The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  “What happens upstairs stays upstairs.”

  “Ah, you must have got the two-for-one special. A guy can’t go wrong here. It’s the best place in town. I should know. I’ve been to every one.” He smiled and slapped me on the back. “Now, let’s go pick up those supplies that you need.” I was starting to appreciate the better side of this guy.

  The rest of that week there wasn’t much to do except work, eat and sleep. Happily, I could see that, every day, I was getting closer to getting my boat back in the water. Despite the oppressive heat, Mario and his gang always worked, and when darkness fell we would string up lights for the night crew. The welder would call the shots, and, with his helper, cut and place pieces using a chain hoist. Once the sparks began to fly, I would leave them to their own devices, because after a twelve-hour shift, I was ready for a break.

  One evening, just after the welders had started, I heard a voice shouting from the deck of the big green motor sailor.

  “Hey, Frenchman, come on over. You’re working too hard.”

  “Señor Dog.” Mario pointed at Esmeralda. “Hombre loco.” (A crazy man.)

  The Dog was standing on the foredeck dressed in his classic cut-offs, glass in hand and hair untied. He looked very drunk.

  “Come on up and have a snort of whisky.”

  Mario looked at me. “No problem.”

  It had been a long day. I was pretty tired and a good shot of whisky wouldn’t do any harm, so I washed myself down with the hose and climbed onto the deck of Esmeralda.

  “Fix yourself a glass,” the Dog said as I stepped into the salon. He was stretched out on a sofa beside a twenty-six-ounce bottle of rum. “The icemaker is beside the freezer. Jesus, it was hot today. What the fuck are you doing to that boat of yours anyway, cutting it up for scrap?”

  “Cheap shot. My boat’s going to make you jealous someday,” I replied.

  “Jealous of that? Man, you gotta be kidding.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Boats are more trouble than they’re worth. I can’t wait till they finish working on this one and leave me alone. Rackman’s gang of clowns are driving me nuts. So far, they have done every job at least twice.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Ah, you have? I didn’t think you cared.” He chuckled.

  We started drinking and talking loudly. Soon we were like old sailing buddies. I poured myself another shot. As it grew later, the scotch in the bottle dwindled. We told each other stories, impossible stories, half true and half bullshit. It was like some kind of contest.

  “Look, the guy shot me here.” Dog pulled up his dirty shirt and showed me a good-sized scar just above his beer gut.

  “No way.”

  “But the bullet hit my rib and then bounced off. Was I lucky! But he wasn’t. I had just enough time to grab my piece and shoot the bastard in the head and I’ll show ya what with.” Dog went over to the kitchen and pulled out a semi-automatic 9mm pistol from a drawer under the counter. “It was his last robbery. Here, have a look.” He shoved the gun into my hand. It felt solid and cold. “Watch out where you point that thing, Frenchman; it’s loaded! After I capped that son of a bitch, I had to clean my wound with gasoline, because that’s all I had. I rode out of that hellhole on horseback. It took me two fucking days to find a doctor. Man, was I fucked up!” The Dog seemed proud of himself. He showed me the rest of his arsenal that he kept in the stern cabin. “I got more guns on board than the whole Honduran Navy. Look, my Uzi here. In the case there is a new 9mm Beretta, and this here is one of my favorites, a good old AK-47, loaded up and ready for action. I call them my enforcers. They come in real handy for some of the work I do. Know what I mean?”

  I did.

  We returned to the main salon. At that moment, a young, well-molded woman walked through the hall door that led to the front end of the yacht. “This is Valeska De Sela. Valeska, meet the Frenchman. Shit, what’s your real name, again?”

  She was barefoot and wearing only a long white sleeveless shirt. She was in her early thirties, had short jet-black hair and dark piercing eyes. Her café-crème skin seemed to glow. When she looked at me, I swear I felt a current of electricity run through my body.

  “My name is Jacques, Jacques Legris.”

  “Oh yeah, but I like Frenchman better,” said Barker.

  “I’ve heard a few things about you,” said the woman.

  “Good or bad?”

  “A little of both, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, don’t believe a word you hear. They’re all just rumors.”

  Valeska approached and we shook hands.

  “Mucho gusto,” I said. (Pleased to meet you.)

  “Igual,” she replied and lowered her eyes. (Same here.) Valeska had a special kind of beauty, but she was not traditionally beautiful. She was the result of some kind of métisage (mix) for sure. She walked gracefully into the main salon, poured herself a glass of cold water, squeezed some lemon into it and turned. “I’d join you for a drink, but it’s been a long day and I am tired.” She disappeared into the front section of the yacht. I heard the cabin door close and then lock with a soft click.

  “Valeska is my partner’s niece. She’s here on business.”

  “She seems to be quite special.”

  “She is,” said Barker and looked away. “How do you like living up in the hills?”

  “It’s okay, but far from the base.”

  “I don’t know where your house is, but you gotta be careful going up there at night. There’s lots of banditos (bandits) around here and it’s open season on us gringos.” The Dog went into the galley and returned with a bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here, stick this in your pocket. You never know.” He handed me a Saturday night special with a pearl handle. “It’s loaded. Here’s a box of spare ammo, and remember, an unloaded gun ain’t worth shit. You’ve got two bullets in the barrel, not six. That’s why it’s so small. You can hide it anywhere, but if you put it in your pants, be careful not to blow your nuts off. If you get into any trouble, just shoot the fucker, make sure he’s dead, then lose yourself for a few days. That’s the way it works around here. That fool Patrick should’ve had a piece on him. He could have saved himself all that hassle.” He poured himself one more scotch and carelessly spilled some on the table.

  “You know,” he slurred, “I didn’t appreciate those two Swiss shits running out on me like that. They were going to work for us as crew. They would have made good money.” Dog stood up and peered out the big cabin port light toward Numada. “All that work must be costing you a fortune. How do you manage?”

  “I’m beginning to ask myself that very question.”

  “Maybe I can help. You’re a good sailor, aren’t you? I watched you come in last month. It was real slick, and you were alone too. My associate in Tegucigalpa told me to look for a skipper, one who knows how to sail. The job pays well. You wouldn’t be looking for a little extra work, by any chance?”

  “Give me some time to think about it. The extra money could come in handy.” I looked at my watch. “Hey, it’s getting late. I’ve got to go.”

  He accompanied me up on deck. “Well, Frenchman, it’s been a pleasure. Come over anytime. But don’t forget, if ya have to use that gun, shoot low, ‘cause they’re goin’ to be riding Shetlands! Get it?” He laughed out loud. Then he started to cough, I thought he was going to puke everything up over the side. He disappeared inside the cabin as I climbed back down to reality. I left the base and rode my Jawa up the dark trail to my shack.

  THE SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL

  How bizarre to be packing a pistol. I don’t know why I took the gun. Maybe it was just a macho thing. But homicide in Honduras is almost a national pastime.

  That night, I sat outside on my small balcony sipping rum and lime while weighing the pros and cons of Barker’s proposition. But more pleasant than the rum I was savoring was my recent encounter with the enchanting Valeska De Sela. She radiated something that I had never felt from a woma
n. Was it the way she looked at me? The touch of her hand, her intense gaze? One thing for sure, she managed to kindle a fire in a barren place inside my soul. Was she the elusive partner that I had been looking for all these years?

  As I pulled into the boatyard on my sputtering Jawa early the next morning, I spotted Valeska on the deck lowering a heavy box to the ground with a rope and tackle. The line had gotten caught up in the scaffolding that had been erected close to the hull of the Esmeralda, so I went over to help. Then I watched as she came down the ladder. She looked so sexy. And she knew it.

  “Thanks. I was afraid that the whole thing would flip upside down.”

  I lifted the heavy box and loaded it into the big SUV that she was driving. “Hey, you wouldn’t be going to San Pedro, by any chance?” I asked.

  “Si, ahora.” (Yes, right now.)

  “Would you mind if I come along? I have to pick up some material for my boat.”

  She bent over and slipped on her sandals, then looked at me. When our eyes met, something intense passed between us. “I’ll just let Dog know.” She went back over to the big yacht, climbed halfway up the ladder and yelled, “Dog! Your Canadian neighbor needs a ride to San Pedro.” In her Spanish accent, she also pronounced his name Dog instead of Doug.

  “What neighbor?” he called from the deck.

  “Jack, Jack Legris,” she called. She Anglicized my name, which I found charming.

  The Dog was too engrossed yelling instructions to his workers to reply. Valeska led me over over to a shiny black SUV and took off her sunglasses, revealing intense dark brown eyes. “He’s in a foul mood this morning because of a hangover. He drinks too much. Let’s go.” She climbed in behind the wheel.

  I hopped in on the passenger side and caught Valeska’s eyes as she briefly checked herself in the mirror. Then she turned the key, put her sunglasses back on, and off we went. In a few minutes we reached the road that snaked through the rolling foothills between Puerto Cortés and San Pedro Sula. The terrain was covered with pine trees and rock formations. As we climbed higher, the air grew fresher and the breeze felt good. Valeska drove at least thirty kilometers per hour over the speed limit, passing everything in sight.

  “What do you have to do in San Pedro?” I asked.

  “Boring things, like return a burned-out fuel pump to the supplier and pick up some hoses for one of the engines.”

  “I need a piece of exhaust hose myself, so we’ll shop at the same place.”

  “That makes things simpler.”

  Valeska stepped on the gas and flew past a bus that was spewing black exhaust. After that the road was clear, so she kept the needle stuck at 130 km/h.

  “You work with Barker?” I ventured.

  “My uncle, Igor Zarkin, and Dog are associates on a specific project.”

  It was the perfect moment to get her version. “What type of project?”

  “We want to develop an ancient Maya city in La Mosquitia and eventually turn the site into an archaeological center. There are considerable Maya ruins in the area, and my uncle wants to conserve them before someone goes in and cleans the place out. Barker was the one who first discovered the location. According to an old law that’s still enforced, the site is registered in his name because it was his discovery. People have been searching for it for years, but they must have been looking in the wrong place. He met my uncle, sold him the idea, and together they flew in and spent a few days scouting out the area. That’s when my uncle decided to invest. He’s become completely obsessed with the ruins he saw. It seems that it is even larger in area than Copan, and contains thousands of artifacts, huge carvings and an incredible amount of stone structures. It’s the last Mayan stronghold and has been lying there undiscovered for centuries. It’s an amazing opportunity for me to be involved in something like this. Except that these days, Dog and my uncle don’t really see eye to eye. In fact, they don’t get along at all, anymore. But they’ve gone too far to back down now. My uncle has the money, brains and connections. Dog has the drive and the guts to run the operation in the field. And Dog owns the property. But neither one trusts the other.”

  “What’s your role?”

  “Well first of all, I am the only bona fide archaeologist on this team. I studied at the University of Honduras in Tegucigalpa. I’ll be working in the field. When it’s set up, I’ll be working with the crews and selecting the most valuable artifacts, making sure that they are brought out in one piece. I’ll be responsible for classifying and conserving them in our warehouse until the archaeological museum in Tegucigalpa is built.”

  “Big job.”

  “Yes, but I love that kind of work. I also love the adventure. The idea of uncovering a lost Maya city is totally amazing.”

  “You’re right about that. Valeska, can I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “What’s your unprofessional relationship with Barker?”

  “Ooh, I think that’s what you wanted to know ever since you met me.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, let’s say that the energy between Dog and me has always been rather ambiguous. But these days it’s more business than anything else.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a complicated story. My uncle introduced us a few years ago — before this project got underway. We became lovers. He’s so self-confident and ready to take risks. And he is very charming even though he’s rough around the edges. For a while it worked out perfectly. The work, and the, uh how can I say, the pleasure, as well. He was different from any man I had ever known, and I, of course, was somewhat younger. It lasted for about a year, but it was a stormy year.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I found out that he liked screwing young chicas when I wasn’t around. And there’s another thing: he’s become addicted to power. My uncle doesn’t really trust him anymore. Hey, I have already told you way too much. We just met and look at me.”

  “Yes, but there’s a beginning to everything.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  She became silent, lost in thought. As she drove on, I watched her out of the corner of my eye.

  After a few more miles, I said, “So it’s not easy for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you are stuck mediating between your uncle the dreamer and the Dog who is in it for keeps.”

  She laughed. “I’m doing it for my uncle. He’s like a father to me. If not for him, I would change jobs.”

  I could picture her trying to separate the two quarrelling men. Igor Zarkin, whom I imagined to be a cultivated, sensitive and very wealthy philanthropist, would be the perfect mark for Barker, who could be both intimidating and a salesman.

  “And now you come along just to make it even more complicated.”

  I looked over and she turned her head. Our eyes met.

  “What do YOU mean?” I said.

  “You’ll see.” She smiled coyly. She slowed down and gave room as we passed a broken-down bus on the road. A few dozen forlorn-looking passengers watched as two men changed a back tire.

  “Zarkin is not your typical Spanish name.”

  “Not at all. My great-grandfather was born near Saint Petersburg, in Russia. He was only about twenty-five years old when he came here. He had a degree as a mining engineer packed in his suitcase — along with a few connections. It was just after the revolution of 1917. He did very well in this country, much better than if he had stayed in Russia. Later, he married into a well-established Honduran family. I am part Maya, part Spanish and part Russian.”

  Her face had a certain strength, a special kind of beauty. But despite her appearance of candour, I had the feeling she was mixed up in something a lot bigger than she let on. I lowered my window even further and a warm blast of air filled the interior.

  “What part of Canada are you from?” she asked.

  “Québec.”

  “What brought you down here in the first place?
”

  “I was looking for something different.”

  “You don’t work?”

  “I work on my boat full-time.”

  “I mean a real paying job.”

  “I used to work for a television network.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I was a war correspondent.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It really was, but it became too intense and I decided to take a leave of absence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A leave of absence is when you temporarily leave your job. I wanted a change, a new lifestyle.”

  “Like …?”

  “Like move onto a sailboat and to start off, visit the Caribbean. It’s an old dream that I’ve had since my teens.”

  “But what do you do for money?”

  “I have a small apartment building in Québec City. I live off the rent, but after I pay the expenses, it’s only just enough to get by. During the last few years, I’ve written articles for a magazine published in France. With that, I can make out okay. And I like the freedom it gives me.”

  “Freedom? It’s never free,” Valeska mused. “So tell me: What kind of freedom are you talking about?”

  “Personal freedom. Up until a few years ago I was heavily involved in a career and it almost killed me. I’m not just talking about the dangers of war zones. I’m talking about the pace and the pressure. I left all that behind when I decided to come down here.”

  “But you live alone.”

  “Yeah, I just haven’t found the right woman.”

  “I know what you mean. I have a hard time settling down myself.”

  There was a short silence. “Writing interests me. What do you write about here in the Caribbean?”

  “I like to write about things most people can’t even imagine exist. For instance, I spent some time in Cuba just before coming to Honduras. I wrote a series of articles about the Russian mafia and how they control the illegal drug trade.”

  “Sounds exciting. I’d like to read your articles.”

  “Sure, anytime.”