Sanibel Flats

shapes of gigantic trees protruding through the haze. Sometimes, on a far mountainside, Ford could see lights glittering in tiny coves: campfires of Mayan villages. The fires touched the air with woodsmoke long after they had receded into the gloom. Ford took the wheel as the eastern horizon paled and the sun, still unseen, illuminated the high forest canopy with citreous light.

At 10 A.M. Ford said, 'I think we're almost there.' He had been following one of the maps, marking their progress, while Tomlinson sat peering out the window, pointing at monkeys and wild parrots.

'This guy Zacul's camp?'

'No. A place where we can get breakfast. A little village called Isla de Verde. I want to see someone else first.'

'You know best, man. I just hope they sell corn flakes. I have corn flakes every morning.'

Isle de Verde had once been an agricultural outpost, a settlement of people drawn into the forest so that they might get rich tapping chicle trees and selling the sap to U.S. chewing gum manufacturers. No one ever got rich, and when the manufacturers found a synthetic chicle, which was cheaper, the agricultural outpost became just an outpost, a clearing in the jungle with bamboo huts and plywood tiendas where stray dogs dozed in the road. As Ford drove down the mud street, people turned from their work to watch, then turned away again, showing no expression. Unlike the more traditional Maya of the higher mountains, the villagers here wore Latino clothing: simple white pants or pastel skirts, light blouses and scarves. But the high cheeks, dark eyes, and earth-toned faces were unmistakable: pure Mayan.

In a village such as this, merchants did not need signs because everyone knew what was to be bought and where. The place where a meal could be purchased was a simple bamboo chickee with a tin roof and bottles of beer and Coca-Cola on display in the front window. Ford knew of the restaurant because he had been in Isla de Verde several times before, but coming always from the north, not the south. He parked the Land Cruiser beneath a tree where two sway-backed horses and a goat grazed.

The proprietor—a slender man with the knowing eyes of a priest—acknowledged Ford with the slightest of nods, remembering him but saying nothing, motioning them toward the smaller of two tables in the tiny room. 'You would like coffee? Or perhaps a beer?' Standing there with a towel over his forearm like the maitre d' of a great hotel.

Ford said, 'Coffee, yes. And a meal. A breakfast, if it is not an inconvenience.'

'It is my great pleasure.'

'Perhaps there is something else you could do for us.'

The proprietor shrugged, a noncommittal gesture. 'If it is possible.'

Ford took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. 'I would like this message delivered to a friend of mine. A man who lives in the hills. I will pay you and the messenger for your trouble, of course. '

The proprietor took the paper, glanced at the name on the outside, then stuffed the note in his pocket as if it were a matter of indifference to him. 'I will bring the beverages,' he said, then walked quickly to the kitchen.

Tomlinson said, 'I hope he brings a menu, too.'

Ford said, 'I don't think they have menus here. I can check if you want.'

'You guys lose me, the way you jabber away in Spanish like that. I've got to learn the language, man. I've got to learn those glyphs better. I've got so damn much work to do on this project of mine, it's great. You know, stimulating.' He looked at Ford. 'No corn flakes, huh?'

'I wouldn't get my hopes up.'

'Did you already order?'

'You pretty much take what he brings you. It'll be good, though.'

It was, too: fried plantains, eggs, black beans, rice, and thick slices of bacon. Tomlinson didn't eat the bacon—he didn't eat flesh, he said—but he ate everything else. Then they went for a walk, past the neat houses with their swept lawns, down to the river where they watched children playing in the sun while their mothers washed clothes on the rocks, knotting and beating the clothing as women had for a thousand years.

Ford never saw the messenger the proprietor sent but, an hour later, four men on horseback rode into the village towing two saddled horses behind. They wore T-shirts, not uniforms, but each carried an automatic rifle and the lead man said to Ford, 'You are to come with us, Senor.'

Ford said, 'We have a vehicle. We can follow.'

'No, Senor. You are to ride with us. It is his wish.'

Tomlinson said he'd never been on a horse before and Ford said it was a little like being on a sailboat, only drier—but Tomlinson, upset by the weapons, did not smile. They rode single file into the mountains, then stopped on a ridge above a shallow valley. Below lay the shapes of tents hidden among the trees and a huge clearing covered with camouflaged netting. Tomlinson whispered, 'What they hiding under there, man? Artillery? A landing strip, maybe?'

Ford said, 'Watch. Watch the soldiers. They're rolling the netting back now.'

There was part of a grass runway covered by the camouflage. So were two mobile units of antiaircraft artillery, old Yugoslavian M65s from the looks of them. Mostly, though, the camouflaged netting was being used to hide a baseball diamond.

THIRTEEN

Dressed in khaki fatigues and cap, his black beard showing splotches of gray, Juan Rivera stood outside the HQ tent and threw his arms wide apart, smiling as Ford rode up. 'Do my eyes deceive me? Is it the great Johnny Bench? Is it the ugly Yogi Berra? No . . . no, it is my old comrade Ford come to help us in our time of need.' Joking with Ford, but performing for the men around him, too, which was Rivera's way: a showman, always speaking to a crowd even when there was no crowd to hear.

Ford said, 'It's been a long time, General Rivera,' enduring the guerrilla leader's bear hug, but relieved, at least, that Rivera hadn't had him arrested. With things the way they were in Masagua, there had been no way for Ford to know in advance how he would be received.

'You and your friend are hungry? I will have a meal prepared—'

'We ate in the village, General.'

'Then you are in need of a bath. Or sleep, perhaps? You have traveled far—'

'A bath would be nice, but later. After we've talked.'

'A woman, then?' His arm thrown over Ford's shoulder, leading him toward the headquarters tent, Rivera was speaking confidentially now, making a show of being a host who anticipated all needs. 'Finding a healthy woman in this time of many diseases is not such an easy thing, but I have several here you may find pleasing. Volunteers, dedicated to the cause. ' His wink was both humorous and wicked. 'I have been accused of choosing my volunteers for their beauty, not their brains, a thing I will not argue.'

Ford said, 'You are widely known for your taste in women, General, but I'm not in need right now. Thanks anyway.'

Rivera stopped and put his hands on Ford's shoulders. 'You are fit, then? You are well?'

'I'm just fine.'

'And your friend? Forgive me, but I am wondering why a man such as you is traveling with this . . . this hippie.' Meaning Tomlinson, who was back with the horses. The people of Central America still distrusted the long-haired late Sixties wanderers they remembered as ne'er-do-wells and bums, and Rivera, Ford could see, wasn't eager to extend his hospitality.

'He's a business associate. He's fine, too.'

'Then you require nothing?'

'I would like to talk with you—'

'Hah! It is always business with you! It is a bad thing, a very bad thing to think of nothing but work.' They were inside Rivera's tent now: a high room of canvas with Coleman lanterns hanging from wooden supports and sandbags piled chest high around the inside perimeter. Ford stood while Rivera went behind a great metal desk and began to rummage through a box, but still lecturing. 'You should use me as your example, Marion. I am about to lead my army into a great revolution. I am about to assume command of my beloved country. I have a thousand things to do; ten million people depend on me, but I make sure that I take the time for recreation.' Rivera took something from the box and placed it on the desk: a pale-gray uniform, folded. A baseball uniform. Then he added a hat and a catcher's glove to the pile. 'This hippie friend of yours, does he play the game, too?'