by David Unger
Was the train circling back to the port? Samuel considered changing sides, so he could see the landscape as it approached, but what difference would it make?
He wanted the open spaces again. A tapestry of images of Puerto Barrios flared in his mind and just as quickly slaked and disappeared. He was restless once more and began shifting around in his seat. His stomach tightened.
Two other passengers had strolled into the first-class carriage and were trying to sleep. They seemed so calm, terribly undisturbed. And here he was, with his sureness petering out and his chest beginning to pound.
If only the train would once and for all rise out of the tangled mire.
To make matters worse, a soldier entered the compartment. Samuel followed his steps on the wooden floor as he waddled guardedly down the aisle, scratching his green uniform with the tip of a pen. A sense of helplessness gripped Samuel’s throat. He shut his eyes, as if that would erase the soldier’s presence. When he opened them again, the soldier stood blandly by his seat.
“Your name, please?”
Samuel tried to remember Joshua’s advice.
The soldier repeated the question.
“Berkow. Samuel Berkow.”
The soldier wet the pen in his mouth and slowly wrote the name in his pad. He wasn’t an ugly man, but his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears didn’t add up to a normal face. Samuel realized this was the same soldier he had asked for the time on the platform awhile back.
When he was done writing, he showed the pad to Samuel. “Is this correct?”
“Yes. Except there is a w after the o.”
The soldier nodded, made the correction, then put the pen back in his mouth. “Can I see your passport?”
Samuel dug into his pants and pulled it out. He felt his cheek twitching just above the right corner of his mouth.
“It’s wet, señor.”
“Yes, I know,” Samuel said. “Yesterday during the storm, well, I dropped it in a puddle.”
The soldier thumbed through the moist pages, from back to front, as if he were looking for something. When he reached the name and photo page, he glanced at Samuel and squinted. “I can’t read your name. I’m not even sure this is a passport.”
“Of course it’s a passport. Can’t you see the German seal on the cover?”
“An official German seal?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Let’s not be foolish.”
“No one is being foolish, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to get off with me at Bananera,” said the soldier, running his fingers over the passport cover.
“But my papers are in order!”
The soldier shrugged and slipped the passport into his own shirt pocket. “A man was attacked last night in Puerto Barrios. He died a little over an hour ago, just before the train was about to leave. There are witnesses. We’re under orders to detain anyone who happens to be German. The killer may be on this train on his way to—” The soldier stopped short, realizing he was saying too much. “For all I know, you could be the murderer!”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Samuel said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Absolutely nothing. You’re making a big mistake, which will get you in a lot of trouble. I hope you know that.”
“I have my orders.”
“Very well,” said Samuel, settling his head against his seat. He glanced out the window and saw that the train was on a trestle crossing a river. He half imagined himself climbing out the window and diving into the water. It was at this moment that he remembered what Joshua had said about offering a bribe.
“We have witnesses,” the soldier repeated, sitting down on the seat across the aisle.
“Very good.”
“Reliable witnesses.”
Samuel simply closed his eyes. He could imagine the Puerto Barrios courtroom with a long line of expert witnesses—Hugo, Guayo, Mr. Price, the cook, the Palace Hotel prostitute, the little girl on the boat to Livingston, even Joshua—ready to testify against him. A photo of Menino’s flyinfested corpse would be shown to the jury. There would be no denying the crime, but perhaps he could make an argument for self-defense. He would tell the judge that several Guatemalan Nazis were planning to lynch him in the restaurant.
If he were found guilty, he’d beg the judge for mercy. Deportation, even if it meant going back to Germany, would be a godsend. He put his hand in his pocket and began to pull out his remaining bills.
Suddenly a familiar voice rang out. “Berky boy, where’ve you been hiding? I thought I might see you on this train.”
Alfred Lewis was walking down the aisle with his signature alligator bag looped over his shoulder. He had a raccoon cap on his head and he seemed to be wearing the same clothes as the day they’d met on the Chicacao.
The soldier stood up, blocking Lewis’s way. “Do you know this man?”
“Of course. He’s an associate. He’s my buddy!”
The soldier wouldn’t let Lewis pass.
“Do you mind?” he asked angrily.
“This man is my prisoner.”
Lewis lifted his cap and scratched his head. “Say, do you know who you’re talking to, soldier?”
“I have my orders to bring this man to Bananera.”
Lewis eyed him in disbelief. “This is absurd. Totally and absolutely absurd. Do you know who I am? I’m Alfred Lewis, in charge of port operations for the United Fruit Company. For your information, I could have you shot!”
The soldier hesitated. “Who is this man?”
“Samuel Berkow.”
“Last night someone killed Menino Alvarez, the taxi driver’s brother, in Puerto Barrios. This man fits the description of the attacker, Rodolfo Fuchs.”
Lewis glanced down at Samuel, then rubbed his neck and brought his face up to the soldier’s. “Rodolfo Fuchs? What kind of a cockamamie name is that? I already told you this is Samuel Berkow. I gave him a ride on my boat from Panama to Puerto Barrios. He is an associate of the Frutera.”
“How do I know you weren’t in on the murder?” the soldier asked, beginning to lose his air of assurance.
Lewis pushed a finger into the soldier’s chest. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, soldier? Listen to me! This person is a very important German businessman. Look how he’s dressed! And he’s also a personal friend of the president. You do know who Jorge Ubico is, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the soldier replied, less steadily.
“I’m telling you, this man’s my associate. We had dinner together last night at my house and we stayed up late discussing the building of a new vinegar distillery in Puerto Barrios. It got so late that I invited him to spend the night with me. We were both planning to be on this train, but my colleague had to go pick up his luggage, which you see here, at the Hotel International, where he was staying. We agreed to meet on the train because we still have some business to discuss before I reach Bananera.”
The soldier seemed increasingly confused.
“I heard about the murder,” Lewis said, “just as I was about to board the train. If you ask me, this sounds like a barroom scuffle, nothing more, among your people.”
“What you say may be true, Mr. Lewis. But the tourist guide, Mr. Price, confirmed the description of the murderer.”
Lewis laughed dismissively. “You can’t be serious! Why that half-pint, that poor excuse for a human being, is no tourist guide. At best, he’s a liar and a thief!”
“That may be.”
“The guy’s a crook! He would sell his own mother down the river for a measly buck. Capiche?”
“And then there’s the description of the taxi driver.”
“Look, I would hate to see you lose your job over this mistake.” Lewis took two twenty-quetzal bills out of his wallet and stuffed them into the soldier’s hand. “This will ease your doubts, I’m sure. Buy yourself something. A house for your mother. Just tell your people that no one on this train fit the description. By the time you get back, you’ll have another crime to solve. Now, if you�
��ll move along, this man and I have some important business to discuss.”
The soldier peered about the compartment; the couple at the front weren’t paying any attention. He folded the bills and slipped them into the side of his right boot.
“Sorry to have bothered you and your friend.”
“No problem.”
“I can’t afford to make a mistake,” the soldier said, handing Samuel back his passport. “By the way, señor,” the soldier said loudly, for the other passengers to hear, “where are you going?”
Lewis tapped Samuel’s shoulder and blew air into his hands.
“Quirigua,” Samuel answered. “I plan to visit the ruins. Then a driver will pick me up later this afternoon and take me to Zacapa.”
“I see,” the soldier said, tipping his hat. “The murderer was heading for Guatemala City. Enjoy your visit, señor.”
“Thank you,” Samuel breathed out, feeling a rope slacking around his throat.
When the soldier had left the car, Samuel moved his suitcase so that Lewis could sit down. “I thought you had left town.”
“A storm blew in and I had to change my plans,” Lewis said, taking the seat across from him.
“You’ve saved my life again.”
Lewis leaned over and put his hand on Samuel’s knee. “Nonsense! I admit the thought crossed my mind that maybe you were involved in that drunken brawl. If I were a good patriotic Guatemalan citizen, I would have to turn you in. Everyone was yapping at the station house about some German being involved in a scrap with the locals. I had a hunch it might be you.”
“Fuchs is the name I used last night.”
“Well, that kinda confused me, Berkow. Jeez. I didn’t know you had the balls for something like that. You’re pretty nifty. Why’d you kill the bastard?”
There was no point in holding back. “We were together in the restaurant. I don’t even remember how I got there. I wanted to leave, but he and his friends were threatening me and wouldn’t let me go. So to escape, I broke a bottle over his neck. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Mean to or not, kill him you did. It’s a fact.” Lewis opened his alligator bag and pulled out a cigar. He lit it, and began puffing happily. “And you needn’t feel so darned ashamed of it either.”
“It was horrible. The insults, the blood …”
Lewis slapped his knees. “Hey, Berkow, you aren’t going to spend the rest of your days bemoaning what you did. Take it from someone who’s been through the same mill. Or do I have to remind you of what happened to me?”
“No, I remember.”
“Of course you do. I killed a bum in Ohio and now you killed a bum in Puerto Barrios. Boy, those dead bums add up. That Menino Alvarez was always stirring up people with his lies and accusations. I’ll bet he was some damned Nazi too, on the dole from Hitler. He tried to shake me down for a few bucks after Kingston got hurt. Told him that I would run him into the ground if he ever started up with that crap again.” Lewis eyed Samuel proudly. “But you took care of that, my boy.” He stuck out his thumb and forefinger. “Pow! Pow! Why, you’ll be the toast of Bananera. You’ve done the Company a service … You should get some commendation! Damn, I can’t believe it.”
“I had no choice.”
“Of course you didn’t. Sometimes you find yourself going down a particular road—a dangerous road, mind you—but you got to keep on wiggling your butt till you come to the end. I’m telling you that you got rid of some real garbage and there isn’t any point in hashing and rehashing what you’ve done. I told you that when I first met you on the Chicacao—Germany’s behind you, buddy. And now this killing’s behind you too. No one will bother you about it, believe you me.”
Samuel gazed out the window. “Well, maybe you’re right.”
“Damn straight.”
The landscape had broadened considerably. Flat ochre fields now stretched out toward the foothills of an impressive blue mountain range. Young, knee-high fruit saplings grew in straight, orderly rows parallel to the train tracks. Every once in a while hired hands, under the cover of straw hats, turned over the soil with hoes and pitchforks.
Samuel realized he should just shut up. Lewis saw things differently—it was like discussing Schiller with someone barely able to read. Why discuss issues of remorse or contrition? Lewis wasn’t a bad man, at least to him, but what would be the point to going on? And in truth, the man had just saved his life.
The train blew its whistle and began slowing down. It crawled, snakelike, across a wobbly bridge spanning a dry creek. On the other side a few thatched huts appeared. Bony mongrels approached the tracks, giving out half-hearted barks. The train entered a kind of freight yard, crowded with banana cars and flatbeds, where a work crew was building up an embankment with rocks and stones and laying down new tracks.
The braking train—metal grinding against metal—deafened all sounds. After the squealing subsided, the whistle blew again. Steam rushed by the windows and the train ground to a halt. A conductor in an ill-fitting uniform hurried over to them to check their tickets.
Lewis paid for both of them and got up.
“This is my stop, Berky,” he said, tossing his lit cigar out the window, not looking where it might land. He grabbed his alligator bag. “Well, I’ve just entered the foyer to heaven. Also known as Bananera. Got a meeting with Dexter McKinley and some of the other bigwigs. They’re pretty happy with how things are going on the docks down the coast. Maybe this’ll be my chance to make a good presentation, come here permanently, get out of Barrios, that shithole.”
Samuel tried standing up.
“Nah, don’t even bother,” Lewis coughed, as smoke curled into the compartment through the open windows. “I think they put the first-class car behind the furnace so that we could all die from the coal fumes … Anyway, I’m glad I saw you again, Berkow. Didn’t even get a chance to ask you where you got the balls to kill the bum, eh? Well, you’ll tell me about it next time.”
“One day I’ll pay you back, Mr. Lewis, for all you’ve done.”
“Forget about it, Berkow. The forty quetzales are not my money—I’ll write it off as one of my business expenses,” Lewis chuckled. “Anyway, we now know something about each other that nobody else knows. That somehow makes us brothers, don’t it?”
Samuel gave the expected response: “Yes, it does.”
The whistle blew again.
“Gotta go, Sammy. That soldier’s going to get off here, and my advice is to delay your trip to Guatemala City. Stop off in Zacapa or El Progreso, and spend a couple of days there resting up … And you know how to look me up if you come back by these parts. Remember—keep your chin down, you little devil.” Lewis playfully slapped Samuel in the face, then hurried down the aisle, pushing and shoving the few oncoming passengers out of his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Women and children were gathered on the platform selling tortillas and hot sausages through the open windows. Samuel saw Lewis and the soldier who had interrogated him walking together. Lewis seemed to be joking with him and at one point put his arm around the soldier’s waist and tickled his stomach.
Samuel fell back against his seat. He was safe.
A few seconds later, the train gave off three strong whistle blasts and jolted forward. Half a dozen workers came through the doors of the firstclass compartment and took up seats, two or three on a bench, near the coal car and furnace. Then the car door opened again and a man wearing khaki shorts and a white linen shirt entered. He had binoculars and a box camera around his neck; sketchpads and boxes of crayons stuck out of his open shoulder bag. As he passed Samuel, he smiled and the wealth of freckles on his face lit up.
“Say, do you mind if I hunker down next to you?”
“Not at all,” Samuel said, reluctantly squeezing himself closer to the window. He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but maybe some company would keep him from worrying too much.
“The name’s Eddie Blassingame. I’m from Little
Compton, Rhode Island.”
“Samuel Berkow. Pleased to meet you.”
“I arrived in Guatemala five days ago on one of the White Fleet ships from Boston. I’ve spent the last two days in a guesthouse, compliments of the Fruit Company. I’m an artist,” he said proudly, pointing to the paraphernalia that he had dropped on the seat across the aisle. What about you?”
“I’m heading to the capital.”
“I’ll get there too.” He told Samuel that he was planning to spend the next six months painting the highland Indians in their natural settings and visiting his various retired American friends who had bought fincas dirtcheap all around the country. His wife would be joining him next month. Had Samuel read Sylvanus Morley’s articles in the Geographic about his Mayan ruins discoveries?
“The one about Quirigua was amazing. That’s my next stop. I’ll be sketching the Mayan stele and zoomorphic stones—as big as a house, they say—and visiting my friend Dr. Clifford who runs the area hospital near there.”
There was no pressure on Samuel to respond beyond an amiable yes or no, or an agreeing nod: loquacious Eddie Blassingame clearly loved to talk and delighted in the sound of his own voice. As the train poked along, he described his first days in Guatemala—whom he met, what he saw, what he did—in such a glowing way that Samuel wondered if they had been in the same country.
While Samuel had been in a maze of dead ends, Blassingame had yachted up the Rio Dulce to sketch Castillo San Felipe, and had gone game fishing outside of Amatique Bay. He had caught an eighty-pound grouper, hooked a small sand shark, and reeled in a couple of feisty barracudas. He had seen a hammerhead shark and plenty of dolphin. After a balmy two days of sketching seabirds and the Carib deckhands, he had been driven to Bananera. There he had played tennis in the morning, read books in the afternoon heat, and painted at twilight when the temperature dropped. He feasted and drank mint juleps late into the night with the encargados at the Company canteen.
