even.
But Guatemala?
The potato tasted like pressed wood. I laid down my fork and reached for my coffee.
“They think Carlos got out?” I asked.
Mateo nodded.
“Why take the trouble to shove him back into the truck?”
“A disabled vehicle would draw less interest than a body on the ground.”
“Does a robbery scenario sound reasonable to you?”
Mateo’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed, bulged again.
“It happens.”
Elena made a sound in her throat, but said nothing.
“Now what?”
“Today Elena will keep watch at the hospital while we continue at Chupan Ya.” He tossed coffee dregs onto the grass. “And we all pray.”
My grandmother used to say that God’s tonic for sorrow was physical labor. She also felt toads caused infertility, but that was another issue.
For the next six days the team ingested megadoses of Gran’s elixir. We worked at the well from sunrise until sunset, hauling equipment up and down the valley, troweling, hoisting buckets, shaking screens.
In the evenings we dragged ourselves from our
Some nights we ate in silence, too exhausted for conversation. On others we talked of the project, of Molly and Carlos, of the town in which we were temporary residents.
The history of Panajachel is as colorful as the textiles sold on its streets. In another age, the place was a K’akchiquel Mayan village settled by ancestors of the current citizens when a force of rival Tzutujil warriors was defeated by the Spanish. Later, the Franciscans established a church and monastery at “Pana,” and used the village as a base for missionary operations.
Darwin was right. Life is opportunity. One group’s loss is another’s gain.
In the sixties and seventies the town became a haven for gringo gurus, hippies, and dropouts. Rumors that Lake Atitlan was one of the world’s few “vortex energy fields” led to an influx of cosmic healers and crystal watchers.
Today Panajachel is a blend of traditional Mayan, contemporary Guatemalan, and nondescript Western. It is luxury hotels and hospedajes; European cafes and comedores; ATMs and outdoor markets;
By late Wednesday we’d finished our excavation at Chupan Ya. In all, we’d removed twenty-three souls from the well. Among the skeletons we’d found thirteen projectiles and cartridge casings and two broken machete blades. Every bone and object had been recorded, photographed, packaged, and sealed for transport to the FAFG lab in Guatemala City. The cultural anthropologist had recorded twenty-seven stories, and taken DNA samples from sixteen family members.
Carlos’s body had been transported to the Guatemala City morgue, where an autopsy confirmed the impression of the local police. Death was due to gunshot wounding at close range.
Molly remained comatose. Each day one of us made the drive to the San Juan de Dios Hospital in Solola, sat by her bedside, reported back. That report was always the same. No change.
The police found no prints or physical evidence, located no witnesses, identified no suspects. The investigation continued.
After dinner on Wednesday, I went by myself to visit Molly. For two hours I held her hand and stroked her head, hoping that the fact of my presence would penetrate to wherever it was her spirit had gone. Sometimes I talked to her, recalling shared times and acquaintances from our years before Guatemala brought us back together. I told her of the progress at Chupan Ya and spoke of her role in the work ahead. Otherwise, I sat silent, listening to the muted hum of her cardiac monitor, and praying for her recovery.
On Thursday morning we loaded the trucks and Jeep under the indifferent eye of Senor Amado and set out for the capital, winding our way up the precipitous road from Panajachel. The sky was flawless, the lake blue satin. Sunlight speared the trees, turning leaves translucent and glistening in the spiderwebs overhead.
As we made the hairpin turn high above Lake Atitlan, I gazed at the peaks on her far side.
Vulcan San Pedro. Vulcan Toliman. Vulcan Atitlan.
Closing my eyes, I said one more silent prayer to whatever god might be willing to listen.
The FAFG is headquartered in Guatemala City’s Zone 2. Built on a spit of land between steep ravines, or
Today, businesses and public offices sit cheek to jowl with residences hanging on by suction cups. The National Baseball Stadium looms over the far end of Calle Simeon Canas, and multicolored buses stop at graffiti- covered shelters along both curbs. Vendors hawk fast food from pushcarts and metal huts with slide-up windows. From one, Pepsi. From another, Coke. Tamales.
The FAFG labs and administrative offices are located in what was once a private family home on Simeon
