The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

She turned sharply down a lane that joined a busy boulevard.

  “What happen to the SUV?”

  “I left it at my uncle’s house. Everybody around here knows who it belongs to. This car belongs to a friend.” She hit the brakes to avoid a stray dog. “This will do for now. It’s old but it runs fine.”

  “I wish I did,” I said.

  Valeska drove fast through the crowded city with its shanties, drunks and beggars limping on improvised crutches. In the center of town, armed guards stood in front of almost every store, bank and government building. At the outskirts of town, dusty roads were lined with junk and garbage. She zigzagged in and out of crowded buses full of workers leaving the zona libra sweatshops. Often, she just leaned on the horn and cursed in Spanish. Once she ran a light, nearly sideswiping a Pollo Rey delivery truck.

  “Valeska, maybe you should slack off a little with the speed.”

  Her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Jack, we are being followed.”

  “Followed? By whom?” I turned around. “The gray pickup just behind us?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s Ramón, one of Dog’s henchmen.”

  “Yeah, and he’s not alone. There’s another guy riding with him. Hey, wasn’t Ramón close to your uncle?”

  “Yes, but Ramón would pull out his mother’s heart and give it to you in a bag if you paid him enough. Hang on, Jack. I’m going to lose them.” She swerved around a traffic circle and then stepped on the gas. In a few minutes, we were speeding up a narrow mountain road beyond the ragged suburbs on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa. The trees were sparse. The air was fresher than in the polluted city. Suddenly, Valeska veered onto a dirt road that led us down into a valley. The gray pickup missed the turn. It was the last we saw of it. She sped up as a cloud of dust billowed up, blotting out the setting sun. “We’re going to stay on the back roads for a while.”

  “You really know your way around.”

  “I’ve spent a good part of my life here.”

  We passed through a cluster of tin shacks that were home to squatters. Everything vibrated, including my broken bones. I popped a few more painkillers and just hung on. We emerged at an intersection to join the main highway that would take us to the coast. The sign read, “Puerto Cortés, 180 miles.”

  “Shit, that’s a long way.”

  “Just hang on, we’ll get there before you know it.” She smiled, and the panting old Mercedes wagon took off down the paved highway that led to the northern Caribbean coast of Honduras.

  It was a wild ride all right, mostly downhill. I couldn’t help but admire Valeska. She was a pro at dodging mudslides, farm animals and pedestrians. She seemed blessed with the power to pass anybody anywhere and return to the right side of the road before striking an oncoming vehicle. I tried to convince myself that the odds of having another accident in the same week were next to zero.

  It was late afternoon when our dust-covered car pulled up to the naval base in Puerto Cortés. When the guard saw me, he hesitated for a second, but then he recognized us and opened the gate. It was Sunday, the last day of the year. Most people were preparing for a big fiesta. But my mind wasn’t on the party.

  Familiar sounds filled my ears: a grinder buffing steel, a hammer knocking on new plate. Mario the welder and others had stuck it out and were still working on my boat! I couldn’t believe it. At a quick glance, I could see they must have worked fiendishly to finish the long list of jobs that I’d asked them to do during my absence. The sparks were flying and, amazingly enough, things had gone ahead without me.

  Valeska parked and helped me walk over to the scaffolding where the guys were perched. The harsh work lights that hung overhead shone brightly over the large hull. It was obvious they were on a roll and rigged up to finish late. On seeing my sorry state, they dropped what they were doing to stare at me. My pants were bloodstained. They clambered down the scaffolding and gathered around and listened intently as I told them what happened. For a moment, I thought that Mario would break into tears. He said, “I told you so.”

  Ben the philosopher climbed down the ladder from his boat and shook his head.

  “Jacques Legris, it looks like you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Ben, this is Valeska. It’s a long story, but she’s going to be staying at my place for a while. I have to go back to Canada and get patched up.”

  I gave Mario instructions to close up shop and cover the boat after he had finished the welding.

  “Mario make sure Numada is brillando como nuevo (shining like new) when you come back here,” he said with a wide grin. I was sure that he meant it too. Ever since he had started working on the boat, he had kept his word.

  Ben drove us up to my shack on the hill. We would be safe there for a while. The front door key was still in its place under the rubber doormat. Inside, I turned on a few lights and looked around. The dark green walls seemed even more oppressive than ever. My things were untouched. I’d been away only a week. A shirt hung on the back of a chair, a pair of sandals were placed on the floor in a corner, a half-read book lay open, and there was a bag of dirty clothes in the bedroom. However messy, it was home, my secret shelter, and now a place for Valeska and me to hide. Only Ben and Mario knew where I lived, and now they were the only men I could trust in Honduras.

  I was running low on painkillers and antibiotics, so Ben and Valeska hurried into town to find a pharmacist before everything closed for the New Year. I stretched out on the ragged sofa. It was going to be a long time before I would be okay. My head pounded and my shattered arm throbbed. I popped the last of my painkillers, closed my eyes and tried to relax.

  Since leaving Tegucigalpa, my arm was slowly turning blue. For the first time, I began to worry about saving it. Even with the pills, the pain was constant. As I drifted off into a troubled half-sleep, village sounds seeped in through cracks in the walls: the dog barking next door, a pig grunting, a radio, but everything seemed dislocated and unfamiliar.

  “Jack, wake up.”

  I could feel a hand on my shoulder, but for a moment I couldn’t figure out who the owner’s voice was. Valeska’s face came into focus.

  “Here, you must take these. They are antibiotics. Ben says that if infection sets in, you could lose it.”

  “Nice thought,” I said, and swallowed the pills and the entire glass of water she gave me.

  “Jack, I’m worried about you. All this is my fault.”

  “No, Valeska, it was my choice to get myself involved. This is just a rough time. It will pass.”

  “I’m not too sure. Dog wants to finish us.”

  “Forget about Barker for the moment. He’s gone, probably already somewhere on the Mosquito Coast.”

  She looked at me and didn’t say anything. I could see that she had her own plans.

  Later that evening, I felt like I’d had too many painkillers. It was New Year’s Eve, and the noise outside made it impossible to sleep. Valeska helped me stand up and washed me with cold water and soap. Then she dried me off, wrapped me in a towel and helped me outside so we could sit on the balcony where there was a slight breeze. In the hillside neighborhood, everyone was setting off fireworks. The air was already laced with thick smoke that drifted through the trees and down the road. People on the other side of the street danced to a distorted confusion of salsa tunes. It was hours before midnight, but everywhere it seemed obvious that liquor was flowing.

  After a while, I returned back inside and lay in bed. Valeska sponged water over my body in an effort to cool me down. Cherry bombs exploded more frequently and closer to the house, until rays of ultra-sharp, multicolored light flashed through the cracks in the wooden planks. An eerie blue haze began to fill the room. It smelled like gunpowder. When the final countdown came, there was a concert of exploding bombs, gunshots and honking horns mixed with the long deep blasts from the dozen cargo ships at anchor in the Bay of Cortés. The New Year had finally arrived and with that, a kind of truce.

  As the sound of t
he explosions faded away, I must have finally dozed off only to awake a few hours later. Soft moonlight seeped through the open window as I watched the sleeping woman who had suddenly become the focal point in my life. Despite the scratches on her face, she seemed peaceful and relaxed, her body half-covered by a tangled sheet. In the semi-darkness, the movement of the curtains projected shadows on the wall. I hadn’t felt that peaceful for a long time. I got up and quietly limped out onto the porch, where I could feel the beauty of that first tropical New Year’s morning, and took it all in because in a few hours, I would be on a plane to Canada, far away from this chaotic and dangerous life. I heard Valeska call my name, so I went back inside and lay down beside her. She was still asleep, probably dreaming.

  Valeska drove me to the airport in San Pedro in silence. It was only after I bought my ticket home at the American Airlines counter that we found words.

  “I wish that you were coming with me,” I said as we held each other tight.

  “So do I,” she answered. “Call me when you get home and let me know when you are safe, okay? Promise?”

  “For sure. But what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go back to Tegucigalpa, stay with friends. It’s safer than Cortés. Just don’t worry about me, Jack Legris.”

  There was no choice and we both knew it. Before I went through security, we kissed for the last time. She pressed her hand to my chest, pivoted and disappeared into the crowd.

  Once on the plane, I felt like I had just been released from prison. What would I do if I ever ran into the Dog again? Despite all the trauma and grief I had just been through, I couldn’t shake the idea of writing about the mysterious Ciudad Blanca and about Barker’s gang. It would be my own kind of vengeance. And my boat? I knew deep down that Mario the welder would finish the job. Then there was Valeska De Sela, she was constantly in my thoughts. Would I ever see her again? Only time would tell.

  PART TWO

  In Québec City, I was given a private hospital room. The doctor thought that there was a risk I might contaminate the place with a contagious disease from Honduras. It was a stroke of luck. Compared to what I’d experienced in the hole that I’d been thrown into in Tegucigalpa, the sweet-smelling, well-lit room was a palace. During the day, I lay in my bed just watching snowflakes fall outside the window and thankful for the continuous IV drip of morphine— which helped me forget my boat, Honduras, the Dog, Igor Zarkin and even Ciudad Blanca. But I couldn’t forget Valeska. It would take more than those drips of pain reliever to make me forget what we had been through.

  Surgery began a few days after my arrival. It was the first of many operations. Then for days I just slept. When I began to feel a little stronger, I called my friend the Chief. “Where the hell are you, my friend?” was all I could say when he answered.

  “Québec, amigo. I’m on a ship dockside. I’ve just finished putting in a new piston on the main engine. I’m working like a horse, but they’re paying me like a pony. And where in Christ’s name are you?”

  “Le Hôpital de l'Enfant-Jésus, Québec City.”

  “Some kind of a joke?”

  “No, Chief, for once it isn’t. That’s the real name of this place.”

  “But what happened?”

  “I got smashed up in a car accident down in Honduras. My arm’s broken in four places, a few cracked ribs, you know, the usual.”

  “What room?”

  “304.”

  “Don’t move, I’m on my way.”

  “Chief, not so fast. Bring me some warm clothes. I only have my tropical rags with me.”

  “Got it.”

  Very shortly, my loyal friend was standing beside my bed with a bag of warm clothing in one hand and winter boots in the other. “If it weren’t for bad luck,” he said, as he looked at the plaster cast that went from my hand right up to my shoulder.

  “Yeah, if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. You’re right about that, Chief.”

  “What happened?”

  “Do you have time?”

  “I can spare an hour.”

  “After you left, life … escalated.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was waiting for some help with Numada. I got mixed up with some of the people in the boatyard.”

  “You got involved.”

  “Yeah, I met a woman.”

  “Trouble, I warned you.”

  “It wasn’t all her fault.”

  “It was yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s starting to sound like vintage Jacques Legris. And?”

  “Her uncle was a wealthy man and respected in certain circles.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He was behind an archaeological project.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s a major, newly discovered site out in La Mosquitia. Ruins, artifacts— He wanted me to join the organization and skipper that big motor sailor that was parked in front of Numada. Remember?”

  “Yeah, that big green thing. You got mixed up with that guy?”

  “Uh-huh, yeah. That guy, his boss and a woman. I accepted an offer that I couldn’t refuse. I needed the money. But I got caught in the crossfire.”

  “And the woman?”

  “She ran the show for the business partner — her uncle. He stayed in Tegucigalpa. He was the money. We three met for dinner because he wanted to size me up, and he wanted me to know what my job was. On the way back from the meeting, the three of us took a taxi. The woman and I were taking him back to his hotel in Roatán when some goons pulled alongside us and started shooting. The driver was killed. The uncle took three bullets in the chest. The car rolled over, that’s when I got hurt. The uncle died a few days later.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “She was lucky, only a few scratches.”

  “And I bet that she wants vengeance.”

  “Big time.”

  “It sounds like a movie script. So what’s your problem?”

  “The problem is the girl. I want to see her again.”

  “Shit, after all that? You gotta be kidding.”

  “Nope, it’s the truth. All the way.”

  “Does she know that you are in the hospital?”

  “No, I’ve tried to call her a few times but no answer. I’m kind of worried that she may be in serious trouble.”

  I filled him in on the details.

  “Incredible. And now what?”

  “I’ve got to go back to Honduras, find the girl and finish repairs to my boat. And Chief, there’s something else.”

  “Naturally.”

  I told him about Ciudad Blanca and my desire to find it.

  He locked eyes with me for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Legris, you haven’t changed. You just like trouble.”

  “It’s personal, Chief.”

  “Trouble usually is. When will you be in shape to go back down to Cortés?”

  My mind raced. “It’s anyone’s guess right now.”

  “Well, just let me know ‘cause I’ll go back with you and put some order into that boat of yours. After that, you’ll be on your own. Again.”

  “Thanks, Chief, it’s a deal.”

  He handed me a card. “This is the ship’s satellite phone number. Call me any time you want. I’ve got to get back to the ship. We’re leaving tonight.”

  And with that he was gone, Chief-style.

  The hospital discharged me a few days later. Once again, I found myself standing on a sidewalk in front of a hospital, this time with my arm in a clean white cast, a few chipped teeth, and my spirits rock bottom. I grabbed a taxi and told the driver to take me to Carré d’Youville. I had an apartment near there.

  It was early evening, a light snow was falling, and the air was freezing. A few skaters swirled around on the rink in front of Palais Montcalm. I couldn’t help but think to myself, why look for a lost white city, I was in one already. It had been a long time since I’d experienced winter, and the chill went straight to my
bones.

  Inside the massive stone of Saint John’s Gate, workers were putting up decorations for the winter carnival. I felt alive again. The nightlife on Rue Saint-Jean was a welcome change from hospitals. It was Friday night, so the sidewalks were teeming. There was a line outside Pub Chez Alexandre. I could hear a jazz band playing “Summer Time.” I turned off Rue Saint-Jean and walked along the narrow Rue Couillard to the heart of the Latin Quarter. The aroma of fine cooking permeated the air as I passed a busy restaurant. My steps made a crunching sound in the snow. In front of a bar called L’ostradamus, a few students huddled, smoking joints. They looked more half frozen than high. I slipped into the small épicerie (convenience store) beside the Temporal Café and bought a baguette and some coffee. On Rue Hamel, I stopped in front of a building with a Scottish brick façade. It was part of a row of similar structures that had been built mid–nineteenth century. I looked up at the triangular window that filled the gable of my small fourth-floor walk-up.

  Unlocking the door, I slowly climbed the four flights that led up to my hideaway. At the top of the stairs, I punched the numbers for my electric lock on a panel at my front door — the year of my birth. The Chief would not have approved of a code so easily deduced. But I had never made a habit of following his advice, or anybody else’s. The door buzzed. I opened it and stepped inside. My simple furnishings were exactly the way I’d left them. There was only a plain table and four chairs, a double bed and a sofa. On the walls hung black and white photographs of friends and of film shoots in faraway places. On one wall, Spencer Tracy’s face looked down at me with intense dark eyes from a hand-painted film poster. “The Old Man and the Sea” was written in bold yellow script over a small boat. Had I become that man? I smiled. The kitchen, off to the side, was sparse but efficient. I put my bag of food on the counter and paused.

  “It’s the Jacques Legris museum,” I said to myself. It all seemed foreign, something from another life. After turning up the thermostat, I went into the bedroom, lay down, closed my eyes and listened to the silence of a winter’s night.