The Price of Escape

by David Unger

  “Mino, you’ve already told me what happened to your father.”

  Menino ignored him, as if somehow enthralled by his own telling of the story. “When our father came to Puerto Barrios from Coban, he and my mother bought two hectares along the shore where the dock now stands. It was flat land, rich and cleared, but most importantly, several feet above the flood tide. They worked day and night carting off limestone rocks and planting fruit trees. But when the Fruit Company wanted to build their pier, they told my father: ‘Bananas, Mr. Alvarez, bananas. We will buy your land and give you another plot. Forget your cacao and papayas and plant bananas. We will even show you how to grow them.’ But our father didn’t want to sell his land until they greeted him with this.” Menino picked up a knife from the table and waved it menacingly in the air.

  “He should’ve gotten a lawyer,” said Guayo, looking at Hugo who was sinking deeper and deeper into his seat and closing his eyes.

  “No, cousin. A lawyer is no help when you have a knife to your throat backed up by the Guatemalan army! He unhappily traded in his land for jungle and ten gallons of gasoline to help him burn off vegetation that grew thicker than a beard. The Company drew him a map showing that they were going to put railroad tracks right through his land—he would become a rich man overnight! So he cleared the jungle alone—mother was pregnant with you—hoping that a little train would run through his tract of land. But the map wasn’t worth the paper it was drawn on. The tracks were never laid there because the Fruit Company had already bought another piece of land for that—as you know, they bought off the judges, the newspapers, the Congress, the army, even our own goose-stepping president!”

  “We know all that, brother.”

  “But you don’t know that when Father finally harvested his first crop, he towed his bananas to the pier in a cart it had taken him three weeks to build. The Company had promised to buy his bananas. But it wouldn’t because it had been decided that all the independent banana farmers were to be driven out of business. Supply was high and they offered him five cents a bunch. Father spent two days on the pier, wondering what to do. When he finally agreed to sell at their price, they offered him three cents because they knew he had to sell or throw out his crop. But Father was stubborn. He waited, hoping that another company’s ship would come the following day. And it did come, but his bananas were already turning yellow.”

  “I know all that,” Hugo said. “And he died of malaria. End of story.”

  Menino laughed. “You believe everything.”

  “That’s what Aunt Nico told us.”

  “And you actually believed her?”

  “Of course. Why should she lie?”

  “Oh, brother,” Menino shook his head, “maybe you’ll leave this place once you learn the truth.” He took a drink straight from the bottle and offered it to Samuel.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Are you afraid to drink from the same bottle as me? Drink!”

  “Mino, please,” pleaded Guayo. “Forgive him, Señor Fuchs, he’s had too much to drink. We all have. Come on, Mino. Let’s go home.”

  “Forgive him, Señor Fuchs, he’s had too much to drink,” Menino mimicked his friend, raising his voice in pitch. “And Guayo’s a frightened little piece of chicken shit.”

  Hugo clasped his brother’s arm from across the table. “You’re only hurting yourself, Mino, by attacking one of us.”

  Menino shucked off his brother’s hand. “Cowards!” he shouted. Suddenly he stiffened and clambered up on his chair. It wobbled as he stood, but it didn’t tip over. Menino cleared his throat, and like a soldier saluting, he placed his right hand next to his head: “And Pac Alvarez spent the night next to his banana cart because he couldn’t pay for a hotel room. Each day he asked the Company foreman if he would buy his bananas and he was told no. When he asked for something to eat, the man laughed in his face and said, ‘Eat your bananas, Mr. Alvarez. They’ll harden your shit.’

  “When his bananas rotted, the Company threw them into the harbor because he was interfering with the loading of the cargo ship.” Menino closed his eyes and tears started coming down his cheeks. “I was with him. He gave me his cross, a garlic clove, and a string of dried beans. He told me to go home to Mother. What was I to do—walk home? Father thought I had left, but I hid behind a tree. I saw him walk to the end of the pier, unstrap his knife, and drive it straight into his chest.”

  “You saw him kill himself?”

  “By the time I reached him he was almost dead. He lived another two hours.”

  Hugo got up to help his brother down from the chair. “I didn’t know.”

  “You weren’t supposed to ever find out.”

  “And our mother?”

  “When she found out that Father was dead, she began convulsing and going into premature labor. She should have gone to a hospital but we were too far away—and too poor. Nico was there—thank God—otherwise you would have died with Mother. You know the rest of the story.”

  “Your poor father,” whispered Guayo. “And your poor, heartbroken mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Throughout Menino’s monologue, the question of how to excuse himself lurked in Samuel’s mind. What had been three friends celebrating, drinking a bit too much, had reached such a highly charged pitch that simple parting words would not do. Of the three men, Menino seemed the most insightful and this gave him power over the others. And Samuel could see that this made him dangerous, very dangerous.

  When Menino sat back down, he glanced at Samuel and began pulling his thumb along the serrated edge of his knife. Samuel paled, smiling back weakly. He reached for his hat on the chair behind him and placed it on his lap.

  “You’re right, brother,” Hugo finally said. “I need a change. You and Guayo left, but I always felt like I had to stay here.”

  Menino tapped the knife against his palm and laid it down on the table. “For whose sake?”

  “I don’t know.” Hugo slumped down in his chair. “I’m more sentimental than you, Mino. Maybe I’m stuck on the good things in the past or I have this dream that Puerto Barrios will one day turn around. If you ask me, I’d tell you it still just might happen!”

  Taking up the bottle of aguardiente, Menino poured an overflowing drink in his brother’s glass and pushed it in front of him. When Hugo made no effort to take it, his brother forced it into his webbed fingers. “Quit sulking, little brother. Drink this and your mood will change. We’ve had enough sad talk for one night, wouldn’t you say? I propose that we move our celebration to the only other thing—besides seeing you, Hugo—that Puerto Barrios has to offer. What do you say?”

  Guayo pushed up his glasses. “You want to go to the Palace Hotel?”

  Menino picked up his knife and tapped the table. “Guayo, you are always two steps behind me. It must be the years you spent as an altar boy tied to Father Cabezón’s skirt—”

  “That’s not fair, Mino.”

  Menino tapped the table again and slurred, “Guayito, don’t tell me that my words have offended you.”

  “Does that surprise you? You’re always challenging my manhood.”

  “To be honest, I’ve never seen your manhood!”

  “What do you expect me to do,” Guayo asked, “pull down my pants in front of Rodolfo and Chino? You’re sick, you know that.”

  “You’re acting like children,” Hugo said, “getting into stupid arguments. You’re both drunk!”

  Menino guffawed. “For once you’re right, brother. I am drunk. I say we go to the Palace and visit the new Negrita you’ve been bragging about, Hugo. Let’s show Rodolfo what’s meant by true Guatemalan hospitality. What do you say, Mr. Fuchs, to a little fun at our expense?”

  Guayo giggled, somehow justifying Menino’s way of treating him.

  Samuel realized that this was what the evening’s drinking was all about—finding the courage to go to a whorehouse. He pushed back in his chair as if he were about to get up.

&n
bsp; “Thank you for the kind offer, but I can’t join you. I have many things to do tomorrow and if I am going to visit Quirigua with Hugo, I better get some rest.” He tried standing, but Menino’s foot anchored his chair.

  “To refuse an offer to celebrate—especially on someone’s birthday—is a grave insult among our people.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Alvarez, but I am quite tired. You see, I am still not used to the climate here.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the climate, Mr. Fuchs. You’ve insulted us.”

  “That wasn’t my intent.”

  Guayo shifted uneasily in his chair. “Let him go, Mino. We can have plenty of fun just among ourselves.”

  “Shut up, Guayito. I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Menino put down his knife and tried to caress Samuel’s cheek with the back of his hand. Samuel turned his face away.

  Angered, Menino grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and yanked his stiffening body toward him. “Look at me when I’m talking. Do you think your fancy clothes and your foreign languages will protect you out here? You are deeply mistaken—”

  “Brother, please,” Hugo said, grabbing one of Menino’s arms. “We don’t need to make trouble to have fun …”

  Without loosening his grip on Samuel, Menino turned to his brother, his eyes merely black gashes against a brown face. “You are such a coward, a marica, afraid of what you feel inside.”

  “What I feel inside? What do you know about that? I’m telling you to let go of the man.”

  “Or what? What are you going to do?” Menino said sarcastically. “I’ll tell you something. You hate this man and everything he represents as much as I do. The difference is that you’re afraid to do something about it.”

  “You’re not drunk. You’re crazy.”

  “What are you so afraid of? He’s only a Jew!”

  “What does his being a Jew have to do with anything?”

  The cook slithered out of the kitchen. “No fight, no fight. Restaurant closed!”

  Menino let go of one of Samuel’s lapels, picked up the knife, and lunged toward the cook. “I’m going to cut your heart out, you yellow scum.”

  The cook backed off and hurried to the kitchen, screaming in Chinese.

  Samuel’s body shook. He tried to dry his forehead, but now Menino pressed the knife against his chest. “Stand up, Jew.” He flashed the knife at Guayo and his brother. “I don’t want any interference from either one of you. This is between the Jew and myself.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Samuel muttered.

  Menino shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. From the minute I saw you coming in, I marked you for a Jew. That nose of yours doesn’t help. But let’s make sure. Stand up! Pull down those fancy pants and we’ll have a look—”

  “Please …”

  Menino lowered the knife and pointed it to Samuel’s silver belt buckle. “Let’s open up! Let’s see what you’ve been hiding in there. And then we’ll go to the Palace and see how well you can perform.”

  Guayo stood up. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want to get us killed?”

  “He’s not one of us. He’s a Jew.”

  Hugo snapped his fingers. “Ah, I get it. Those boring meetings you took me to, that stupid seal you insisted I put on the back window of my taxi. My god! To think of all the time you wasted listening to Cuero, that moocher friend of yours, and all his excuses for being a sixty-year-old fat do-nothing!”

  Menino kept his knife on Samuel’s midriff and answered: “The Jews leave us nothing! Who do you think owns the Fruit Company? Zemurray, a Jew—and it was because of him that our father and our mother died.”

  Hugo kept shaking his head and started laughing, as if he hadn’t heard a single word his brother had said. “That stupid, drunken oaf! Still making excuses for why no one wanted to pay to hear him sing. What a lousy voice. He couldn’t sing his way out of a garbage can! I can see him now, standing in front of a club, closing his eyes under the lights, puckering his thick lips—and farting!”

  “He’s a fine singer. He could have been great, but the Jews in New York wouldn’t let him record!”

  “Cuero!” Hugo drummed on the table. “Just his name makes me laugh. A fat drunk with a wormy liver! Marching around his house in that silly Nazi uniform and a bottle of cheap rum stuck to his mouth. Is that who you admire, big brother? And you have the nerve to tell me how I should live my life and what I should do!” Hugo fell to the floor, laughing hysterically, holding his stomach.

  Menino moved the knife toward his brother. “Brother, stop laughing. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Hugo was pedaling his legs, turning around in a circle on the floor. “And you follow Cuero around like an organ grinder’s monkey. You should put on a red coat and get yourself a little tin cup! Give Cuero a red cap and a black cane. The only Jew that did him any harm was the poor one who paid for his trip to New York and got nothing in return!” He got on his hands and knees and began crawling on the floor, making monkey noises.

  “Brother, I’m warning you. Stop laughing at me. I’ll take care of you after I take care of Fuchs.”

  All the while Samuel’s head was spinning, as if someone had punched him in the face. Was he imagining things? He looked at Guayo sitting at the table and saw that his face was red and his thin mustache was slipping off his face—his ears had become pig ears and his prominent brow was coated in sweat.

  “He! He!” Samuel heard, and he turned to look at Menino. Instead he saw Mr. Price holding him off with a knife, laughing in his face, swiveling his squat hips.

  Hey, how about a little company tonight? A girl or maybe a young boy if you prefer, to while away the hours? What do you say to a bit of fun after such a long voyage?

  Samuel blinked again, and saw that Lena was standing behind the dwarf, egging him on, lovingly rubbing his thick neck. Her long, black fingernails with little stars on the ends were caressing his Adam’s apple. Her face was talcum white, and a coral cigarette holder rested lightly between her lips. Then her hands moved down the dwarf’s throat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt—her fingers began curling the few hairs on his chest. The dwarf suddenly shuddered and he twisted an arm toward her blouse and touched her breasts. The cigarette holder fell from her mouth to the floor, making no noise. Lena, moaning softly, dropped her head into the dwarf’s neck and began kissing him.

  Revolted, Samuel picked up the bottle of aguardiente from the table and crashed it down with all his strength on Menino’s neck. The bottle exploded, sending glass and liquid flying across the room. Menino made a vague effort to turn his head before slumping to the floor, pulling Guayo down with him, on top of Hugo. The three of them were snarled in a heap of food, shattered glass, and now blood.

  Samuel straightened up, shaking, still holding the jagged neck of the bottle in his hand. For a brief second, he stayed riveted, gaping openmouthed at the mess he had made. He heard a scream from the kitchen. He thought he heard a siren.

  The three men on the floor stirred and groaned. Guayo lifted his head, as if signaling for Samuel to leave. Samuel threw down the glass in his hand and hurried out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Samuel parted the beaded curtain of the restaurant and ran outside. He paused for a second and looked down at his right hand, splashed with blood. He went over to the Packard parked on the side of the road and wiped his hand on the car’s hood.

  What had he done? He thought he had seen the dwarf’s face loom up and Lena had been there as well. What could she possibly be doing at the Comedor Pekyn? Hadn’t she gone back to Capetown? Other images floated through his mind like the vanishing pieces of some grisly, unsolvable puzzle.

  A cry billowed out of the restaurant. One thing was certain—he had either killed or badly injured Menino. Samuel realized that if he didn’t get moving, it would be all over for him. He had to race back to his hotel, pick up his valise, and remove all traces of his true identity from the roo
m. Any more bungling on his part and he would be lost.

  Samuel walked quickly, retracing his steps back toward the Palace and then to his hotel. The going was heavy, even though the full moon lit his way, revealing the wide ruts and cracks on the road.

  He could not stop—he had probably killed Menino.

  No battle, no open confrontation, and yet Samuel had slain a man. He saw a lopped head lying sideways in a pool of blood. What other choice did he have? A drunkard, a badgering Nazi, was threatening to castrate him and that might have been only the beginning. Had it been an idle threat? Menino was diabolical and Guayo and Hugo were only making lame gestures to stop him.

  Samuel had acted in self-defense, but who, in a court of law—they’d probably lynch him first—would believe him? The cook had vanished, and the three friends would buttress one another’s alibis like pigs trapped in the same stinking mud. Other witnesses—the dwarf, the railway clerk—would all testify against him and claim that he was crazy and capable of such crimes. Would there even be a court of law in this putrid place?

  Samuel pulled a coat sleeve across his forehead; they would string him up by his belt from an almond tree.

  He walked quietly by a few huts; the lights were out and the people inside were already bedded down for the night. Ah, what he would give to lie down now. His legs and arms ached; the palms of both his hands itched. When a band of howler monkeys shrieked overhead from their hideout in the ramon trees, Samuel started to run again, for their cries were like police sirens bearing down on his trail. And where the brush thickened, he ran into lianas, whose sticky vines threatened to envelope him. He escaped them by using the full thrust of his body and ripping through them as if they were badly rusted chains.

  As Samuel approached the Palace Hotel, he slowed down to a trot. The jungle noises had disappeared, but he heard crunching sounds growing louder behind him. He stopped and perked up his ears—a motor car was coming. He turned around and saw, far down the road, the bobbing of weak headlights. In one motion, he leaped off the road and found cover in some bushes. He saw the road lightening in front of him. A few moments later, the black Packard swiggled by, its underside bouncing and scraping on the rocky road. He parted some brambles so that he could see who was in the car, but all he glimpsed was a mass of shadows. The car passed him and, at the crossroads, swept sharply to the right.