The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  She stepped on the gas and passed another bus.

  “What about you, Valeska? Where are you from?”

  “Not too far from here.” She flashed me a smile. I placed myself on hold for a while, slipped down in my seat, put my knees on the dash and watched the countryside zip by. Soon we approached the San Pedro Sula city limits. Piles of garbage and abandoned and stripped car carcasses littered the roadside. As she drove, Valeska discreetly removed her rings and watch and slipped them under the seat. She downshifted to third gear and used compression to slow us in time to stop for the upcoming red light.

  The road after the intersection was lined with ragged, tumbled-down shacks constructed from rusted tin sheets, rotted plywood and fringed plastic tarps. People were gaunt, hardly noticing the passing traffic. A little further into the city center, we passed a Wendy’s restaurant, a GMC dealer and a Sears clearly in business for the ten percent of the population who controlled ninety percent of the country’s wealth.

  Valeska turned the pickup onto a narrow street and began to fill me in on the protocol. “This is one of the most dangerous cities in Central America. Just go about your affairs and try not to look too much like a lost tourist. I’m going to put this thing in a guarded parking lot.” She turned suddenly at a side street, turned again and hit the brakes in front of a razor-wire gate. An armed guard put down his newspaper, slowly got up from a wooden bench and slid open a big chain-link gate on wheels. Valeska flashed a smile then drove into the compound. “This is a safe enough parking place, but only if you have the guard on your side.”

  “How do you do that?”

  Valeska pulled out a hundred-lempira bill (about ten US dollars) from her pocket and handed it to the guard. “You pay him extra,” she said once we were out of earshot.

  We walked to the crowded sidewalks of Third Avenida, weaving our way through the throngs of people to the marketplace. My intriguing companion took my arm as we ducked inside the maze of canvas-covered stalls where sidewalk venders sold outdated collections of cheap shoes, counterfeit watches, umbrellas, sunglasses and whatever else would satisfy a local looking for a deal. While we weaved through the narrow lanes of outdoor kiosks, I sensed that wide eyes followed our every step. But this didn’t seem to bother Valeska as she led the way while reviewing the long shopping list that Barker had given her. I guessed that she had been here dozens of times before. When I mentioned a few things that I needed, she pointed to a store on the corner.

  “Muy fácil.” (That’s easy.)

  Suddenly, there were two gunshots behind us, and screaming and shouting. Two men hurried past us, shoving people out of the way. Police officers with guns drawn pursued the two men. Valeska and I hid in a doorway. Her warm perspiring body pressed against mine for a few precious seconds. We heard three more gunshots. People in the crowd threw themselves to the ground, screaming. At that moment it seemed only natural to wrap my arms around Valeska. When things settled down, our eyes met and I almost thanked those bandits out loud for their perfect timing.

  Late that afternoon, we finished our shopping. But Valeska gave me the impression that there was something else on her list. About fifteen miles from the town, she turned the truck onto a dirt road, put it in park and looked at me, her dark eyes shining. “I’m going to take you somewhere.” She drove us along a dirt road. The truck kicked up a long cloud of dust. She carefully navigated a trail that ended under a cluster of tall pine trees. She turned off the ignition. The only sound was the wind blowing through the branches. A stream gushed out of a rocky crag, cascading into a small, clear pond just below us. “This was once part of my father’s property. I used to come and swim here all the time when I was a kid.” She led me down the narrow trail to the water’s edge, stripped off her clothes and dove in. From the water, she called, “What are you waiting for, sailor? Are you afraid of water?”

  I wasn’t. I dove in with her. She disappeared underwater and came up in front of me and, wrapping her legs around my waist, gave me a long kiss. “Peligroso, Jack Legris, peligroso (Danger, Jack Legris, danger),” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day with you.” Before I could respond, she let go, swam over to the falls, hoisted herself up onto a flat rock and let the water shower over her body. “Come on, there’s room for two.”

  So I went over, hauled myself out of the water, and we sat behind the waterfall. I wrapped my legs around her, pressed up against her back and slipped my hands down over her breasts.

  Afterwards, we slipped back down into the water, swam over to the quiet end of the pool and lay together on a rock. I dropped my gaze, rolled over on my back and said, “It’s the here and now that really counts, don’t you think?”

  It wasn’t long before I could feel her fingers on me, then her lips.

  As we made love, I wondered if this was just a sexual encounter between two strangers. She teased me, caressed me. I did the same. Just as I thought that I was going to explode, she said, “Take me from behind this time, Jack.”

  The sun was a lot lower on the horizon when Valeska finally wheeled the truck back onto the main road. She drove hard and didn’t say a word. Soon she broke the silence. “You and I could go far together.”

  I looked at her.

  “You’d be the perfect skipper for Esmeralda.”

  “Sure, but I don’t think that we’d do much sailing.” I rolled up the window a little. Valeska wasn’t really listening. She took her watch from under her seat and slipped it back on her wrist, then slipped her two rings back on. “Oh shit, it’s late. I was supposed to be back by 5:00. Look what you made me do!”

  “No, look what you made me do.”

  She laughed and looked nervously in the mirror as she smeared on some fresh lipstick, a little risky at 100 km/h. I offered to drive, but she just shook her head as we passed a slow-moving truck. For a while, we didn’t speak. I thought she was trying to decide what to tell Dog. She brought the truck around a curve and slowed a little. Something was going on up ahead. A group of men were staring at a shirtless body lying motionless by the side of the road. They waved frantically for us to stop. Instead, she floored it. “That’s an old trick. That man is fine, and if we stopped, those people would have attacked us.”

  Just before the next village, we blew by a schoolyard. A black and white football bounced out onto the highway. It sounded like a bomb going off when it burst. “Bad luck for those kids,” I said. She was silent.

  It was after sundown when we arrived back at the base. The black SUV, which was spotless when we left that morning, was now filthy. Valeska parked beside Esmeralda. Within seconds, she was climbing the ladder to Esmeralda. Halfway up she turned and put a finger to her lips.

  I grabbed my supplies and walked toward Numada, but before I had walked twenty steps, Rackman popped out from behind the motor sailor’s long keel. “Hey buddy. Have a good time in San Pedro? The boss is sort of pissed off. He really doesn’t like guys fooling around with his woman.”

  “And I don’t like guys who don’t mind their own business.”

  Later that evening, I heard Barker and Valeska arguing on the deck of the big yacht. The next morning, I saw her drive away.

  A few days later, the Dog invited me over to his yacht for a drink. When I arrived, he was already pretty far gone. “What took you so long? I almost finished the bottle by myself.” He got up, grunted, poured himself a double shot and spun around, looking me in the eyes. “I’ll get straight to the point if you don’t mind, Frenchman. Valeska and I had a little … She went back to Tegucigalpa.”

  He took a Colt .45 from a drawer. He opened and closed the barrel. “Nice piece, eh?” He gave me a strange look and pointed the thing at me.

  “You know, it’s no fun working for Mr. Z. He thinks he owns me. Now he’s got Valeska busting my balls. And you? I don’t know where you stand. I think that that bitch is going to use you to get to me. That’s the way she works.” It was as if a breaker had flipped inside his head. He staggered aroun
d the room, waving the revolver and babbling.

  “Hey, Barker, chill out. Put the damn gun away.”

  “Why, you afraid I might kill you? I could. I already killed one poor son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah. You said that already.”

  “That shithead was dead standing up. I’ve got you all pegged, the whole damn bunch of you. Frenchman, just watch yourself.”

  I got up and walked out. As I climbed down the ladder, Barker came on deck and fired his pistol in the air. “I’m the boss around here, understand! Just call me God! Just call me God!”

  Back on my boat I sat on deck and continued to watch the show on board Esmeralda. Barker pranced around for a few more minutes shooting his gun off at the sky. Then he went inside and put on some music. It was Marty Robbin’s singing his famous El Paso song again. But this time, the volume was turned up loud and the same tune played on and on and on and for a while, the Dog was singing along.

  THE REAL STORY

  The following week, I sent a query to Aventura to tell them that I had started to prepare a series of articles about a lost Maya city that had been discovered in La Mosquitia. But this time, oddly enough, I heard nothing from Aventura. I called their office in Paris. They told me that the magazine had been sold and that the submissions editor with whom I had been working was no longer with the magazine. Worse than that, their protocol had changed; they were no longer giving advances. I sent my queries to other publications, but with no luck. I was out of work.

  One evening, after a long day of boring work at the yard, I got home later than usual. The wind had picked up again, and drops of rain began to fall just as I pushed open the rusted gate and rolled my born-again Jawa into the courtyard. The metallic squeak of the gate as it closed triggered a chain reaction. From somewhere, a dog barked, somebody shouted and a downpour followed. It lasted two full days.

  During those days of heavy rain, Honduras gave me the impression of a country someone had stuck on the map with some sort of cheap glue. With the incessant downpour, the whole place felt as if it was slowly peeling off the face of the earth. My shoes had turned greenish and were starting to disintegrate. On the kitchen floor, something crunched under my bare feet. In the dim light, I saw thousands of ants. It was a little too much. Rather than fighting this army of creepy crawlies, I went back to the naval base.

  When I got there I saw that there was a truck parked beside Esmeralda. Valeska, Barker and a big Garifuna guy got out, but they didn’t see me where I stood half hidden behind a big brass propeller of a military boat. I watched as the Garifuna went back and lowered the tailgate and lifted the door. Meanwhile, a crew of a fishing boat secured their vessel to the dock. Valeska talked to various men as they appeared out of the shadows.

  She was wearing skin-tight jeans, black boots and a molded black T-shirt. The peak of her ball cap cast a shadow on her face.

  Barker supervised the men while they unloaded material onto the dock from the truck. I could see compressors, a few generators, digging gear and dozens of boxes. Valeska stayed by the dock crane and said something to the operator. Immediately a motor started, and the lift swung over and, one by one, loaded the crates onto the fishing boat. When one landed a little heavy with a thud, I heard Valeska’s voice: “Hey, Carlos, quidado por favor!” (Please be careful!)

  After about half an hour, the transfer was completed. While Barker counted the crates that had been placed on board the boat, Valeska handed a small bag to a bearded guy on deck and another one to a neat-looking man dressed in a military uniform. Then Barker went over to Valeska and touched her on the shoulder. She pushed his hand away and said something. They exchanged a few heated words before she spun around and climbed into the passenger side of the five-ton. It took off immediately.

  I didn’t hear the guard sneak up from behind, but I felt the business end of his rifle press into my back. “Hey, ¿que buscado?” (What are you looking for?)

  “Nada (nothing),” was all I could muster, but I guess that wasn’t the right answer. He pushed me and I fell to the ground with a thump. Then he kicked me in the ribs with one of his boots, then put a knee on my back. I felt a sharp pain.

  “Okay, okay, take it easy,” I said. For a moment, I could hardly breathe.

  The overgrown gorilla lifted himself off, and slowly, I got to my feet, and then, with the nose of his rifle stuck into my back, the guard took me over to the big hangar that housed the travel lift. Once inside, I saw Barker sitting on an overturned plastic bucket with one of his eternal fat cigars hanging out of his mouth.

  “Frenchman, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. I hope that you didn’t get roughed up too much, but the guard didn’t know who you were. Just following orders, that’s all.”

  He paused as one of the men from the fishing boat walked up to us. “Listo Señor Barker.” (Ready, Mr. Barker.)

  “Okay, Ramón, don’t forget our deal. We’ll be in touch.”

  The man nodded and left.

  “Have a seat,” he pointed to a wooden crate placed in front of him.

  “No, I prefer to stand.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He stood up and stretched.

  “You know, Frenchman, you don’t seem like such a bad guy. You and I need to have a little talk.” A funny smile formed on his lips and he looked away. For the sake of my health, I didn’t ask for further explanations. Barker wiped his brow with his T-shirt. “Damn hot night. We’ll be more comfortable on Esmeralda. Come on.”

  In a few minutes, I was standing face to face with Barker in the yacht’s main saloon.

  “First of all, imagine this, Mr. Z wants to meet you in Roatán during Christmas break. It’s official.”

  “Maybe it is for you guys, but I want to know more before I decide to get involved.”

  “Fine. I got nothing against that.”

  He went over to the liquor cabinet.

  “You want a shot?”

  “No.”

  He poured one for himself and began to explain.

  “Rumor has it there’s a lot of gold in the mountains just a few days upriver from Mosquito Coast. So a few years back, I rounded up a small crew and went east into La Mosquitia. One night, we camped on a large sandbar near a waterfall. The next day, I looked for streams where I might pan for gold. So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, wading up this shallow stream that was clear as crystal, and I began to come across some large stone ruins. Everything was covered with trees and roots, but underneath there were lots of strange sculptures of white stone.

  “Then, a little bit further along, we found a huge goddamn white pyramid that was also partly grown over. There was an opening and of course we went inside. Man, the cavern was huge, no — massive. It went on forever. My Indian guide was sure this was the very center of the Ciudad Blanca. It was a real jackpot. Within a week, we realized that we had discovered the mother lode of priceless Mayan artifacts. Much better than gold!” He leaned closer. His breath smelled like a bar during closing time. “I staked out a claim as soon as I could, in sections, the way it’s done. That took two weeks. Hell, it almost killed me. It’s rough living in that jungle.” He took a puff on his cigar and without thinking blew the smoke in my face. For a second, I felt like puking. “And all that shit up at Ciudad Blanca is sitting on a mineral claim that is registered in my name at the government mineral claim office in Tegucigalpa. In a way, a property like that is worth more than gold or drugs, not half as much trouble and nobody interferes. We’ve already begun bringing stuff out. You may have noticed I’ve got the naval base here on my side too. The commander understands the situation perfectly.”

  “You paid him off.”

  “Of course, that’s the way it works. Once all that equipment reaches the location next week, my handpicked crew will be setting up camp. There are buyers all over the world. Christ sake, it’s just like printing money.” He crossed the cabin and grabbed a small jade statuette off a shelf. “See this? There are hundreds like this on
e up at the site. I can sell each one for over $5,000 a pop. The stone carvings can be easily sold for over fifty grand. I’ve been up there a half a dozen times and once even brought back some gold plates. Imagine what they’re worth! We want to clean out this place as fast as possible, before the archaeologists find out.”

  “So you, Valeska and her uncle are all involved?”

  “Yes, in a way. And all this came from a lucky discovery that I made while looking for gold. Valeska’s uncle is financing everything and is quite happy with his share of the profits from anything I take out. He’s the guy with the connections. He thinks there will be a part two: a first-class archaeological site in the middle of nowhere. But giving guided archaeological tours is not really my thing.”

  As the Dog continued explaining the setup, I just kept wondering why he was sharing secrets — and with so much detail. I could see he was attracted prestige, wealth and power. By sharing his secret, he had opened a door. Perhaps he wanted me to be his backup. Why else would he be telling me this? The more that I heard, the farther I wanted to go. All I had to do was to play it cool and when I knew more, start writing the articles for Aventura. If things got a little too hot to handle, I could always jump ship, disappear over the horizon and write the story up somewhere safe. Perhaps, sooner or later, I would find out the exact location of Ciudad Blanca, go there and see it with my own eyes. But one thing for sure, if the Dog got wind of my writing project, my life wouldn’t be worth more than the price of a bullet. I stood up and touched the ribs where the soldier had kicked me. I still felt queasy.

  “So where the hell is this place?”

  “In the heart of La Mosquitia, not far from the Mosquito Coast. It’s some of the roughest country in Honduras. Everything that scratches, bites or stings, crawls or slithers lives there. And the natives, they’re superstitious as hell. They think that the Gods of the Great Winds curse the place. I don’t know what they’re smoking, but whenever I’ve gone up there, it’s been real quiet, no wind at all.