The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  “Buen provecho.” She smiled. (Enjoy.)

  As I ate, I couldn’t take my eyes off the shark waiting to be cut up and sold by the pound. Then, with the quick flick of its tail, it disappeared over the side and into the water. I guess that it got tired of waiting.

  Through the downpour, the women carried their shoes in one hand and rolled-up newspapers full of fish in the other. A small group of passengers waited patiently in front of the fruit stand for a battered yellow bus to take them to work in the center of town. These people worked six days a week, for ten hours a day, in the cramped sweatshops of zona libre (the zone for foreign-owned clothing manufacturers) — making jeans, blouses or hi-tech running shoes for the North American middle class. A rusted dump truck careened around the corner on its way to a banana plantation. In the box, corded shoulder to corded shoulder, crouched hungry-looking men with machetes.

  Finally, the rain stopped. On my way back to the base, I saw two guys beating someone up. I ran to the group and saw that the someone was Patrick. I grabbed one guy from behind and threw him to the ground. The other guy yelled something and fled, and the guy I’d thrown followed.

  Patrick lay on the ground, curled up. He groaned.

  “Pat, it’s me, Jacques. Can you move?”

  He sat up, rubbing his head. His knees were covered with dirt and his right arm was badly scraped. His eyes were bloodshot. “Merde, ils m’ont volé.” (I got ripped off.)

  “Forget the money, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Jacques, what are you doing here?”

  “Who were those goons?”

  “No clue. They rushed me from behind. I didn’t see a thing. Man, I feel like shit. Armelle’s going to kill me.”

  “You haven’t been home yet?”

  “No. I was on the way.”

  “Yeah, she’s going to kill you alright.”

  I helped him to his feet and brushed him off. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your place.”

  “No, I’ll be okay. I have to leave this fucking country. It’s really insane.” He turned away and began to limp down the lane that led to his house.

  I returned to Numada and began my day of work, but while I tried to figure out where to start, I couldn’t help thinking that the list of misfits who had entered my life in Puerto Cortés was growing by the day, and Patrick was now definitely part of the list along with Dog Barker, Ronnie Rackman, German Joe and Ben the philosopher. I was no different. Could I really count on any of these people if I had to? My question came with a loud knocking on the hull.

  “Hey, Captain! You up there?”

  “Yeah, just a minute.”

  I climbed through the companionway and looked over the side to see German Joe with a Honduran hombre. “Jacques, this is Mario. He’s a damn good welder, one of the best in Puerto Cortés, and he’s looking for work. I have a feeling you’re ready for some help.”

  I invited them on board for a guided tour.

  Mario looked part Maya, part something else. He had a sympathetic air about him. According to Joe, Mario was an ex-navy welder and knew everyone on the base. Although he spoke poor English, he spoke it.

  I explained that I was going to need a lot of work done on the hull. And when I finished, he grabbed a hammer and immediately started banging away on the interior of the hull.

  “No hay problema.” Then he kneeled down and pointed with his chipping hammer. “Here, lots and lots of cutting. Aqui también, aqui y aqui posiblemente.” (Here, and here, and maybe here too.) He banged and prodded his way through the boat, testing the soundness of the metal. I could see he was serious. “Mario make everything nickelo (shine) again. Measuring tape, por favor?”

  I dug out a tape and he measured and jotted notes on a piece of cardboard.

  German Joe grinned at me. “I felt the same way. Don’t worry. You’ll love the experience. Besides, once you start working, a year goes by pretty fast in this place.”

  “A year? No way. I’ll be out of here before that.”

  “That will depend on your luck and Mario’s punctuality.”

  “Deck — what you want me to do on deck?”

  We went topside and walked across the deck as a light rain began to fall. The pattering noise on the tarpaulin grew louder until it sounded like galloping hooves. We had to speak loudly just to be heard.

  “Mario fix this. Mario replace that. Fácile (Easy).” Then my new employee, who was now soaked to the skin, went through the boat again, measuring and calculating how much steel and tubing he would need. “No worry,” Mario smiled. “Mario fix good. You see.” Mario’s list had grown and spilled onto another page.

  Joe sat on the deckhouse roof smiling while holding a piece of plywood over his head to protect himself from the rain. “While you guys do all that, I’ll have time to finish my boat, sail around the world and come back for a visit,” he said mockingly.

  “Yeah, Joe, maybe you can, but a guy can dream.”

  When Mario finished taking notes, I finally asked the big question.

  “How much, Mario? How much do you charge?” Without hesitating he answered.

  “Me charge fifteen US dollars a day with welding equipment. You pay the welding rods, the gas and Coke.”

  For a moment, I thought that I was dreaming but then I thought of Mr. Dole and his banana pickers.

  “No, Mario, I’ll pay you twenty dollars a day.” The welder looked at me as if I was a little crazy.

  “Mario like this. Okay.”

  “It’s a deal, Mario. You’re my man.”

  We shook hands, and he left but not before promising to be on the job the following day.

  Shortly after Mario and Joe left, Patrick and Armelle dropped by. “Hey, Patrick, you look a little better.”

  “Ouais, I slept a little, but I still feel like I got run over by a bulldozer.”

  “We came to a big decision this morning,” Armelle said, looking at Patrick. “We’re going back to Switzerland. No more boat, no more mud, no more rust or stinking engine to fix.”

  “And no more trouble like last night,” Patrick said.

  “This whole adventure has become a nightmare.” Patrick reached for Armelle’s hand and she squeezed his in return.

  “What about Dog’s job offer?” I said.

  Patrick lowered his voice and moved closer. “Fuck Dog. He mustn’t find out we are leaving, because he will want the money back that he lent us and with interest. Please don’t say anything to him.”

  “What Patrick isn’t saying is that he spent it all and can’t pay it back,” said Armelle, releasing Patrick’s hand and crossing her arms.

  “Ouch. I don’t know Dog Barker very well, but I can bet he will be furious,” I commented.

  “Look, we’re leaving him our boat and all our tools, which are worth more than a few thousand bucks.”

  “Does he really want your boat?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he wants it, or not. We’re leaving, and Mr. Dog Barker can have our damn boat to do with as he pleases,” said Pat.

  “Well, it’s your decision. I won’t say anything.”

  “Jacques, maybe you would like to take over our house, no? It’s a lot better than living here on the base while your boat is getting a makeover, and our rent is only a hundred bucks a month. We’re going to pack our things tonight and leave in the morning. Come over this evening and see the place for yourself.”

  “Sounds good to me but keep it a secret for now. You wouldn’t want Dog to know that I’m moving into your place. I’ll tell him a little later.”

  Patrick patted the hull of my boat thoughtfully. “Funny, I’m going to miss you and this crazy place.”

  A few hours later, I walked to their house, the last one on the road. It was surrounded by mud and a few big trees, and there was a rushing creek in the backyard. A friendly-looking pig played in a pile of leaves in the yard next door. I passed through the front gate, hopped across puddles of muddy rain water and knocked on the screen door.


  “Entrez!” Armelle called out.

  Armelle and Patrick were packing. The kitchen sink was plugged and dirty dishes were piled up everywhere. Cockroaches and ants covered the countertop.

  “Every time it rains, they cut off the water. It doesn’t make sense,” said Armelle.

  “Nothing makes any sense around here,” said Patrick.

  They both looked like they had reached the end of their ropes. Life in the shipyard, their rusted-out sailboat, their chaotic house in the hills, and their crazy adventure had been too much. Now they were focused on returning home to the Alps in time for the ski season, where they claimed to make good money teaching people how to look good on the slopes. It would certainly be more fun than working on their doomed boat and waiting for Dog’s footfalls.

  “Et le ski est un sport sexy (And skiing is a sexy sport),” said Patrick, dragging a large sail bag into the living room.

  “We’ll soon forget about our Honky Tonk nightmare and the Dog. A few days ago, Dog offered to pay me to fuck him.” She lit a cigarette and stuffed more clothes into a big canvas bag that was sitting on the kitchen table. “Never in a million years would I let that filthy man touch me.”

  The house was small, but it would do fine after a good scrubbing and fumigating. As I was leaving, I spotted an old motorcycle propped against the side of the house.

  “That yours?”

  “Yeah, it was on board Honky Tonk.”

  I looked it over. The tires were in good shape and it seemed to be in fair condition. “A Jawa, they are popular in Cuba.”

  “Well, it’s yours if you want it. I’m sure as hell not going to take it back to Switzerland.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Just keep watch out for the stray dogs. They have no manners and love to go for white gringo legs.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. What about the papers?”

  “There are none, nobody gives a shit about papers around here. Just climb on, let her roll downhill and pop the clutch. She’ll start, you’ll see.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a try.” After a short sprint, I jumped on board. I gave it a couple shots of gas and it took off, a cloud of bluish smoke spewing from the exhaust pipes. “I’ve got wheeeeels!” I yelled as loudly as I could. I roared down the dirt trail toward the naval base though a refreshing shower of cool, light mist. There wasn’t a soul anywhere, not even a stray mutt looking for a juicy gringo leg. After turning onto the main road that ran along the beach, I cranked it up to about sixty kilometers an hour. It was like flying. I felt like riding on forever. But before I ran out of gas, I turned around and cruised back to the boatyard, coasting through the narrow entrance gate. I zigzagged my way through the collection of dry-docked military boats over to where Numada sat high and dry on stilts. When I cut the engine, there was a deep silence, followed by the sound of waves crashing up against the decrepit sea wall.

  By mid-afternoon the next day, a patch of sun began drying up the dank air. The yard was coming alive. Hired hands, full-time yard workers, my friends the misfits, and some new arrivals all emerged from their hiding places like cockroaches and resumed their work. Later on, as the temperature and humidity climbed, I heard grinding, hammering, sawing and swearing coming from the direction of the big green yacht. Things seemed to be back to normal, but Mario, the new welder, was nowhere in sight. What had happened to all his plans, his no hay problema bullshit? He had sounded so promising at our first meeting, but if he didn’t show his grinning no problema face pretty soon, I would have to make some big decisions. I sat down on the deckhouse, trying to stay positive. There was nothing to do but be patient and prepare for the eventuality that the welder might not show up.

  It was late afternoon when I finally got the soldiers to bring over the crane to lift the two masts off the deck. One by one, they were hoisted straight up and over, then laid onto blocks of wood near Numada. Then it was time for the engine to find its place beside the masts. My boat was just a hulk now. Its market value had just dropped by half, but I reasoned it would be worth it later, once everything was put back in place. In the lingering daylight, I left everything on deck and moseyed over to the liquor store. I bought two good cold beers and sat at the outside table beside the resident mangy, talking bird in the wire cage. Together, we watched the evening chase the afternoon away. Funny thing, the bird did most of the talking.

  THE MOVE

  For the next week or so, I drifted in and out of moods, encounters and expenses. Lots of expenses. But I was well-settled in my new house now. Armelle and Patrick had left discreetly for Europe. By the time the Dog had learned about their departure, they were gone.

  “Ronnie just informed me that those pathetic little dreamers took off for Switzerland and won’t be coming back.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “They owe me money.”

  “Oh yeah? What about their boat?” I asked.

  “What about it? It’s just good for the scrap yard.”

  For the next couple of weeks, I only saw the Dog on a few brief occasions. He was often away in Tegucigalpa, but Ronnie and his boys worked steadily on his boat.

  During that time I slowly moved a few of my possessions to the house on the hill. And no one seemed to care, certainly not Barker. For a hundred bucks a month, I had a sagging spring mattress bed, cold running water, a blocked sink and a lethal-looking gas stove that hissed and popped every time I’d start it. I spent long hours washing the floors, sweeping and trying to put some order to a joint that had been neglected for so many months by the former tenants. I brought up some bed sheets, a few pots and pans, and the coffee maker from the boat. I figured that it would do justice to that great Honduran coffee that I was starting to enjoy. Within a week, I had accepted the insects and began to feel right at home.

  Back at the boatyard, things were looking up. Mario finally showed up for work with a helper. My job was to provide them with the materials they needed. One morning, they requested a new tank of acetylene and additional welding rods. While we sat under the hull making plans and figuring out how to arrange transportation for the material, Dog sauntered over.

  “Hey, Frenchman, I’m going into town to pick up stuff. Wanna come?”

  I went over to Mario, who was about to weld a piece of steel plate into place. “Mario, do we need anything in town?”

  Mario lifted up his facemask. He was dripping with sweat. “We need more welding rods, zinc primer paint, sanding discs and a big cold bottle of refresco (soda).”

  I yelled over to Barker, “Okay, count me in.” Within minutes I was sitting beside the Dog in the cab of his pickup truck. In the center of town, Barker swung onto a dingy street that was empty except for a few men stretched out in the shade and sleeping off the previous night’s bad rum. I wasn’t exactly surprised when the Dog wheeled the truck close to the curb and stopped in front of the Manila Bar, the second sleaziest bar in town.

  “It’s never too early for a beer and a good lay. Maybe Sylvita’s there. She’s something else, man. I’d crawl a mile over broken glass just to get into her pants. Come on, it’ll be worth the visit.”

  Once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I saw half-awake prostitutes half-ready for business. In one corner of the room stood a goon with a semi-automatic handgun tucked into his belt. The walls were dark red and covered with garish artwork, mirrors and sundry objects left behind by countless wharf rats and homesick sailors. Dog ordered and the waitress drowsily served us two bottles of Salva Vida. She was pretty, and she had a devil with a nasty-looking pitchfork tattooed on her right breast. If only tattoos could talk.

  An elderly man in a suit was sitting over in a dark corner at the far end of the bar. He looked like an insurance salesman gone walkabout. Beside him, a tall black girl slowly gyrated on a small wooden box. Her pelvis was about two inches from his nose.

  Just as we were finishing our first beers, two girls appeared from a back room and nudged up beside us. “Look, Frenchman
,” Dog said, “the one on the right is Sylvita. She’s mine. I don’t know about the other one, but hey, it’s my dime. Go for it.”

  The two women wore almost identical dresses with easy access to the interior. One of them came right up to me, dropped down on her knees and unzipped my jeans. “Hey mi amor. Me provokas,” she said. (Hey, my love, you provoke me.)

  The Dog laughed and grabbed his nuts. “Shit, Frenchman, lucky you. You’re an instantaneous hit. I’m going to be entertained by Sylvita for a while. See ya later.” With that, he disappeared into the back room and I was left alone with the other woman.

  “Ven, ven conmigo, por favor,” she said, pulling me behind the bar. (Come with me please.) A few minutes later, we were upstairs in a small, dimly lit room. Another lovely was sitting on a chair beside the bed wearing only a black bra and panties.

  “For you, two for one, okay.”

  As I stood, they stripped me naked, then led me into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water was warm; in fact it was the first hot shower that I had taken in months. The girls took their clothes off and joined me. Delightful was the only word I could think of. After the hot water ran out, we dried off. They massaged my body from head to toe with fragrant oil. I fell into another world.

  The three of us ended up in bed. I watched the two girls as they caressed each other. They were good at what they did; in fact, they even gave me a few new ideas. After a while, I stopped watching and joined the party, and I helped them out as much as I could. There was a lot of laughing, and the big bed in the center of the room turned into a tangled mixture of bodies, sheets and pillows. Overheated and spent, we returned to the shower for a final scrub down in the cold water. Feeling rejuvenated, I returned downstairs to the bar where the Dog was waiting for me.

  “What do you think?”

  “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  “Did you get fucked good?”