The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  “It’s all about choice,” he continued. “Did you know that? Everything we do is about choice.”

  I nodded. “Sure, Ben, the thing is that you chose to stay here, but for me it’s more like necessity.”

  “But why is it so necessary?”

  “Because my boat needs a refit.”

  “You neglected it a little?”

  “Yes, more than a little.”

  “That’s where you made your choice. You chose to neglect your boat. The rest is just the result of that choice.” He smiled. “A sequence of events that you generated by your own procrastination brought you here, so you see …”

  I was trapped. After he talked for a long time, during which I politely listened, he finally said, “That schooner of yours will keep you busy for longer than you think. I hope that you have lots of patience because you are going to need all you have; you can bet on that.” His eyes were bright and almost laughing. “So don’t forget, my name is Ben and my boat’s name is Choice. Good name for a boat, right? You better go now and get back to work. The rain is letting up. Now is the time to choose work over discussion with a new neighbor, right, Jacques?”

  I walked away.

  Near Ben’s boat, a man who introduced himself as “Joe” was measuring a piece of steel plate. His forty-five-foot cutter had been squeezed in between a forgotten wooden trawler and a smashed-in military gunboat. Joe was well over six feet tall, and wore a pair of trashed blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt stained with paint. He had a good smile and spoke slowly in a heavy German accent.

  “He just doesn’t know when to quit. Don’t worry too much about him. I’m sure that I myself have wasted at least two months listening to him ramble on since I’ve been here. You have to choose your moments. Yes, it’s all about choice.”

  He laughed and looked over to the corner of the boatyard where Numada was sitting. “You’ll be here for a good while. You will just have to get used to Ben and everything else in this place.” Joe had been at the naval base for over a year and still had lots to do before heading back out to sea. As the rain began to fall, we sat underneath the white hull of his boat and looked at Numada. “I bet you’re trying to figure out where to start.” Joe took a rag and wiped off a pool of rainwater that had collected on his workbench. He dried his hands with a towel hanging on the prop. Above on the transom, I noticed that the name Libertade had been painted in bold black letters and smiled to myself. “My friend, we are all in a permanent state of shock in this boatyard. Many of us could use psychiatric help.” His thinning salt and pepper hair stood straight up in the wind. He looked like a mad scientist. “Sooner or later, everyone here goes crazy, you’ll see. Have you met that guy living on the big motor sailor over there?”

  “Nope, not yet.”

  “Well, you surely will. He’s a real number. A Canadian, like you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Lately, I rarely thought of myself as a Canadian. If anything, I am more of a Québecer at heart but I never talked about it that much. Nationalism is always a sticky subject, and after seeing what it had done around the world, I had become more of a pluralist; the world was my country.

  Joe finished his cigarette and flicked it into a puddle.

  “What does Numada mean, anyway?”

  “Friend. It means friend in Garifuna.”

  “Well, I hope that your boat is still your friend when you are finished and ready to sail away.”

  “And I hope that your Libertade will still mean freedom to you when you take off.” We both chuckled.

  “We’ll see soon enough. This place is full of surprises.”

  “Yeah, both good and bad. But I don’t plan on sticking around for a long time.”

  Joe laughed. “Well, as Ben probably told you — it’s all about choice.”

  After leaving Libertade, I strolled past some rusted hulks, a punched-out fiberglass trimaran and some other forgotten dreams. I couldn’t stop thinking about my situation — my choice.

  Behind a pile of marine junk close to the sea wall, there were two more plastic hulks that would probably never touch the sea again. One had a broken mast lying on its deck, the other had rainwater pissing out of a crack near the keel. I was just about to go back to Numada when a woman’s voice cut through the dull thuds of breaking waves pounding up against the sea wall. “Patrick, Patrick, je ne trouve pas ton truc. Où est t-il!” (Patrick, Patrick, I can’t find that thing. Where are you anyway?)

  “Merde! Merde! Armelle, ouvre tes yeux bordel!” bellowed a voice from deep inside the rusted steel hull. (Shit, Armelle, just open your eyes for chrissake!)

  “Patrick, tu es nul, vraiment nul!” (Patrick, you’re absolutely useless!)

  This yelling was coming from the deck of another derelict hull. I moved in for a closer look. Someone had dumped strips of teak planking in a haphazard pile. An old welding unit sat in the rain, a piece of plywood floated in a large puddle, and tools lay all over the place. Underneath the hull, bits of rusted metal were heaped beside two overflowing drums of garbage and cases of empty beer bottles. I crawled up the improvised ladder a see a woman, about twenty-five years old, dressed in loose-fitting rags. Her skin was tinted a rust color and her hands were filthy.

  “Bonjour,” I said.

  I thought she was going to fall off the deck. “Vous m’avez fait peur.” (You scared me.)

  “Excusez-moi,” I replied. (Sorry.)

  “Vous parlez français?” (You speak French?)

  “Oui, je m’appelle Jacques — Jacques Legris.” (Yes, my name is Jacques — Jacques Legris.)

  I saw her face soften. “I’m on the steel schooner that came in a short while ago.”

  She nodded. “My name is Armelle.” She reached over and firmly shook my hand then looked over at Numada. “You have a beautiful boat compared to ours. We have been trying to fix it for months, but there are many, many things to repair.”

  I looked up and down the flush deck of hers. It had just been plated with new steel but already rust had moved in.

  She called out, still in French, “Patrick! The guy with the big gray-and-red sailboat is here. He’s from Québec!”

  A young man with dishevelled brown hair popped his head out of a hole in the deck. His bearded round face was smudged with brown gunk — part grease and part slime. He scratched his head. “So that thing belongs to you,” he said, also in French. “Not bad, I like it,” he laughed. “You have almost as much work to do as we do, no? I want a closer look.”

  “Yeah, sure. Anytime you want.”

  “Cool.”

  The brown-haired head disappeared back into the hole, and shortly afterwards, a chipping hammer began to pound away.

  “I hate that noise, it drives me completely crazy,” Armelle said. She was pretty. She leaned closer and in a softer tone whispered, “I’m going to start to hate him soon. He’s turning into an extremist, un vrai fanatique de bateau (a real boat fanatic).” She sighed, put a hand on the ladder and proceeded to climb topside. “Now, I have to get back to work or he’ll be pissed off at me. We’ll talk later? It’s impossible to say anything intelligent with that racket going on all the time.”

  I decided that Armelle was sexy. It seemed to me the guy inside with the dirty face and bad temper was lucky to have her around. “Ok, à plus tard (see you later),” I said, and climbed back down the ladder. Later, I sat in the cockpit and watched some soldiers playing soccer on a small muddy field over by the bunkhouse. Without a war or a major disaster on their hands, they had a pretty good life. Fed, sheltered and clothed by the government, they seemed well-off, like scouts at summer camp. Most of these young soldiers were under twenty and probably none of them would ever leave Honduras.

  Cutting through a hole in a low bank of clouds, a bright ray of late afternoon sun bathed the yard with a sharp slash of light that contrasted with the thick bank of dark rain clouds that hung above the mountains. It was beautiful, but it only lasted for a minute before the red ball of fire dipped be
hind the distant mountain to the west. As the sky cleared and night moved in, the shipyard fell silent once again.

  Later that evening, Patrick and Armelle climbed the ladder and joined me on deck for a beer. In the dim light of the oil lamp that hung off the boom above the cockpit, they told me their story in a mixture of English and French, with some Spanish thrown in for good measure. Living in a boatyard sometimes developed a special language between residents.

  “We’re Swiss, not French. We are ski instructors who work half the year in the Swiss Alps teaching rich tourists how to go down the mountain without breaking their legs. Two years ago, Armelle and I came to Honduras on vacation. Do you know where the Bay Islands are? We were hanging around the Island of Útila until one day we met a guy who had a sailboat. He invited us out for a sail. Before we knew it, we’d bought the damn boat. Un coup de foudre! (It was love at first sight!) It was a crazy thing to do but we’re crazy people. Imagine — nous sommes des skieurs professionnels (we are professional skiers). Now we have a sailboat! On est loco-malade d’avoir embarqué dans ce bordel de merde! (We must be really loco-crazy to have gotten mixed up with this bullshit project).”

  Patrick drank his beer as if he were trying to swallow the entire can at once. But halfway through, he stopped and let out a loud belch.

  “But when we started out, it was fabulous,” Armelle interjected. “The owner showed us how everything worked. Then, after we paid him, he disappeared without a trace. It was just before the rainy season. And as soon as it started to rain, we discovered that the deck above our heads leaked like a sieve.”

  Patrick finished off his beer with another long swig and then interrupted Armelle, “C’était de la folie pure.” (It was absolutely insane.)

  “Every time it rained, the whole boat would get soaking wet, and things began turning green with fungus. The first time we sailed her on our own, two sails tore. Rotten right through! What a hopeless mess! Then we discovered that the hull was rusting out underneath the floor in the main cabin and that the engine needed to be replaced.” He lit a cigarette and took a drag.

  “We arrived here at the naval base ahead of a big hurricane,” Armelle said. “The guys here didn’t even want to take us out of the water because it was too dangerous for the travel lift. Big waves began to roll in and we were tied to the slip, going up and down like a yo-yo. Night was almost upon us and we were about to lose our boat. It was banging up against the cement walls of the jetty and began to take on water. Then, suddenly, the yard workers got the lift running and took us out of the water. We were saved by the skin of our teeth. After that, the hurricane hit. It rained here for two weeks solid.” She took a breath. Then Patrick put an arm around his girlfriend and took up again where she left off.

  “The boat kept filling up with water. We were bailing it out with our pots and pans because the bilge pump was finished. That’s how much it was leaking through the deck. It felt like we were sinking, although we were sitting right here on the hard ground in this junkyard of a place. After the storm passed, the place was a real disaster zone, with no food in the stores and no electricity for thirty days. It was hell. When things went from bad to impossible, we left for Switzerland to work and make some money. Now, six months later, here we are again. We’re broke. And then we met Dog Barker.” Patrick pointed to the big, dark green motor sailor.

  “Dog is the one who lives on board Esmeralda. You know him?”

  “Dog Barker? Is that his name? I’ve heard about him.”

  “He’s quite a number.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That depends.”

  They both laughed, looking only at each other. Then Patrick turned to me and lowered his voice. “When he arrived here, we worked for him on Esmeralda before Rackman and his gang of clowns moved in. Once Dog gets the boat back in the water, he wants us to work as full-time crew. He’s even given us an advance to help us with our own repairs.”

  “By the way, he’s looking for a skipper.”

  “A skipper? I have my hands full here for the moment.”

  “Too bad. The three of us would make a great team. Though I’m not too sure he’s on the right side of the law.”

  “So what’s his project?”

  “He’s working for a man in Tegucigalpa. In fact, they’re partners.”

  “Señor Zarkin is the owner. They have some kind of deal, a project they want to develop on the Mosquito Coast. But it’s not drugs. I don’t think.”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “It is, but Señor Zarkin pays well,” Patrick said.

  “It would be fun to run that ship and forget Honky Tonk for a while,” said Armelle.

  “Forget who?” I said.

  “Honky Tonk. It’s the name of our boat. I guess we are stuck with it. It’s supposed to bring bad luck if you change the name of your boat.”

  “So they say, but I changed Numada’s name and she’s still floating.”

  Patrick shrugged. “When we arrived here, all we wanted to do was fix Honky Tonk and then make a little money chartering. Now, here we are, working like slaves — and worse, now we owe money to Dog Barker.”

  “Ce n’est pas possible!” Armelle said. (It’s impossible.)

  “Come on, Armelle, maybe we’ll pay it back crewing for him.”

  “Es-tu malade? (Are you sick?) If we spend any more time with Monsieur Dog, he’ll ruin us.”

  “Patrick, pass me another beer,” I said.

  He handed me a can from the half-empty case of Salva Vida, then took a long drink from his own. “This place is like a curse. You may feel positive now, but just wait. You’ll understand what I am saying pretty soon.”

  Just then, there was a loud knocking on the underside of the hull, and someone began climbing up the ladder.

  “Merde! (Shit!) It’s him, Dog Barker,” said Armelle. Whispering, she bent toward me with a little laugh, “Jacques Legris, you are in for a real experience.”

  In no time the man was standing on deck. His paint-covered shorts and torn T-shirt were the typical boatyard uniform, but the Rolex watch and the gold chain around his neck weren’t, and neither was the fat Cuban cigar sticking out of his mouth. Supported by his rather large nose, was a pair of thick Coke-bottle glasses that magnified his eyes. He looked around, then at us.

  “Hi, Patrick, I knew it was you. I thought I heard someone speaking Swiss or French or whatever the fuck it is that you guys talk.”

  Patrick winced.

  Dog looked at me and grinned. “I’ll be damned! You’re not French too, are ya?”

  “No, I’m Québecois. I’m from Québec. My name is Jacques Legris.”

  “Barker, Doug Barker’s the name.” When we shook hands, his grip felt moist and cool, almost reptilian. “But are you French or English?” he said.

  “A little of both,” I replied.

  “I bet that you’re more on the French side,” he laughed. “Imagine that, a goddamn Québec separatist right here in Honduras.”

  I should have pushed the son of a bitch overboard. But the loud mouth sat down on the cabin roof and took a puff on the short stub of his cigar. He hawked and spat. I heard the gob hit the cement. He frowned, looking up and down Numada’s cluttered deck. “It looks like you got a bit of work to do, Mr. Frenchman from Québec.” I caught his eyes examining Armelle’s long brown legs. “Hey, I’m looking for that little yard rat, Ronnie Rackman. His coolies were supposed to close up that new cargo hatch they built on deck. It leaks like a sieve. I’ll shoot every one of them before I clear out of here. I swear to God, you got to watch those bastards all the time. Rackman’s guys are really a useless bunch of bums with very sticky fingers. Half my tools are gone. Lucky I got doubles. Shit, I’m supposed to be out of here by the fifteenth of December. The way it looks, it will be more like the fifteenth of December a year from now.” He took another puff and flicked the burning butt over the side. “Don’t worry, it won’t blow up your ship, there’s still lots of water dow
n there.” He was talking to me. “So if you see Rackman, make sure he knows that I’m looking for him. But for Christ’s sake, don’t tell him that I want his balls for bookends; he won’t show if you do, and I need the fucker to come in and repair his latest mess tomorrow.” He glanced at the Honky Tonk. “What’s going on over there, anyway?”

  “We’re fed up, that’s all.”

  “Fed up or not, we made a deal. If you’re having trouble, just come and see me. Funny how you Frenchmen like steel boats. You know, they all end up looking like rust buckets sooner or later.” The visitor turned around, climbed back down the ladder and faded away into the night.

  “That was Monsieur Dog. He’s not such a bad guy once you get to know him,” Patrick said.

  “Yeah, but I’m not too sure that I want develop our relationship any further.”

  “I need another beer,” said Patrick. He popped it open with a screwdriver. Then it dawned on me.

  “Hey, I get it. His real name is Doug Barker, but you pronounce Doug like Dog. Dog Barker is a perfect name for him.”

  “Whatever, Doug, Dung, or Doggie or just Dog, it’s all the same to me,” said Armelle.

  “So what does the Dog do anyway?” I couldn’t resist.

  Armelle made a face. “He and the owner of the yacht—”

  “—whose name is Señor Zarkin—”

  “Yes, Zarkin and Dog are preparing a big archaeological project on the Mosquito Coast.”

  “Mosquito Coast, could be interesting, no?” I said, trying not to sound too curious.

  “Could be. Zarkin has tons of money and is a part-time archaeologist who specializes in lost Mayan ruins.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “His goal is to preserve these kinds of sites throughout Honduras. But Dog Barker is also a prospector, and it seems that while he was prospecting for gold down on the Mosquito Coast, he stumbled upon some kind of lost Mayan city. According to him, there are artifacts there that are worth a fortune. Somehow, he teamed up with Zarkin, and they have been planning to exploit this site ever since.”