He looked again and saw that one of the jaguars had gone up the steps to the temple. It turned and looked at him, then sprinted up the stairs and disappeared inside.

He checked on the sky through the canopy of the ceiba tree. He could still see bits of red-stained clouds, but it would be dark soon. It hurt his shoulders to look up, but he wanted to. He wanted to see the sky for the last time. He would never see her again, nor would he be able to tell Beatrice what he had finally discovered about life: when you are most lost is precisely when you are the most alive. He understood that now. He hadn’t expected that, but it was true. He nodded off and dreamed.

He and Beatrice had been on the beach together one sunset at the height of their affair. It was a painful memory, because it was so good—painful, because he was afraid. Death hadn’t been there then. The mother of pearl-colored, deserted, shack-strewn beach at sunset, that’s what they had. The memory was so clear, so beautiful—of her naked, standing alone on the beach, him coming out of the surf, looking at her, knowing she was his, the rush of knowing. The taste of the salt on his lips. The way her voice came to him over the surf, with the Englishness that he loved so much, the lilting of it. He couldn’t describe exactly what was in Beatrice’s voice—just youth, perhaps—but everything about her was in it. It was so full of that sparkling intelligence, so full.

He didn’t feel tied to the tree anymore. He’d left the tree behind him and was free, walking out of the surf. Bits of dark driftwood glided past him. He looked at Beatrice standing there, waiting for him. Nothing was better than seeing her like that, and being in love with her. Nothing. Death? So what?

I don’t care. I killed for her, he thought. That was Beatrice’s effect on him. That was the nature of his passion for her. But passions have their price, and now he would pay the full amount. So be it.

I only fear never having met her.

He let the half-dream end and forced himself to open his eyes.

A purple darkness had taken over the jungle sky. The camp had turned a soft blue color, and Russell could see just the outline of it. Night was finally collapsing the camp. He thought he saw something to his right, and screamed; he turned his head, but it was just a bird that had landed near him. He started to shake with fear. He tried to stop but couldn’t until he let something go, something he’d carried with him all those years since his mother’s death.

It was all over now, he told himself, finally controlling his shaking—but it had been worth it. All of it.

He closed his eyes again. He imagined Beatrice and the children waiting for him. They were in a restaurant, a very clean one with white walls and air-conditioning. He was parking the jeep, and they were waving to him from inside. I would do it again, he thought, no longer frightened. He would do it again, knowing that in the end it would come to this.

He heard the jaguar inside the temple growl, its growl amplified by the temple walls. He tried hard to make out the temple’s entrance, but couldn’t anymore.

They’ll come now, he thought.

Olga Monte de Oro stepped off the bus at Colomba. It was market day and the streets were busy, the rain clouds pearly smooth and gigantic. Indians in traditional garb filled the narrow street as she passed. They called to each other in their language. There was a timeless, sad mute quality to the town’s narrow streets; the tiny shops painted in shabby blues. On the square, Olga passed market stalls, hung with worn tarpaulins, their fruits and vegetables piled high.

Olga stopped and bought tortillas from a woman her age with bad legs, who was making them out on the square for a penny apiece, the woman’s kind face horribly wrinkled. Beatrice Selva had given her a hundred dollar bill when she put her on the bus. The bill was too big to use here. Olga found a few pennies in her pocket and paid for the tortillas. She had the old woman wrap them in a banana leaf.

“Where are you headed, sister?” the old woman asked her in their language.

“Plantation Las Flores,” Olga told her. “I’ve been away. But I’m going home now.”

“God bless you,” the woman said. “And keep you safe. The world out there is no place for us.”

“And may God be with you,” Olga said to the woman. She went on along the street, past the little shops with their corrugated metal roofs and open fronts. A young plantation owner’s wife was shopping with her maid. Olga stopped to stare at the young girl, the only white person on the street.

“Doña Isabella, I’m sorry. I went to buy tortillas,” Olga said. The young woman looked at her.

“Excuse me?” the girl said in Spanish.

“I’m ready to go home now,” Olga said. “We need vegetables. I know where we should go. I know. Where the best ones are, Doña Isabella. And those sweet breads the child likes so much. I’m so glad I found you, my lady,” Olga said. She grabbed the young woman’s hand and held it.

That afternoon in Colomba, no one would have noticed anything unusual—just the brightly painted chicken buses passing and Indians hurrying to catch them on their way back to the mountains.

“I’m so glad that you’re all right, señora. I’ve been so worried,” Olga said. “I looked for you. I did.”

The young woman and her maid gave Olga a ride to Las Flores in their jeep. The young girl was kind. She knew nothing about war or death yet. They watched Olga walk up the narrow road and through the gate to the plantation.

•••

Russell Cruz-Price opened his eyes and saw the eyes of the jaguar in the night. There were two of them, a female and a male, and they weren’t afraid of him anymore.

Then he heard voices and saw a light, carried by a party of Indians coming from the river in single file. He was sure it was a dream, until he saw one of the jaguars turn and sprint away into the jungle. The other one, the female, looked at him a moment longer, a straight, level gaze. Something seemed to pass between them, that perfect understanding beyond language that all living things share. Then she, too, was gone.

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