by David Unger
Samuel rubbed his face, grateful that the vehicle had turned away from the harbor, for this would give him a few extra minutes to escape. Either Menino was dying in that car and going to a hospital or he was already dead and Hugo and Guayo were hightailing it to the police station. No matter which it was, soon they would be hunting him all over town.
When he felt it was safe, Samuel popped back on the road. He was breathing hard and extremely hot; his heavy arms hung limply down his sides. He took off his coat, dried his face on the inside lining, then balled it up and threw it deep into the bush.
The passing car had drawn three or four people to the door of the Palace bar. Squinting, Samuel saw the prostitute who had tried to seduce him earlier in the evening. All of them were talking and gesticulating, and seemed to be in no rush to go back into the bar.
Samuel had no choice but to walk by and pretend he had nothing to do with the passing car.
Though he was filthy, the prostitute recognized him and began cursing. The men with her stepped back and laughed and applauded. Samuel kept on walking, looking straight ahead. As he passed the entrance, little rocks started raining down on him. He flinched whenever he was hit, but otherwise did not react. The jeering seemed to grow louder as he walked further away—he gulped down his desire to answer back. At the crossroads, he turned left and very casually began to pick up speed.
When he was sure he was out of their eyesight, he began to run. The muscles in his legs ached and were beginning to clam up. Samuel closed his eyes as if the darkness could somehow bleed out the pain. Instead, he was beset by images: his father waxing his mustache; his mother polishing and buffing her fingernails; Heinrich slumped in a corner chair, fuming about something; Lena in brown riding pants; a dwarf tackling him and laughing uproariously.
Samuel fell backward before fainting against an outcropping of rocks.
When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back and looking up at Joshua, who had a frown on his face and hands on his hips.
“What’s happened to you, Mr. Berkow? I can barely recognize you. Your clothes are ripped and filthy. Let me help you up,” he said, extending his arms down.
Samuel turned away. He wouldn’t let his eyes settle on the man towering above him. He glanced at his own hands, scuffed and scratched, but failed to recognize them. He wiped them on his trousers.
“Were you in a fight, mon? Speak up!”
Samuel coughed. “I just slipped in the mud.”
“Well, it looks like a car has been dragging you down the road.”
“I slipped, I’m telling you.” Samuel touched the back of his head and felt a bump the size of a walnut. He turned to his side and tried pushing himself up. His legs wavered, but he managed to stand on his own. “Nothing happened.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Joshua clutched Samuel’s arms tightly.
“I told you I fell. You have no right to hold me. I’ve done nothing. If you’ll let me by, I must get to my room!”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Berkow. You’re covered in blood. Something terrible must have happened. You can trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone.” Samuel peered off in the distance.
Joshua grabbed him by the head. Samuel tried turning away, but Joshua wouldn’t let go. “I told you this morning that you were alone here. You can’t survive in this world by yourself. You might not want to believe me, but you do need me.”
Samuel wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t know what to do. The realization that he had no one to turn to hit him hard. “Do you remember our talk this afternoon?”
“We talked about many things.”
“Yes, we did. But at one point I asked you if you had ever killed a man.”
“I remember.”
Samuel stared down at his hands. “I’ve always been so afraid to stand out, to have people make a fuss over me. My father said my mother pampered me. Maybe that’s why I enlisted in the army … I thought I would do well in a group, no one would even notice me. I could slip by … And then tonight … it happened so fast … all the drinking … the screaming …”
Joshua stepped back. “What did you do?”
Samuel leveled his gaze. “I think I killed a man.”
Joshua widened his eyes. He made a vague motion to leave, wash his hands of this mess, but then he stopped. “Are you sure you killed him? Couldn’t you have knocked him down? Who are we talking about anyway?”
Samuel shook his head, scrunching his face.
“Where’s the body?”
Samuel pointed behind him with the thumb of his right hand. “Back there. I can’t tell you how far. A Chinese restaurant with a generator, electric lights—”
“Comedor Pekyn,” Joshua said. “Chino’s?”
“Yes. That’s the place.”
“And who did you kill? Certainly not Chino!”
“I seem to remember this dwarf laughing at me,” he said while rubbing his head.
“Mr. Price. The dwarf who does odd jobs and spies for the police?”
Samuel shook his head. “He was there, but he wasn’t there. And Lena, my first wife, was there, but that’s impossible … She lives in South Africa … It was so confusing … There were three friends … two of them were brothers … one taunted me with a knife … he had a mustache … he’s the taxi driver’s brother.”
“Menino!” said Joshua, tightening his lips against his teeth. “I know who he is. He left Puerto Barrios about seven years ago. He had some trouble with Alfred Lewis. A bully, if you ask me … And you think you killed him?”
“I broke a bottle over his neck,” Samuel said, raising his right arm into the air and swooshing it down. “He fell down bleeding on top of his brother. I ran away. A few minutes ago I saw the taxi passing by the Palace Hotel …”
Joshua pulled down on his goatee. “And which way did the car go?”
“It turned right at the crossroad … Who cares where the car went? I’m sure Menino is dead.”
“Maybe not. If they were going to the police station, they would have continued straight ahead. A right turn means that perhaps they were going to Doctor Heriberto’s house, in which case Menino may still be alive.”
Wrapped up in his gloom, Samuel did not respond.
“Mr. Berkow, he may not be dead.”
“No, he’s dead. And I am finished.”
Joshua pressed his shoulders. “Get ahold of yourself. You can’t just roll over and die like a sick calf—”
“It’s hopeless. Everything’s hopeless. I can’t even get my own cousin to help me.”
“Forget your cousin. We are talking about your life here. Listen to me—go back to the hotel and pack your things. But be very quiet. Don’t wake up a single chicken. I’ll go to the restaurant and see if I can find out what happened. You can’t wait for me at the hotel—it’s too dangerous—so wait for me in the band shell. I’ll whistle twice so you’ll know it’s me. We’ll find somewhere safe for you to spend the night. And in the morning, you must leave Puerto Barrios by boat or by truck. I doubt that there’s a train leaving till tomorrow night—”
“There is,” Samuel interrupted. He felt that the blood coursing through his veins was cold; he began shaking a bit. “At six in the morning. The station clerk told me a few hours ago. The train is already being loaded up.”
“The station may be full of soldiers and police, but it’s actually your best escape route.”
“I told Menino I would be leaving Puerto Barrios the day after tomorrow.”
“That means nothing. You have little time. You know what you have to do now?”
Samuel nodded.
“Get going. We have no time to lose,” said Joshua, turning around.
Samuel clasped his arm. “Wait!”
“What is it now?”
“I left my hat in the restaurant,” he said despondently.
Joshua looked at him in surprise. “A hat’s a hat. You can buy another one.”
“At t
he restaurant I gave Menino a false name—Rodolfo Fuchs. I was afraid something like this might happen. I thought I was being so clever. Well, what difference does it make now? My real name is sewn inside the band of my homburg.”
Joshua groaned. “I’ll see if I can get it somehow.”
“You must, or else all this hiding around is useless. I left my hat on the chair.”
“I don’t think anyone will be looking for your name inside a hat, mon.” Joshua started walking off.
Samuel stood still for a moment, staring at the spot in the darkness where Joshua had disappeared. It was completely black now that the moon had set, except for the occasional flare of a firefly darting about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As Samuel turned onto the walkway leading up to the hotel, a bony dog crept out of a hibiscus bush where he had been sleeping and yapped. It was a tired, half-hearted yap but it still rung out in the quiet night. Samuel tried shushing the dog by putting his hand out to him. The dog rolled his sleepy eyes, snarled mopishly, and curled up right on the walkway. Samuel had to step over the animal to get by.
The hotel lights were out, except for those in the lobby and bar. Samuel clambered up the steps and pulled back on the veranda doors. The hinges creaked, but the marimba music playing late into the night from some distant bar checked the noise.
He moved slowly across the lobby. As he passed the front desk, he heard garbled conversation coming from the bar. He approached it softly and saw George and Willie huddled together at the far end. The iguana stretched languidly on its towel on the countertop. Samuel turned on his heels and went back to the front desk. Glancing left and right, he stepped behind it and pulled out the hotel register from a drawer. He placed it on the counter and thumbed through the pages. He found his name on the last page and ripped it out. Hearing footsteps above him, he slammed the register closed and returned it to its drawer.
He headed up to the second floor, walking softly. At the end of the corridor, the breeze blew through the screens and Samuel could see the pier lights flickering between the trees. His room was just above the bar; he knew he had to be quiet.
As he approached his room, he saw that the door was open and the light on. He stopped dead in his tracks, made a vague gesture to turn around and leave. Were the police already in his room waiting for him? He inched closer, but before he had a chance to see who was in his room, the person spoke to him.
“I thought you’d never come. You’re as unpredictable as the Messiah. What took you so long?”
Father Cabezón was lying flat on Samuel’s bed, his hands behind his head. He wore his black robe, and his dirty feet were flat against the bedsheets. He seemed quite comfortable, almost audaciously so. Tall candles were burning on the bureau, and the wax had dripped down the sides of the furniture and crusted on the floor.
“You have no right to be here.”
The priest sat up. His gold-capped incisors shone through his crooked smile.
“But you invited me. Just this morning.”
Samuel entered his room and latched the door shut. He was certain that George and Willie had heard him come in. “I did no such thing,” he said through his teeth. “I barely know you. Why would I allow you to come into my room and lie down on my bed? How absurd!”
Father Cabezón held up a finger. “Shush, keep your voice down. You, of all people, should know that the devil is a light sleeper. Saint Augustine said that.” He threw Samuel a towel and wrinkled his forehead. “You’re a frightful mess. Why don’t you clean up.”
Samuel caught the towel, but the priest’s intrusion so surprised him that he was paralyzed and didn’t know what to do next. He shook his head and went over to the basin and washed his face. The warm water felt good, refreshing. Now he had to find a way to get the priest out of his room and make his secret retreat.
“Father—can’t we talk in the morning?”
The man looked at him with great surprise. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you invite me down to confess you?”
“Confess me? I did no such thing. Why, I’m not even a Catholic. This is ridiculous!”
Samuel got a sudden whiff of cheap whiskey.
Father Cabezón shrugged his bony shoulders, then stood up. “Neither are the Indians or the Caribs living here, yet I confess several dozen every day at the marketplace or on the piers. Some of them come bearing gifts of beads and silver. They call me Kinich Ahau because several years ago I brought trick candles that had been given to me by a magician from a circus troop passing through Guatemala City. You know the kind—you light them, you blow them out, and on their own they relight … I don’t know how I will impress them once I run out … oh well … Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“Natürlich,” Samuel answered.
“Ich auch nicht!” the priest said. “And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t know how to confess you in another language. So let’s pretend that I brought my confessional with me—let’s put it here.” He pointed to a space between the bed and the candle-lit bureau. “I will go in this make-believe door and you can either get down on your knees or sit on the edge of your bed.” He pushed down on Samuel’s shoulders. “I think you would be better off with your knees on the towel. I can just put my hand on your head—this is all a bit unorthodox, but no one will see us—and you just tell me all about your sins.”
“But I’ve done nothing,” Samuel resisted. The smoke of the burning candles dizzied him. He found himself genuflecting.
The priest rubbed a hand over Samuel’s head. He felt grateful for the human touch, the warmth, the gentleness. “This lump on your head—how did you get it?”
Samuel touched his scalp. “It must have happened when I fell.”
“Oh yes,” said the priest, pushing down on Samuel’s head, and closing his eyes. “In a fight, of course. That’s how people settle things around here.”
“I wasn’t in a fight,” Samuel responded, agitated.
“Please, please, no lies,” the priest said sternly. “You are here with me because you want to be forgiven. Men, being what they are—weak and depraved and with little willpower—are always falling into error. Only by confessing your sins to God, in the presence of one of His earthly delegates—in this instance, me—and together with your resolve not to sin again, will you be cleansed and forgiven. Even if you repeat the same sin in a few minutes, all is forgiven … So where were we? Ah yes, the lump on your head.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“If the candle smoke is bothering you, I would be more than happy to blow them out!” The priest laughed. “Oh, I forgot, they’ll light up again.” He rubbed his chin. “But I don’t think these long tapers are trick candles …”
“What is this nonsense?” Samuel asked, fidgety.
“Close your eyes and tell me what is in your heart.”
“I won’t,” he said, growing increasingly agitated.
The priest leaned down, whiskey breath and all, and closed his eyes. “You will feel better.”
There was silence, a huge overspreading silence. Without wanting to, certainly without thinking, Samuel closed his own eyes and heard himself say, “I think I may have killed a man, Father.”
The priest inhaled and exhaled through the forest of hairs in his nose. “Well, this certainly is serious. Very serious.” He opened his eyes and scratched a tuft of hair on his throat. “But I am not here to judge your crimes. In fact, for a priest to be caught selling rum to his congregants is a very serious offense, and the bishop of Guatemala, with all his mercy, forgave me. And God must be the most forgiving, for He didn’t strike dead those monks in Antigua who built secret tunnels to visit the nuns at night in the convent—this after having sworn abstinence. And truly, we know that the archbishop confesses the bishop; the cardinals confess the bishops; the pope confesses the archbishops; and last of all, God grants absolution to the pope, unless He directs another priest to do so. But who confesses God? Can you answer me that question? Who can confess God for al
l the misery He has caused us, or allowed us to cause to ourselves without divine intervention?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Samuel said.
“Hmmm, I think it would be better if we dealt with simple earthly matters. So—you say you killed a man. I cannot ask you if the man deserved to die. I can only ask you if you repent or you would avenge again.”
“I had no choice. He would’ve killed me.”
“Kill or be killed. I swore never to sell rum again, though from time to time, I do drink it. So would you kill again?”
Samuel shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted to knock him out, I suppose. I only meant to escape, not commit murder.”
The priest put thumb and forefinger into his left nostril. He fooled around with a hair, yanked at it, and snorted. “But would you promise—in a general sense because we never know what scenario might present itself—would you promise me and, therefore, our Creator, never to kill again?”
“I am not a murderer!”
The priest nodded his head. “In that case, all is forgiven. You are forgiven, my good man. So I forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He put his two hands on Samuel’s face. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? You can stand up now.” The priest walked over to the candles, wet his fingertips, and with a click of his tongue, touched the lighted wicks of all but one of them. A cloud of smoke fell over the room. Father Cabezón walked back to Samuel and pulled him up, shaking his hand vigorously. “Viel Glück! Or as my German teacher used to say in Quetzaltenango: Wahrheit gegen freund und feind. Do I need to translate that for you?”
