The Price of Escape

by David Unger

  “No,” Samuel said. Truth toward friend and foe.

  “Very well. Auf wiedersehen.” The priest put his candles in his robe pocket and walked out of Samuel’s room, holding up the skirt with his hand. When Samuel was sure that the priest was gone, gone for sure, he went over and latched the door shut again. He lay down wearily on his bed and nestled his head, which buzzed and thrummed, in the crook of his clasped hands.

  He planned to doze for just a few seconds. As his lids closed, he felt a large insect land on his chest. He swatted at it and jumped to his feet—on his bed he saw a huge roach stirring its legs in the air, trying to right itself. He tied the ends of the sheet together, trapping the roach, and threw it into a corner. Then he settled back down on the straw mattress. He couldn’t fall asleep again because his body itched terribly—he imagined that roaches were invading the room through the walls, the floorboards, the holes in his mattress.

  His mind was racing. All of a sudden he had a novel thought—because he had killed someone, perhaps that act had freed him from his old feeling of being and doing nothing. Never again would he be like flotsam floating on the waves or a balloon drifting in the wind. For the first time in his life, he had acted and acted decisively. He would gladly face the repercussions.

  “Murder is salvation, murder is salvation,” he heard himself saying aloud. He seemed not to care if anyone heard him. For too miserably long he had lived in the thrust and backwash of his own uncertainty. Like a roach.

  Why should he, at his age, still suck in his stomach to appear fit, fret over what others might think of him? Why should he be so concerned about appearing polished, when in truth he was just a pair of old, scuffed shoes?

  Why should he shave every single day and take cold showers just because this is what he had been forced to do at home and then later in the army? Why continue the charade or masquerade of courtesy and polite discretion with the meager hope that no one would whisper about him, say he was a pompous fool or an ass, as soon as he left the room? Let them say what they want, to his face, if need be. He’d break the chains he had placed on himself that called for—actually demanded—his affected grace. He had stood paralyzed for too long, watching himself sink deeper and deeper into a swamp he had created. He had finally fought back and now realized that he could not rely on anyone else to help or save him …

  As he finally drifted into sleep, Samuel saw the drawing room in his parents’ Hamburg apartment. His father had gone out with his friends and his mother was playing Chopin polonaises in the darkening afternoon. He was seven or eight, lying on a rug listening to the music. It was such a peaceful setting. Wood was burning in the fireplace and the recently polished andirons sent flashes of light toward the breakfront that held his mother’s precious Wedgwood and Dresden china. A crystal carafe with cognac and six crystal goblets stood on a tray on the butler’s table. On the fireplace mantle sat three pieces of Capodimonte porcelain that his father had brought back from Florence.

  Samuel had never felt so peaceful as he had then.

  Now he struggled to open his eyes. The candle Father Cabezón had left on the bureau had burned all the way down to a stump and gone out. He pushed himself up. He was sapped of strength, yet calm and serene. His soul was at peace.

  The priest had confessed him and he was somehow ready to move on.

  He had no idea how long he’d slept. He tiptoed, knock-kneed, out of his room and peered down the corridor. Nothing. He walked down the corridor and looked toward the band shell—there was Joshua waving his arms frantically at him. Samuel squinted, but couldn’t see his hat in his hands. This made him feel more annoyed than troubled. Back into his room he went, stuffing all his clothes, rumpled or not, into his suitcase except for a pair of dark trousers and a matching cotton shirt.

  Shoehorn, comb, cologne, shaving brush, toothbrush, and paste were all tossed in his suitcase and he was ready to go. One last look around the room before he left forever—

  Something caught his eye, something he hadn’t seen before. A wooden crucifix had been nailed on the wall over his bed.

  He stepped closer to examine it. Christ’s arms and legs dangled shapeless from a red cross. The strange thing was that His face looked straight ahead, almost defiantly, at the onlookers, not down and to the side. The face had been painted by hand and the eyes were made of kernels of white rice.

  At the top of the cross was a Fanta bottle cap—was this His crown of thorns?

  Samuel wondered if the crucifix had always been in the room and he just hadn’t noticed it. Or had the priest placed it there? If he had, was this some kind of a joke or did the priest have special powers of discernment that allowed him to communicate symbolically? What was the hidden meaning?

  Just then Samuel heard two shrill whistles. Joshua was calling up to him. Without thinking, he yanked the crucifix from the wall and stuffed it into his suitcase.

  He walked out of his room, leaving the door ajar, and moved down the stairs. The bar doors were closed, the lights off, and the lobby was quiet. As he passed the front desk, Samuel realized that he still owed George another four dollars for the room. While this would have normally troubled him, this time he didn’t think twice. Pushing open the double screen doors, hopefully for the last time, he saw Joshua motioning for him to hurry it up.

  Samuel slapped a mosquito buzzing in his ears as he crossed the park. When he reached Joshua, he opened his mouth to speak, but the black man put a hand over his mouth, took his suitcase, and gestured with his head that they should go up into the band shell.

  “Let’s talk here a minute.”

  Samuel couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “What were you able to find out?”

  Joshua dragged Samuel next to him and sat him down on his suitcase. He squatted on the floor. “I spoke to Chino,” he breathed in. “He stayed in the restaurant the whole night, even when the fight happened. Yes, your bottle hit Menino on the back of the head. But after you left, he sat up and said a few delirious words before closing his eyes and passing out. It could have been from all the drinking. Chino said that they had a whole bottle of rum and a half a dozen beers before you even got there. God knows how much they drank afterward.”

  “I drank nothing,” Samuel said.

  “Guayo and Hugo drove Menino over to Doctor Heriberto—just as I had hoped. Chino was mopping the blood off the floor.”

  “He’ll die,” Samuel said softly.

  “Chino said he was breathing—”

  “Joshua, it doesn’t matter if he is dead or alive, what matters is what I did.” Samuel shook his head. “You didn’t find my hat, did you?”

  Joshua clenched his teeth. “Hugo took it with him, so Chino said, but I think it’s just as likely that he took it himself. Chino is a sly one. When I accused him of stealing the hat, he denied it loudly. Almost too loudly. Then he told me that a policeman had come and taken the hat as evidence.”

  “I see,” said Samuel, stretching his legs on the band shell floor.

  “He’s probably lying, Mr. Berkow.”

  He felt the old war sensation of snow falling, the clods of it burying him under a tree, layer after layer of snow and ice. “The hat doesn’t matter,” he said. “Everyone but those three know my name anyway. That dwarf, Mr. Price, would be more than happy to help in the investigation and see me thrown in jail.”

  “Let’s get out of here now, Mr. Berkow. The police will come by soon.”

  “Maybe I should just surrender. I can’t spend my life running away.”

  “Listen, you can’t turn over and play dead because you struck someone in the head and you lost your hat. Forget what’s happened. We have to think about escaping, getting you out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Samuel said. “But I have to recognize that I have nothing, no one—except you, of course—to help me. I believe you read my cousin Heinrich’s telegram: in so many words, he told me to go to hell. I don’t even know who I am or where I should be
going.” Samuel tucked his head in his arms. “I’ve killed a man, fine. I can accept that. I feel no guilt; I had to protect myself. That Menino was crazy. His own brother and friend will admit to that.”

  Seconds ticked by. Joshua remained on his haunches as if too tired to move. Suddenly footsteps were drawing near. Samuel was about to say something, when Joshua clamped a hand over his mouth—if it were the police, both of them would be in lots of trouble.

  A man was walking briskly but unevenly toward the hotel; every few steps he strayed off from the walkway. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to face the shrubbery at the front of the hotel. The man hummed the same six notes over and over again while urinating.

  Joshua removed his hand from Samuel’s mouth and edged closer to the band shell steps. The man buttoned his fly and jingled coins in his pocket. He proceeded up the steps of the hotel, not noticing them. A flurry of soft voices was heard from inside, but it soon stopped and the lights went out.

  “Who was that?” Samuel asked.

  “Kingston, thank the Lord. I thought we were finished.”

  “Kingston? That’s impossible,” said Samuel. “He’s a mute.”

  Joshua smiled showing his girdle of white teeth. “That’s what you’re supposed to think. He can talk all right. If anything, it’s hard getting him to shut up.”

  “But even George thinks he can’t talk!”

  Joshua shook his head. “Who do you think he was just talking to, mon? George! When Kingston was hospitalized after the picker’s strike, Lewis came and threatened him. Kingston never answered and he hasn’t spoken in public since. It’s strange, though, to see him back here at the hotel. He’s got his own little house. Maybe he came here to either warn you or try to capture you.”

  A jeep pulled up, interrupting Joshua. Two Guatemalan soldiers jumped out. One of them pulled a lantern from the backseat and lit it. They approached the hotel, talking loudly. They made no effort to keep the screen door from slamming.

  After a few seconds of commotion, the lobby lights went back on. A man laughed.

  “That’s George. I would know his voice from miles away.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I am as sure as I am of anything. The soldiers weren’t looking for you. Your identity is still safe. Let’s go now.” Joshua tugged on Samuel’s sleeve. “While there’s a chance.” He grabbed the suitcase.

  “But where will I go? The train’s not leaving till six in the morning, if then,” he despaired.

  “Yes, but you’re not safe here. If anything serious happened to Menino, the first place the police would search is the hotels—and there aren’t that many left in Puerto Barrios. But if they come here and don’t find you in your room, the next place they will look for you is around here. I know where you can stay. Follow me—quietly.”

  Joshua led the way down the steps. He circled the band shell so no one could see them, then walked swiftly across the park toward the bay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Joshua took Samuel to the shack by the shore where he had lost his passport so many hours earlier. Without the moonlight overhead, the outlines of the huge wheels and sprockets on the ground were barely visible in the darkness. Samuel could hear the bay water licking the rocks, smell the putrid stench of salt, seaweed, and feces fusing with the thick odor of grease. He sat down on a wooden box while Joshua used a crowbar to jimmy open the shack’s lock. Seconds later, he returned with a blanket.

  “I think it would be better if you slept outside,” he said, spreading the blanket down in a sandy area behind the shack. “If you hear any noises, it’ll only be the wind or the water or some passing bird. You have nothing to fear.”

  “The police?”

  “They’ll never look for you here … The police don’t know this shack exists. You’re going to be okay. It was smart of you to give a false name—that may have saved your life. If Menino is badly hurt, no one will really care. Everyone knows he’s a troublemaker. If he dies, that’s more serious. Let’s see what happens. Mr. Berkow, you must get on that train tomorrow—what am I saying?—in four hours. You will be far from Barrios when they come looking for you. Did you tell them at Chino’s where you were going?”

  “To Guatemala City.”

  “It’s too dangerous for you to go there now.”

  “Even if Menino survives?”

  “It’s just not worth the risk,” Joshua said, pulling on his goatee.

  “That’s not so good!”

  Joshua appeared lost in thought. “But wait! That’s it. You can get off the train before it reaches the capital. It makes several stops along the way.”

  “I see.” Samuel felt somewhat relieved. He could imagine the train chuffing slowly, and him stepping off. “But where?”

  “I wouldn’t suggest in Bananera. It’s only a village, and the Company headquarters are there. Quirigua is also no good—there are only Mayan ruins and banana plantations there. El Progreso is a small desert town. Zacapa is a little bigger. Either would be fine, if you’re careful. You can start a new life there, settle down. Who knows, you might even end up getting married and raising a family.”

  “Yes,” said Samuel, feeling the same old hopelessness that he had struggled with all his life. All well and good—a fantasy fairy tale, the part about getting married and having children. But just maybe once it would happen. And then he remembered something and a stony expression filled his face.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “I didn’t tell you. I lost my passport—it fell into the water somewhere near here.”

  “You lost it?”

  “It was during the rainstorm. It must have sunk to the bottom. I have no identification papers.”

  “Hmmm. With your passport, you could have proven you were Samuel Berkow, not this Rodolfo Fuchs. On the other hand, it might be better if you simply aren’t either—you have the opportunity to be a new man. I wouldn’t mind not being Joshua. Think of it this way, Mr. Berkow, you can be anyone you want.”

  “But the police will want proof.”

  Joshua considered this. “If a soldier or policeman asks you to identify yourself on the train, I think you have two choices: you can either become indignant and refuse to cooperate, or you can pull him aside and bribe him. Either way, he will surely leave you alone. You are lucky not to be a poor black man.”

  “And if he doesn’t? If he wants to make trouble? I’m telling you, I have no passport.”

  Joshua peered out at the still dark bay. He noticed the tiniest of ripples dancing on the surface of the water like silver worms. “Then you’re in trouble …”

  Samuel dropped his head. He trudged over to the blanket and sat down. He felt the dew creeping into the seat of his pants, but what did it matter? He looked further out in the bay where a huge white ship was moored snugly against the pier, peaceful and calm.

  “I must be going,” Joshua said. There was nothing else he could do.

  “Yes,” said Samuel, stroking his bruised palms. He slapped at a mosquito that hovered near his left ear. “You’ve done so much for me. How can I repay you?”

  Joshua patted his shoulder. “I wish I could do more, but I’m too tired to think. You should get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

  “I will. You’ve been a good friend, Joshua. You’ve saved my life and risked yours. What more can a man do? If I survive this, if I somehow manage to escape this nightmare, I’ll—” But he was too choked up to finish. He stood up and embraced Joshua.

  “Good luck, mon,” the black man said, somewhat embarrassed. He pushed away from Samuel’s body and walked briskly into the darkness and disappeared.

  Samuel sat down and plunked his back against the shack wall. He tucked the suitcase under his legs and spread the thin blanket over him. Before long he was slumbering. He dreamed he was attending a military funeral in a small town in the desert highlands. Six blond-haired soldiers dressed in khaki and knee socks were hefting a wooden coffin on their shoulder
s. When they drew near to him, they lowered the coffin for him to look inside. The wooden box had a red velvet interior and resting on top was his own body, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and striped tie. Teary-eyed, Samuel stroked the face of his own corpse, still warm to his touch. He noticed that the eyes were open and that the mouth pulled up at the corners and smiled ever so slightly. One of the pallbearers was an attractive young blond; she whispered in his ear that the dead man had been executed that very morning for sharing military secrets with the enemy. When Samuel told her that the dead man was an imposter and that he was still alive and would never reveal military secrets—all the woman had to do was to look at both of them to see they were the same man—she winked, took a cigarette out of her mouth, and gave him a kiss on the cheek as if to say that it hardly mattered.

  Samuel was furious. He placed his ear on the dead man’s chest and heard a low, prolonged whistle. He looked again at the dead man who continued smiling. He closed his eyes and moved his hands down to the dead man’s crotch. He unbuckled the belt, pulled down the trousers, and found a stuffed canary where his penis should have been—

  Samuel awoke in a frightful state. He had tipped over onto the ground during the few hours of sleep. It was nearly daybreak. He rubbed his face with his sweaty palms, wishing he could erase all his features.

  What a strange dream, to be attending one’s own burial. He sat up, his back against the shack, trying to understand what the dream might have meant. He had died, but where had it been? In Africa! South Africa, to be sure. The men carrying him were Afrikaaners. Lena, of course, was from Capetown. That had something to do with it. The pallbearer who had spoken to him looked a lot like her brother Max, but actually it was Lena.

  So that was it! Lena had set it all up! Why couldn’t she just leave him alone after all these years? Hadn’t he allowed her to go home to South Africa when their marriage was beginning to fail, without any sort of encumbrance? He had let her divorce him. Why continue the torture?