just breathe in deep when I pop it, y’hear. Or else I’m gonna give ya ’nother lesson.’ He crushed an ampule between his thumb and forefinger, and Mingolla inhaled the stinging mist. ‘Here comes number two,’ said Coffee cheerfully.
The world was sharpening, coming closer. Mingolla could see the spidery shapes of monkeys high in the canopy, backed by rips of moonlight, framed in filigrees of black leaves; he heard a hundred new sounds, and heard, too, how they knitted the darkness into a comprehensible geography of rustling ferns and scraping branches. The wind was cool, its separate breezes licking at him, feathering his hair.
‘I love to watch the first time,’ said Coffee. ‘God, I love it!’
Mingolla felt disdain for Coffee, and his disdain manifested in a rich, nutsy laugh.
‘Feel like you lookin’ down from the mountaintop, don’tcha? Don’t you trust that feelin’, David. Don’t figger on runnin’ off or takin’ me out.’ Coffee grabbed Mingolla’s shirt, pulled him face to face. ‘I been up in Emerald for two years now, and I can tell when a fly takes a shit. Far as you concerned, I’m lord of the fuckin’ jungle!’ He released Mingolla with a shove. ‘Awright, let’s go.’
‘Where we going?’ Mingolla asked.
‘Questions?’ Coffee went face to face with him again, and madness seemed to be flying out of his enlarged pupils, a vibration beating around Mingolla’s head. ‘Y’don’t ask questions, y’do what ya told.’ Coffee relaxed,
