pieces and getting drunk with ex-presidents while mortar fire chewed the surroundings into ruins.
‘I’ve never experienced a war like this, though,’ he said, kicking his heels against the boulder. ‘It’s insane. And the most insane part of it is in Panama.’
‘You’ve been there?’ Mingolla asked.
‘Yes, a year ago. The place was a puzzle. Most of the city went on as usual, but one barrio—Barrio Clarin— was barricaded from the rest. The official word was that it had been quarantined, but no one could tell you what disease had caused the quarantine. It was impossible to get clearance to enter it, but we heard things. Rumors of pitched battles in the streets. And stranger rumors yet. They sounded ridiculous, but you kept hearing them over and over, and you couldn’t help but pay attention to them.’
‘Tell me,’ said Mingolla.
‘There’s not much to tell. Just that people said there were some sort of negotiations going on in Barrio Clarin, something to do with the war. That’s all. I have no verification of it, of course. But I saw some things that, uh, while they weren’t verification, they did tend to lend substance to the rumors. For instance, I saw the doctor who managed my therapy entering the barrio. It was at a distance, but I could never mistake Izaguirre for anyone else.’
‘Izaguirre!’
‘Do you know him?’
‘He was in charge of my therapy, too.’
‘You were in Mexico City, then?’
‘No,’ said Mingolla. ‘Roatan.’
‘Hmm.’ Nate looked down at the chopper. ‘The doctor gets around, doesn’t he?’ He let out a pained sigh. ‘Well, I suppose it must all come clear in Panama.’
‘What…’ Mingolla began, wanting to question Nate further about Izaguirre, but Nate cut him off.
‘I’m so terribly weary of all this blood, this confusion,’ he said. ‘It seems my life has been nothing but blood and confusion. The other day I was trying to remember something pleasant out of all my times at war, and I could only recall one thing that struck me as of moment. Such a small thing, too. Yet because it’s unique, I suppose I’ve magnified it.’
Mingolla asked Nate to tell him, impressed by the fact that he could recall anything pleasant of war.
‘It was the summer of ’89, Afghanistan,’ said Nate. ‘The Barnian Valley. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘It was beautiful. There were dust storms to the south, and the sunsets… Unbelievable! Violent red and yellow skies, the colors melting before your eyes, and the hills black against them. Like a prehistoric landscape. There was a boy, a young boy, he’d lost his leg to a Russian mine, and he’d lost his voice, too. Or at least he wouldn’t talk to anyone. Not even me… though he was curious about me because of my blond hair. They were all curious about that. I had with me a thumb piano. Do you know this? A little wooden box, hollow, with metal strips for keys. Twelve keys, I think. You strike them with your thumbs, and they make a brittle tinkling music. An African instrument. The boy was fascinated. I was not so good a player, you understand. I only used it to accompany my thoughts, my reveries. And when I saw the boy’s interest in the instrument, I gave it to him.’ Nate yawned, leaned back on an elbow. ‘I taught him how to strike the keys, and he would sit for hours with it on his lap. Of course I was occupied with other matters. Russian fighters would launch rocket strikes at our positions, and I was working with a film crew, shooting the battles. So for a time I forgot the boy and the thumb piano. Then one night I was walking on the perimeter of the camp. Beautiful night.’ Nate slumped lower, resting his head on his arm. Blinked sleepily. His speech grew slurred, slower. ‘Stars, more stars than you see down here, because the air was so clear. A sickle moon, cold and silver. Cool air. A night of clarity. And I came across the boy sitting on a rock looking out over the valley. He was playing the thumb piano. His shoulders hunched, his face intent upon the instrument, a shadow against the stars and the dark blue sky. God, how he played! So fluent, so expressive! He’d outstripped the limits of the twelve notes. Cold rippling arpeggios that seemed to be making the stars dance, with simple melodies stated above them. Poignant melodies, sad melodies. It had power, the music. Power like Bach, even though it had no great amplitude or range. For a moment I wasn’t sure it was the boy playing. I thought he must be a spirit, that if I moved closer I would discover he was a creature of shadow without eyes or mouth or any feature. The war was in the music, the strength of the people.’ Nate sat up straighter, drew a deep breath. ‘They weren’t an admirable people, you see… though much was made of their nobility, their fighting spirit. They were murderers and thieves, many of them. For example, I spoke to one man who told me that years before he’d learned that young travelers were selling their blood to hospitals in Kabul. He’d been inspired by this to ambush travelers going through the Khyber Pass. He’d cut their throats and store their blood in leather sacks. And when he had collected what he assumed to be a fortune in blood, he’d taken the sacks to Kabul. The blood was rotten, of course, and he’d been terribly distressed when the hospital wouldn’t buy it. Now he thought the whole thing absurd, that it had been a big joke on him. That was how a lot of them were. But whatever was good about them, it was in that music the boy played. The purity of their determination, their love of the land. I’—another yawn—I still hear it sometimes. It seems to be playing in my nerves. When I’m sleepy, like now.’
He appeared to doze off for a couple of seconds, and Mingolla, astonished by how much this reminded him of Amalia, shook him awake.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘The humidity,’ said Nate. ‘I’ve never gotten used to the humidity down here. I’m always having drowsiness.’
‘You looked sick or something.’
‘No, it’s only the humidity. The heat doesn’t trouble me… but in Israel it’s dry, you understand.’
Mingolla wasn’t convinced, but let it pass. ‘What’s it like in Israel these days?’
‘I have no idea. It’s been years since I was there… years.’ Nate stared at a far-off point in the canopy. ‘I can hardly remember it.’
Ordinarily Mingolla would have passed off this last comment as well, but there had been an anxious undertone to Nate’s voice that made it seem a matter of real concern. He asked Nate what he did remember, and Nate, uncomfortable with the question, muttered something about inflation and militance, and refused to discuss the subject.
‘I don’t get much pleasure from remembering it,’ he said, and Mingolla, guilty over having pressed him, said he could understand that.
Returning from the hollow one evening, he noticed a trail leading south away from the village yet angled toward the river, and on impulse he set off down it. The trail was densely overgrown,running for the most part uphill, and by the time he reached a thicketed bluff overlooking the river, he was sweaty and begrimed. Twilight had blended water and jungle into a gray medium, and mist was forming in mid-stream; but full dark was still a half- hour off, and Mingolla thought he would have a swim. He threaded his way down the bluff and was about to push through the wall of brush bordering the bank, when he spotted Debora. She was buttoning her dress, and he had a glimpse of her high small breasts before white cotton closed them in. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, and after she had done all her buttons, she removed the towel and let the hair spill over her back. She sat on the bank, legs dangling over the edge. Beside her stood a tent, its peak outlined against a band of pink light that showed above the treeline on the far side of the river. Mingolla stood a minute considering the possibilities, realized there was just one, and pushed through the brush.
She started at the noise, turned toward him. He had expected her to react violently, but she only said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Walking,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know this was your place.’
‘I stay here some nights. There’s a hot springs.’
He sat next to her. The water below was crystal clear, bubbling from a limestone cavity, and he could make out tiny fish darting over a pebbled bottom. ‘How hot is it?’
‘Too hot to touch at the source. But farther out it’s just warm. You should try it.’
Her solicitude made him think he could talk to her, but he found he had nothing much to say. He felt her eyes on him.
‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ she said, her voice icy.
The action of the springs made a racy turbulent sound that was audible above the rush of the current.
