He rushed out of the room and started to run down the corridor. He looked down at his feet; he hadn’t put on shoes. He ran, tucking in his shirt. He didn’t think that he’d closed the door to the room. Carlos was going to surprise her in the garden; he felt it. It was the way Carlos had looked around as he spoke. It was only natural for a man to do that. He flew down the corridor. God damn it, all the rules and now this.

He stopped for moment in the lobby. He was breathing hard and sweating. He wiped his face. He looked for Carlos on the terrace and saw him doing exactly what he’d feared. He waited a moment, pulled his shirttails out again and wiped his face off. He told himself that he had to be calm, that he would walk out the side door and intercept the man.

He was lost. His room was on the other side of the hotel. I was lost. My room is on the other side of the hotel. He repeated it again and again as he walked across the lobby and out the door to the garden. He saw Carlos coming down the path towards him. He was alone now.

Russell smiled at Beatrice’s husband. Carlos looked at him, nonplussed at first, then smiled back, recognizing him.

“Damn Guatemalans,” Russell said. He didn’t know why he said it. Pure nerves.

“Mr. Price. I was just asking about you.”

“I’m lost. Can you believe it?” he said, and smiled. “I thought my room was this way. But I don’t think it is.”

“I’m so glad you could come,” Carlos said. “Have you seen my wife?”

“Wife? This morning. We had part one of the interview. I’m afraid I was feeling a little under the weather. Damn food here. Your countrymen are always poisoning me. I had to lie down, don’t know where she is. She said you were coming by helicopter. Wish I had.”

He told himself to shut up. It was difficult; he was trying to bury Carlos with bluster.

“Are you all right?” Selva asked.

“Well, if puking your guts out is all right, then I suppose I’m fine,” Russell said.

“I’m so sorry. Can I get you something? I can send one of the men down to the town for you. To the farmácia.”

“Would you? God! Yes, I was just trying to buy something here, but there’s nothing,” Russell said.

“Yes. Of course. I can send a doctor too, if you like?” Carlos said.

“Doctor? No. No. Just something that will put a cork in it.”

“Of course. Let me call my wife and tell her.”

Russell held his stomach. “If you don’t mind, I think I could use something right away.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Sit down . . . or go to your room. What’s the room number?”

“1211,” Russell said.

“1211. I’ll have my wife go up and see what they can bring you. Why don’t you go to the room, and we’ll have some tea sent up. Yerba Buena is excellent for the cramps. I’m sure they have it.”

He’d come up and stood by Russell, genuinely concerned. Carlos put his briefcase down. They shook hands, then Russell watched him call Beatrice. He asked her to go to room 1211, and told her the American journalist was with him in the lobby and had fallen ill.

Russell could finally breathe. It had worked. Carlos went out to the hotel’s entrance where he’d stationed his bodyguards.

“He’s coming here,” she said. Russell walked back into the room. The curtain was pulled open. He pulled the bed cover up and looked at her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I came up here. I was afraid you would leave,” she said. “I need you so much.”

He looked at her. He didn’t understand the last two hours, the way they had both flouted the danger, but he knew they had to get through the next thirty minutes. He looked around the room.

“Do you understand? I’ve had no one to talk to, no one, for three years. Do you know what that’s like, for people like us?” she said.

“Beatrice. He’s coming up here, right now. Are you ready for that?” he asked.

“Just tell me you love me.”

He looked at her again, in shock. He wanted to open the door to the room, and decided it was best he did. He could see the empty corridor, its brown tile floor gleaming in the sunlight.

“Please tell me you won’t stop seeing me,” she said, standing behind him.

“I won’t stop seeing you. We met and had an interview at the bar. I told him that, just now,” he said. He turned around, went to the bed, and sat down facing the hallway.

They didn’t say anything. Russell just kept glancing up and looking at the corridor. It seemed like hours before he saw the general and one of his men coming towards them.

“Well, old boy, I’ve ordered you some Lomotil. I sent one of the men down to Pana for some. It’s wonderful for the cramps,” Carlos said. He crossed the room and kissed his wife.

“What do you think, Gorda? Will he live?”

“Amoebas, I suppose,” she said. Beatrice’s voice was a little distant.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Carlos said. “You can take the test. I’ll have a kit brought in to you.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve taken it before, unfortunately,” Russell said.

“You haven’t gone swimming in the lake, have you?” Carlos said, joking. “It’s all the shit that gets in. The water looks beautiful, but I’m afraid they’ve spoilt it for swimming. You’ll get amoebas swimming in the lake.”

Russell turned on the bed and looked at the two of them standing together. He smiled weakly at them both.

“No, I haven’t been swimming,” he said.

“Americans are always getting something,” Beatrice said. She put her arm around her husband’s waist and drew him close to her.

“I’m afraid she’s right. It’s the curse of the United Fruit Company,” the general said.

Beatrice hit Carlos playfully on the shoulder. When she did, Russell knew they’d escaped this time. He looked up at the ceiling, relieved.

They left a short time later. The bodyguard brought him some medicines in a plastic bag. The man seemed suspicious by nature. Russell took the bag, thanking the man profusely, and closed the door. He’d told them that if he felt better later, he would come to their dinner party.

He opened the window. Their little boat was gone. He threw the plastic bag on the bed and went in to shower. He drove back to the capital an hour later.

FIFTEEN

Don Russell?” the woman said. She seemed to know him. An Indian woman was standing at his front door. She was crippled, something terribly wrong with her hip. Her name was Olga Monte de Oro, she told him. She’d grown up with his mother, she said. She had been born on their family’s plantation.

He didn’t know how she’d heard about him, or gotten his address. He’d come to the door, ready to go to the office, and she’d appeared. She was very dark-skinned, her hair gray. Her shoes were cheap-looking and dirty with mud. He’d noticed her shoes right away.

He didn’t know what the woman could possibly want with him. He hadn’t recognized his nanny.

“Sí,” he said. She had that Mayan face, the thrusting jaw. She was ugly, he supposed, looking at her. He felt immediately bad for thinking it. The shoulder a little frightening, the way it sloped to compensate for her bad hip.

The porter had called from below and asked if he could let in a muchacha. The word muchacha here meant a domestic. He thought one of his colleagues from work, who happened to live nearby, had sent him a message via his maid.

“I’m from Las Flores,” the woman said. “I knew you when you were a little boy.” She thrust a photograph into his hand. He looked at the old photo; it was a picture of his mother as a young girl and an Indian girl, their arms around one another.

He took the photograph, not knowing what he should do. He invited the old woman into the apartment. She was carrying a small cardboard box wrapped with dirty-looking twine.