by Shelby Hiatt
An unimpressive gasoline motor pushes us across the unbroken expanse of rising Gatun Lake, moving us through the top of the submerged forest, an otherworldly scene. No matter how I feel, I will not waste my last days in Panama. I will see this unnatural event—make myself see it. Something grim and hard is forming in me. Reality, maybe?
The top of the jungle under us—the tips of trees—rises out of the lake. Royal palms stand up to their necks in water; corpulent century-old giants of the jungle on tiptoe with their jagged noses just above the surface, gasping their last.
Mango trees laden with fruit are descending into the flood. The lake is so mirrorlike that we can see the drowning palms and blue sky as plainly above the surface as on it.
A protruding stump of palm looks like a piece double its length, a water thermometer.
An angle of wood floats at exactly the same angle in perfect distortion.
We cruise through this strange waterscape in silence.
"What's the matter?" Harry asks me. He's pretty somber himself, but I'm unusually quiet.
"I'm sad to be leaving," I say, blurting out to Harry what I can't say to Federico because I'm afraid of upsetting some invisible balance between us.
"You're leaving? I thought there was another year's work after it opens."
"The Commission wants us to stay, but Mother wants to get back and I'm going to college."
"Ah," he says.
I look at him hard. Something's different with him. He's disturbed and quiet.
We putt across the glassy lake a few minutes longer, then he says, "You've been like family to me, you know."
There's a deep feeling in his voice I've never heard before, but I can tell it's not about me or my family.
"We won't go for a few more weeks ... end of summer, for certain. Father may stay on a little while."
He nods and looks out over the glassy surface.
"You'll come see us," I say.
"I won't be in the neighborhood, I don't think..." He means Dayton. His plans are worldwide, a bitter joke.
He'll be off in some other country on a new adventure, but he has an uncharacteristic, angry look on his face and I know my gloomy mood hasn't brought that on. I'm about to ask what's bothering him when a snow-white slender heron rises from the water as we bear down on him, and then we're suddenly surrounded by acres of big codlike fish floating dead on the surface among branches and forest rubbish.
"Rising water has spread some poisonous mineral from the soil. It's killing everything," Harry says.
We pass a jungle family on their way to market in their cayucas laden with mounds of produce—mangoes, bananas, plantains—and a duck and a chicken tied by a leg standing on top. They gaze complacently at the scene with the air of experienced tourists. I envy them. I want their cocky oblivion.
Ninety-Nine
We putt toward a mound of land still above water and a solitary old native sitting on a knoll near his thatched shelter.
"He took to the bush when he heard the lake was rising," Harry says. "He refuses to leave."
"Does he have to?"
"He's on U.S. public domain."
I snort with contempt—the absurdity of public domain to a man rooted for centuries in this land. Harry shoots me a warning glance—the old man might not know I'm on his side. But the old man's face is passive.
We pull the launch onto the grass and walk toward him, Harry speaking in some skilled mix of Spanish and Indian dialect. They understand each other. Once more Harry amazes me.
The old fellow barely nods, holding a bundle in his arms. Harry knows he has to move quickly—there are others he has to save—but he takes a minute anyway. He looks around, finds a stick, and pounds a mango tree till it drops most of its fruit, and he does the same with red maranones and fills a basket lying abandoned by the shelter. Harry puts the basket in the launch for the old man, then helps him in. The man sits, not once putting his eyes on me. He watches mournfully as Harry touches a match to the thatched roof of his home, comes back to the launch, and shoves us off.
In minutes the roof is pouring a column of smoke straight up into the air. Even the old man's table and chair and barrel of odds and ends outside the hut catch fire. We move away and start across the lake, losing sight of the knoll, but the blazing four poles that supported the roof can be seen against the sky.
Whole villages have been burned in the lake territory, owners paid condemnation damages by the yanquis in plenty of time to leave, but some don't, like this old fellow, who shows no emotion at his loss.
We're soon caught in the top branches of a tree.
Harry and I work up a sweat poling the boat free, pushing against submerged limbs, twisting, grunting. The old man hardly raises his eyes to watch our struggle. Finally free, Harry pulls the gas motor into action and we deliver the old man with his bundle and basket of fruit to safe ground. Several people there are passing on their way to market and he joins them. A small boy quickly takes charge of the basket, seeing a little profit for himself if he puts in an effort.
We move out again and little thatched cottages begin to appear on knolls along the way, the inhabitants waiting to be boated to safety. This is higher land, so the lower branches of the trees stand out of the water, though a death sentence is on them, too.
"In the deepest parts, there's a forest larger than ten Fontaine-bleaus already submerged," Harry says. "Lake's rising two inches a day and the colonel guarantees an eighty-seven-foot level. A hundred and sixty-five square miles of lush green will disappear forever. In the future—way in the future—men'll dive down and take a look at the sunken cities. They're older than Pizarro, you know, so they'll really be ancient by then. They'll want to see what it was like. Antiquity."
One Hundred
We motor several families to higher land, some with possessions, some empty-handed—our contribution to the complete removal of their lives by encroaching empire and world trade. Harry does his work—firm and helpful, but he doesn't like it. One by one we take the indigenous inhabitants to safety, stopping only a few minutes to drift and eat sandwiches, then we're on our way again. The transporting continues until it's late and time to start back.
"It'll get dark fast," Harry says and turns the launch.
Within minutes two raging showers pass over us, moving discs of pelting rain like the shadow of the sun in an eclipse.
We encounter several flocks of little birds in the tops of trees, sitting at rest, watching the late afternoon.
"They're not far from land—what's the matter with them?" Harry says. He pulls out an army rifle that could kill an elephant and blasts into the sky. Echoes roll across the silent, flooded world and the birds scatter and fly landward. The echoes fade.
We motor on and Harry is sullen, pondering. I'm consumed with my own problems. Finally he speaks.
"A bunch of foreigners show up, say they're turning your world into a lake, going to float steamers over you. You've never heard of steamers, don't need them, but sure enough one day we come snorting down on you in a motorboat as you're lying under the thatch roof your grandfather built. We tell you to get out of here, we're going to burn your house, going to make a lake, right over these banana trees you played under and that ciega tree your mother got married under and this jungle path you've been courting your girl on—it's all going to disappear, come on. We give them a bag of metal disks and they want to know what they are. That's money, brother, coinage, lucre, good anywhere in the world ... Better get used to it." Harry steers straight toward the dam, his voice even and angry.
"Always picked what you ate from trees and used the same tree to build shelter? Never mind. Take these coins, buy a farm that's bigger, better, above the water line. From there you can watch the only world you've ever known sink under a rising lake." He turns to me. "How do you buy a farm and exchange pieces of metal for food when you've always knocked food out of a mango tree, the one behind your grandfather's house? How do you do that?" He turns back to the l
ake slipping by us.
I have no answer and he doesn't expect one.
He motors on, frowning and silent, toward the bulk of Gatun locks rising on the horizon. In a few minutes we dock the launch and I stay close to him; he knows where we're going.
We hurry across the locks and dam to the marshland beyond the spillway, where he makes inquiries about an attempt to burn the I.C.C. launch attached to dredge number something-or-other—police business. It's beginning to get dark. I want to go home.
One Hundred and One
We stand waiting for our train at the station and I'm shaking, though it's sultry hot. Harry notices.
"Do you have a chill?"
"No, no. Just ... the flooding and what it's doing to the people bothers me. The way it does you."
"Mmm," he says. But there's something more upsetting him than displaced Indians.
"What's wrong, Harry? You look terrible."
No answer, then finally: "I feel terrible," he says. "Mrs. McManus..."
Mrs. McManus. I've forgotten her. I've been so obsessed with my own love life—can I call it that? Harry has one, too, and I never thought to ask about it.
"Will Ruby be staying with you?"
He looks at me, shocked; I've called her by her first name. It feels natural, and giving her a title seems silly. I'm in his grownup world now, whether he knows it or not. "Is she a wanderer, too?" I say.
"'Fraid not."
"Ah. That's the problem?"
"Not anymore. She's going home next week. Back to Nebraska."
He's been stabbed. I know all about that, and that is the weary anger in his eyes. He's been chewing on it all day, and the plight of native Panamanians has made it worse.
"Her father offered to set me up in the family business, take me in, make me a partner," he says.
"What does he do?"
"Winter wheat. They're filthy rich, I gather. God only knows what she's written to them about me—probably sent pictures, I don't know what else. She may have built me up way too much."
"She wouldn't need to do that about you, Harry. It sounds like a great offer."
"Not if you're a wanderer." He's torn, I can see it. "It's death to settle down. For me it is. Freedom or death, that's my choice."
"She won't travel with you?"
He shakes his head, looks off. "You can't blame her. She wants a family, some kind of security. She wants to have a home, kids. She's already lost a husband..." A crack in his voice.
"So it's ended? You've split up?"
"Yep. Said our goodbyes. All over." He straightens, strong and manly again.
We stand there, the train not pulling in yet, a few aimless people milling around. He goes on, can't let it go now that I've opened the wound.
"I avoid any place I think she might be. She does the same for me ... Trying to keep it painless. Only way I know to do it." He takes a deep breath, looks down the track, checks his watch.
What a pair we are—lovelorn grievers. We think we're above all the misery, footloose and fancy-free, but we take the tumble plenty hard. I'll never scoff at heartbreak again.
"Why not keep seeing her until she leaves?" I say. "It's the last time you'll have together."
Harry shoots me a hard look and shakes his head, doesn't want to talk about it.
I go quiet. But I wonder if they argued about that. About cutting it off clean before she leaves. Did Harry want to carry on to the end? He must have, to the last final night. Which of them didn't want that, I wonder. Harry or her?
"I'm sorry," I say.
"It's all right." His voice is gravelly.
But he won't be holding her in his arms again. She's gone. And will he find what he had with her in the next country he tramps off to? Will he find the sexual camaraderie? I know what that is and how addicting. She has the look in her eye, the quiet, crooked smile. They had it, all right, and now it's gone for good. "Maybe you'll change your mind and—"
"Don't start again," he says, and that really does end it.
He breathes deep, lifts his chin, and looks around. "Where's that train? You can set your watch by this railroad—" and the engine comes into view.
I check my watch. Exactly on time.
One Hundred and Two
Diary, two weeks later: The last of the spillway gates is closed at Gatun Dam. The lake has reached a depth of forty-eight feet and is rising to its full height.
A few days after that Federico approaches me near the Tivoli.
He's wearing the white suit and cuts a swath through the crowd like a visiting dignitary—men look, women stare. He is so absorbed in his thoughts, he doesn't notice.
"I've earned a day off," he says. It's a weekday.
I've graduated. I'm out of school.
We sit on the bench where we first met. (This registers with me—I wonder if it does with him.)
"I suppose you'll be leaving soon," he says.
So it begins. Officially. The gentle cutting free.
He's going to tie it up for us, end it with minimal hurt feelings. He's even dressed for the occasion.
I ready myself, can't believe this is happening—him making it official.
"Yes," I say. "In a few weeks. After the opening." My voice doesn't crack. I'm no little girl anymore.
But I want to grab him by the perfect white shirt and shake him. I want to disturb that calm I've envied for so long and make him talk, really talk to me, about himself and the mess in Spain and how it affects him, what it does to him all day and night and how it twists his gut and heart and every feeling part of him, and how I make it easier, even a little easier, just being there. I don't want his theories or his history or to see brief slices of his life and pain. I want all of him. But I stay calm. And I keep my voice even, the way he likes. I am his good girl, his American tomboy with whom he's had so much pleasure and so little trouble. I won't change that—I don't have that much courage.
So we talk. And it's proper and quiet:
"Yes, I look forward to college."
"You'll do well."
"I suppose so."
"I'm sure of it—you're very bright."
"How about you? Will you continue working?"
"For a while, another few months."
"More pick and shovel?"
"Yes. In different places..."
No sexual camaraderie, just the pleasant conversation of recently introduced tourists. In a matter of minutes he's changed us from lovers to friends and I'm shaken, even though I saw it coming.
I wonder if it shows, if I'm pale.
He's skilled at this sort of thing, controlling a crowd; he can certainly control me. No wonder he's the leader of the rebels. He can stir emotions and bring them to a fevered pitch or neutralize them, whichever he wants. He's just neutralized me. There's not another word about matters in Spain or ideals, nothing the least bit intimate, nothing about books—can't go there. A few innocuous words about school: Will I miss my friends? When was graduation? Standard fare. Pleasantries.
Let me slap the politeness off that face, please. I am so angry and hurt. We're in an emotionally charged cocoon and he's cutting with a sharp knife, skillfully, trying to keep it painless—the bastard. Be rotten to me, Federico—make it easier.
"Come," he says. "We have to see this." And he walks me to the edge of the Cut, no hand holding, no touching. (That's over, too?) "Look."
My brain is fogged, my throat gripped and squeezed tight. I stand there blank and do as he says. I watch.
One Hundred and Three
Photographers carry their gear into the work area. Journalists follow. This is big news for the hometown papers. But I'm a zombie now.
A steam shovel lifts out the last load of rock, dumps it onto locomotive No. 260, and it's hauled away to applause. Work crews move in. They begin tearing up the last of the track, the steam shovel pulling at the rails like they're obstinate bailing wire. The job is done in less than half an hour.
Cameras click on either side of us. Fath
er is down there somewhere, but I can't bring myself to search for him. Photographers move back and forth angling for the best shots; journalists urge comments from workers to spice the articles they'll wire back that evening. Their shirts streaked with sweat, mud caked to their shoes and pant legs—once in a lifetime, all of this. To me it looks like it's happening on a movie screen.
The clearing ends and the journalists and photographers climb out. The crowd begins to break up and a thick, uneasy silence falls between Federico and me.
"That will be in papers tomorrow," I say, my voice surprisingly solid.
"Big headlines in the States?"
"I'm sure it will be."
Here's where I begin thinking it through: I started it, didn't I? Conniving, plotting, scheming, out at night, running all over the place to get to him. I did it. He came along only for the ride—he's innocent. And now it's over and he's ending it like a gentleman. I should be grateful for that. The logic begins to overcome the lunacy and I see his lips moving.
"Let's walk awhile," he says.
We do.
I make no effort to be chatty. I want to hate him but I can't, not unless I stay completely insane and I don't. My mind clears and I begin to feel suffocated.
Children scoot by us, mostly American, and tourists bump and jostle. A band plays off somewhere.
Straight ahead of me, approaching through the crowd, is Mother.
One Hundred and Four
She walks toward us and will have to pass close, though she hasn't seen us yet. Then she does. She smiles broadly.
"Did I miss it?" she says. Her eyes are on Federico.
"I'm afraid so. Everything's cleared out," I say. "Federico, my mother." I don't know whether to introduce her using her first name or as Mrs. Hailey, and I fumble. Finally Mother saves me when she summons the most social grace I've ever seen from her:
"Louisa," she says and shakes Federico's hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you. I remember when you came to our house and all of you sang."
