Life During Wartime

and afterward had spent a long confinement in a house with other damaged recruits. Somewhere in the States, he thought, but he wasn’t sure.

‘Izaguirre was in charge,’ he said. ‘In fact, he was the only one of the families in residence.’

‘The families?’ Mingolla said. ‘That stuff Amalia said… it’s true?’

‘Oh, yes. Izaguirre would tell us stories about the families, the feud. He’d shake his head as if it were weighing upon his soul, but he enjoyed the stories, and I think he relished their bloody past. It was in the way he embellished them. He made horror sound elegant.’ Nate cast an eye toward the gun. ‘Such a strange, moody place… that house. You must be careful. There were dangerous people there. Izaguirre’s toys, his weapons.’

It was all coming together for Mingolla. The clues, Nate and Amalia, and Pastorin’s stories. Izaguirre was behind everything… if that was his name, and it probably wasn’t Sotomayor and Madradona. His arrogance would demand he use real names in the story. He must have subverted Pastorin. And maybe he was Pastorin. The author’s penchant for privacy was notorious, and now that Mingolla thought about it, he’d never seen a photograph of the man.

‘What did he have planned for us?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure. I was supposed to watch you, protect you. But something went wrong.’

‘Did he say anything ’bout us getting stronger? Anything ’bout a mutuality of focus making us strong?’

‘Actually,’ said the computer. ‘I’d forgotten that.’

They all turned to the chopper.

‘I simply thought it would be amusing to send you after Debora,’ the computer went on. ‘I have a fondness for irony. And I’m glad I did send you. No one has ever been able to defeat Nate until now. His malfunction has made clear how valuable you two will be. We look forward to your arrival.’

‘Izaguirre,’ said Mingolla. ‘You motherfucker!’

The computer gave forth one of its easy chuckles. ‘Hello, David. Surprised to see me?’

‘Not really.’ Mingolla stood and looked down at the chopper, wishing Izaguirre were there in person. ‘Where are you?’

‘Don’t be annoyed, David. I have nothing but good wishes for you and Debora. As to where I am, you’ll see me in Panama.’

‘What makes you think we’ll go to Panama after all this?’

‘Where else can you go? You’re both deserters, so you can’t go home. And besides, you want to learn about Panama. You want to find out what’s there, don’t you?’

‘Why don’t you just fly us there now?’ Debora asked.

‘Ordinarily I might,’ said the computer. However, I think in your case it would be wise to gauge your strength. The trip will provide you with tests, and I for one will be most interested in seeing how you cope with them.’

‘You’re nuts!’ said Mingolla. ‘You’re playing games with us, with everyone.’

‘Not at all,’ said the computer. ‘I’m merely being cautious.’

‘What is going on in Panama?’

Silence, the black web of vines stretched taut by the enormous bulk of the chopper. Mingolla felt its size and power within him, felt that his body, too, was a web holding a black shape, a potential that Izaguirre in his arrogance might not suspect. If he could hide that potential, if Debora could hide hers, they just might have a surprise for Izaguirre.

‘Please,’ Nate said, gesturing at the gun.

‘If you leave Nate here,’ said the computer, ‘I’ll have someone look after him.’

‘No!’ Nate jumped to his feet. ‘I won’t go back.’

‘Calm down, Nate,’ said the computer. ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’

Debora held out her hand to Mingolla. ‘Give me the gun.’

Appalled, he said, ‘What’re you going to do?’

She said nothing, but continued to hold out her hand.

‘You don’t have to,’ said Mingolla. ‘Maybe…’

‘Give it to her!’ said Nate. ‘You have to!’ He had a sick, eager look; Debora’s expression was resigned.

‘If it has to be done, I’ll do it,’ Mingolla said.

‘There’s no need to do it at all,’ the computer said. ‘Nate is overstating the horrors of his service. He’ll be well cared for, I promise.’

‘Well cared for?’ Nate stepped to the edge of the boulder, his fists clenched. ‘Yes, I’ll be well cared for! I can sit in a room all day without a thought to trouble me. And when I’m waked… hah! When I’m waked I’ll be so grateful to have you twist me… to let you…’ He appeared to have lost the train of thought and stared at the chopper. Insects fizzed out in the dark scrub beyond the ring of boulders.

Debora took the barrel of the gun. ‘Wait for me in the glade.’

Reluctantly, Mingolla turned the butt loose, and with a final look at Nate, he walked down the archway of leaves and stood in the feathery shadow of a palmetto. It gave him a strange feeling to think of Debora killing someone, especially by this method of mercy killing cum execution. He tried to excuse her in terms of her guerrilla experience; he wanted her to be virtuous. Minutes passed, and he became worried that something bad had happened, that Nate had managed to get the gun away from her. He started back toward the hollow, and at that moment the gunshot sounded. Monkeys screaming, a thousand dark wings beating overhead. A few seconds later Debora came through the archway, the gun tucked into her belt. He wanted to comfort her, but she walked past without comment, moving so quickly through the sparse brush that he had trouble keeping up with her.

They spent their last day in Emerald packing a canoe with provisions and weapons, and finalizing their plans for the journey. By river to the Peten Highway. Bus to the town of Reunion. Then on foot through jungle to the Rio Dulce south of San Francisco de Juticlan, and thereafter by boat downriver to Livingston. They gave Amalia—who had wandered into the village shortly after Debora’s arrival, likely directed that way by Izaguirre—into the hands of a young childless widow; they had little hope that Izaguirre would fail to reclaim her, but at least she would be well taken care of in the interim. Then they paddled the canoe to the hot springs, where they would spend their last night.

The early evening was a quiet time. Debora sat on the bank, morose, dangling her legs, touching her toes to the scalding water as if testing her threshold of pain. Mingolla sat beside her, cleaning the rifles, thinking of the days ahead. He gazed south down the river. The darkness looked thicker there, a black gas welling toward them, and he thought he could sense the precise articulation of their journey, the uphills and downhills, the ducking-into- covers, the sprinting away from this or that danger; it seemed his thought was a wind going out of him, coursing over the shapes of land and event. Once in a while they talked, mostly about nothing, asking if one or the other was hungry, thirsty, sleepy. On only one occasion did they have a real conversation, and that occurred after Debora asked Mingolla what he was thinking.

‘Not much… just ’bout the apple trees in my backyard. Back home, y’know.’

‘I would have thought you’d be thinking about the trip.’

‘I was, but just then I was remembering pruning the apple trees, sawing off the dead limbs.’

‘I’ve never seen an apple tree.’

‘They’re kinda neat. I never thought much about ’em ‘till I had to work with ’em. You spend hours cutting at something, and you start noticing things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like when the sawdust gets hot, it smells like hot apples.’

‘What else?’

He mulled it over. ‘When there’s a long branch that’s dying, and it has a choice where to bring out a new leaf, it always puts the leaf right at the end, right at its tip.’

She dabbled her toes in the water. ‘Nate was like that.’

‘How do ya mean?’

‘Just something he said before…’ She pursed her lips, stared at her hands. ‘I wish,’ she said after a long pause, ‘that I could really believe he wanted to die, that it wasn’t just, madness.’

‘I think it was both.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It was just madness.’