“I bet you’re starving,” Harry said. “They’ve got excellent food here. Empanadas, humitas, belon de verde.”
“I don’t know about Grace,” Justin said. “But I trust you to order for us.”
I hadn’t expected to be hungry, but I was. I assured Harry I trusted him. When our waiter Emilio arrived, he and Harry carried on a lively discussion in Spanish. Emilio nodded in approval and walked to the kitchen. We drank our juice and talked about the weather. The rain had stopped and shouldn’t return until evening.
Emilio returned with an enormous tray of delicacies.
“Those are empanadas. And the little dumplings are belon de verde, made from fried plantains and stuffed with sausage. The cake-shaped ones are humitas, crunchy cornmeal mixed with onion, eggs, and cheese,” Harry explained.
Harry waited while I selected an empanada. The contrasting flavor of cheese, onions, and sweet plantains was delicious. The three of us demolished most of the pastry tray, and Emilio appeared with a huge fruit platter loaded with familiar favorites: papayas, passion fruit, and kiwis. It also included exotic delights, like Ecuadorian blackberries, larger and tarter than the ones back home, and egg-shaped granadillas, small pinkish-orange fruit with a delicate flavor similar to strawberries.
By the time Emilio checked back in, only a few lonely berries remained. He and Harry had another brief exchange in Spanish before he nodded and disappeared.
“Most of the good Ecuadorian coffee gets exported, so the locals end up drinking instant,” Harry explained. “Tastes like shit. Excuse my French. I wanted to make sure the hotel has Cubinato or Little Cuba, typical Ecuadorian irony.”
The brew was dark and strong. They drank theirs straight, but I opted for almost as much milk as coffee and two teaspoons of sugar. Harry glanced at his watch, then requested the check.
“We’re only about fifteen minutes from the Palace. With so many more people on the road, you never know how long it’s going to take. And if there’s an accident, forget about it. The cops are likely to leave the car, haul both drivers away to jail, and sort out blame later. It can be hours before they wrap up a simple fender-bender.”
He insisted on picking up breakfast. Then we headed to the Bronco. Once we were buckled in and on the way, he explained how he’d met Luis Cordoza.
“I was consulting with a security company, and they sent me to work with the Ecuadorian government.”
He turned onto a four-lane highway lined with palm trees.
“Luis was working with the government?” Justin asked.
“Hardly.” He laughed. “He was an attorney representing one of the indigenous groups protesting mining development. Scrappy little fellow. The government reps were thugs, but he managed to score some major points for his clients. The president was impressed and pissed off at the same time. He set him up with an office in Guayquil’s city hall, El Palacio Municipal. He thought if Luis was on the payroll, he could control him.” Harry smiled. “But he’s not the kind of guy other people control.”
I could tell how much Harry liked Cordoza, but I was confused. “I don’t quite understand how your friend can help us.”
He swerved to avoid being hit by one of the city’s big red buses. “Ecuador is a complicated country. There’s a big divide between those at the top and bottom and not a lot of trust in the system. Reminds you of home, doesn’t it? Anyway, communication among all the different factions can be tricky. We need him to guide us through the process.”
He spent the next few minutes explaining that his friend would be able to cut through the red tape involved in our request for Stella’s body. Cordoza would also know how to determine who had the most to gain if there was a cover-up in the investigation of my sister’s death.
“But remember, Grace,” Harry said. “Luis may not have all the answers.”
Even if he did, I thought, what detail about how she died could bring her back?
No one spoke as we drove alongside the river for the next few miles. I watched the fishermen standing on small flat canoes the same way their families had done for centuries. Double-decker eco-touring boats, filled with the environmentally conscious, floated past. A sleek motorboat flitted in and out, leaving everyone else bobbing in its wake, much like Stella’s death had left me.
Harry was right about the traffic. The fifteen-minute drive had already stretched to thirty.
Justin asked him what kind of fishing was good in Ecuador, and the two launched into an incomprehensible conversation about bait and optimal times and rods and God only knew what else.
Just about the time I was contemplating jumping from the slow-moving car and covering the remaining distance on foot, Harry pointed to an enormous statue of two men shaking hands.
“That’s Hemiciclo de la Rotunda, Simón Bolívar and San Martin, great South American Liberators. That means we’re almost there.”
The monument towered in front of the river. A row of slender columns topped with flags was flanked on each side by sturdier ones. Together they formed a semi-circle around the gigantic figures.
“This is as good a place as any,” Harry said, pulling into a small parking lot. Stepping out of the air-conditioned car felt like slamming into a hot, damp wall. Justin joined me, and two young boys approached. Their size made them appear younger from a distance, but as they got closer, I guessed the taller one to be around twelve or thirteen. The smaller one couldn’t have been much more than nine or ten. Their coppery skin shimmered in the morning heat.
The older boy greeted Harry in Spanish, and they began what I assumed was a negotiation over parking fees.
Justin pointed to a stately alabaster building ahead of us. “That’s the Municipal Palace.”
Lovely Hellenic columns graced the front of the structure; an arched passage divided it into separate sections.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Harry asked, after reaching a satisfactory agreement with the boys.
“It is incredible,” I agreed.
The air cooled as we
