She had wanted to tell her brother that the guerrillas were seen on the section of the plantation that looked down on the little town of Colomba. She wanted to tell him to come home and help her, because she had the child here and there was no one willing to drive them out to the capital because of what happened to the Asturias family. The Asturiases had all been murdered by the Communists on the lawn of their house, and the bodies were still lying there stiff—first in the sun, later in the rain. No one, not one Indian, no one, would dare drive them out to safety now.
She was alone. Not alone; really; there were 500 people living on the plantation—but she was alone. She felt it now for the first time. She was white, and the rest weren’t.
She played for a moment with her long brown hair, and looked out at the water-bombed patio. She could see the green of the coffee bushes at the end of the silent driveway. She’d ordered the gate locked. She wondered, if she prayed to God, whether her father would appear at the gate at the bottom of the garden and take them somewhere safe in his car.
She saw the pathetic little lock and chain hanging from the gate in the rain. No, praying would not be enough. The fact that God had let her father die seemed cruel and impossible. She had never forgiven God for that. God had sinned against her, she told a priest. He had not answered.
The plantation, one of the largest on the coast, was left to her and her brother and their older sister. It had been bought on a Sunday at a dinner party near Guatepecque, at the home of her grandfather’s mistress, sometime before the turn of the last century. The mistress had arranged the sale. There had always been questions about the propriety of the sale, and about her grandfather’s law practice, which had enriched itself during the flu epidemic of 1898. It was said that her great-grandfather, Ramon Cruz, had started life as a young bank clerk in Guatemala City, the son of poor Spaniards, and finished a very, very wealthy man who could and did shout at the President of the Republic. The story of his rise was, according to some family members, the story of swindles and the shameless abuse of widowed women left alone by the flu epidemic. But no one could be exactly sure, now, how the Cruzes had gotten to own so much. As Isabella’s aunt liked to say, only the dead know that story, and they aren’t in a position to tell it.
TWO
Russell had met Gustav Mahler—the archaeologist, not the musician—when Russell had been sent to interview the young German, who’d become famous after his startling find of a lost Mayan temple at Bakta Halik. Mahler and Russell had agreed to meet at the Circus Bar in Panajachel, on the shores of Lake Atitlan.
Mahler looked like Kid Rock, and had an IQ of one-hundred eighty-three. At times he stuttered. His teachers in Germany thought it was only because he had so many conflicting ideas that came to him all at once. His mind raced; he’d learnt to live with it.
He had been named after the famous German composer, who’d been a distant relative. Mahler’s father was a world-renowned Mesoamerica scholar and an expert on Mayan history. He had worked the Tikal site in Guatemala during the war years and brought his wife and child with him, despite the danger.
While his father worked, Gustav had played in Tikal’s famous grassy courtyard, between the stele Roja and the Temple of the Jaguar Grande. The local Indians had embraced the young boy, and taught him things about the jungle most white people never learn. He was happiest trekking in the bush alone, singing Rolling Stones songs at the top of his voice. He had wanted to be an archaeologist since he was six years old.
Mahler was only twenty-four when he made the discovery that made him famous. He’d gone out into the jungle and found it without any help or university backing. He told Russell that he’d come to Guatemala to write his Ph.D. thesis, but ran out of money. It was unheard of.
The temple had been full of priceless Mayan antiquities. Mahler had saved them from a group of colonels, who’d planned to clean the temple out as soon as they’d caught wind of his find. He’d gone to the world press, sounded the alarm, and stopped them. The Colonels had been arrested. Mahler’s picture was printed in all the German newspapers, who called him a hero. Stanford University had offered him a teaching job in California, but he’d turned it down.
Mahler had brought a Dutch girl to the interview. She was a brainy, thin, glasses-wearing, twenty-five year old from a small country town, who seemed to be a bona fide sex addict. “She just vants to suck my dick and smoke weed,” Mahler told Russell matter-of-factly. “You’ve heard of the Red Jaguar?” he asked.
“No,” Russell said over the music, watching the Dutch girl, braless and fetching, stop to talk to friends at another table.
“It’s out there. I’m sure of it. It’s not a myth, like some people say,” Mahler told him. “It’s worth a fortune. My father told me about it when I was just a kid. He looked for it, but never found it.”
Russell glanced at the bemused Dutch girl as she headed back to their table. Someone at the bar had bought her a brandy, and she was holding it in both hands. Her skin was golden from sunning herself at the hotel pool all day.
“You’d have to give it up to the government,” Russell said. “If you did find any kind of treasure.”
“Not, not … if you find it on private property,” Mahler told him quickly. He looked Russell in the eye. Russell realized that Mahler stuttered, but controlled the affliction through force of sheer willpower. The German’s face contorted a little with the effort to control his tongue. There was a mean look in Mahler’s eye as he struggled to get the next word out of his mouth. Russell decided, looking at him, that Mahler was probably as arrogant as he was brilliant.
“Okay, I’m game. What is it then, this Red Jaguar?” Russell said.
“A… A…great bloody piece of red jade. I mean bloody big. Heroic. You know what that means? Right?” Mahler asked. He took a drink of his wine, the flamenco trio on the bar’s tiny stage playing louder now.
“Life size. Right?” Russell said, speaking up over the music.
“Might be bigger,” Mahler said, putting down his glass. “Might be like the stone jaguars at Bakta Halik. Remember? There at the entrance. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Those are eight feet high, man!”
“Yes. I’ve seen them,” Russell said.
The Dutch girl came back and sat on Mahler’s lap. In the lamplight, Russell could see her breasts clearly through her sheer cotton blouse.
“Big,” the German said, ignoring her. “Could be very big. And those are stone. The Red Jaguar, they say, is made of jade. That’s the story, anyway, what the Mayan texts say. Can you imagine what that would be worth to a collector? Or a museum? Millions! Millions, my friend!” The German reached over and hit Russell on the shoulder, managing to keep the girl on his knee.
“It might be a myth. You know, like El Dorado,” Russell said, trying not to stare at the girl’s tits, not taking him seriously. “Or the Lost Dutchman’s mine.”
The band stopped.
“I don’t think so,” Mahler said quickly. He touched the girl’s cheek with the back of his hand and smiled at her, as if he already had sold the thing and had the bank book in his pocket. She got off his knee, but not before grinding a little.
“Jaguars are frightening,” she said, getting up and moving to her own chair. “I bought a mask in Chi Chi, but I had to give it away. So dark!” She looked around to see if she had any more friends in the bar. She growled, a little drunk. She produced a joint, and they went out onto the street to smoke it.