Maggie agreed that she was, hoisted her pack in, then climbed aboard. The driver introduced himself as Guillermo Brenes and asked, “You know where is this place?”
“You’ve never been there?”
“No problem. We find it.”
As they pulled out of town, a rosy light began to permeate the eastern sky, enough to illuminate Maggie’s map: the route to the fabled Savegre, then up into the mountains. She would be navigator. They drove between seemingly endless plantations of African palms, the road unerringly straight but poorly gravelled and scarred with bumps and ruts. Maggie made her first sighting of a king vulture, striking in white and black, which barely raised its harlequin head from its roadkill feast as the taxi lumbered past. Small villages drifted by, neatly laid out: company towns, said Brenes, whom she was trying to keep alert with questions.
But at one point, after a lull in conversation, he almost swerved off the road, and Maggie had to grab the steering wheel and shake him awake.
He apologized. “You got five kids at home you no sleep too good.”
To keep Brenes awake, she prodded him into talking about his home life. It was a litany of grief: he was supporting not only his five children with his current partner, but four from a failed marriage and two from other relationships. He hammered nails all day and drove cab all night to make ends meet. She supposed he was trying to fatten the tip.
Maggie feared that the four days ahead promised to be more nerve-racking than entertaining unless she quickly confessed her deceit. But what could she say to Senator Walker, who wanted his picture in the Geographic? “I told Mr. Jericho I would try to sell an article. Between you and me, I think he was on drugs.” No, she would be honest; they would not have the heart to send her back.
They came to a long, narrow concrete bridge spanning a river. This was the Savegre: swollen from the rains and rushing turbulently to the sea, a much smaller river than the wide meandering South Saskatchewan. How far into the mountains would Spanish missionaries have built their settlement? The padres would have wished to distance themselves from marauding pirates. The Treasure of Rio Savegre would be her title, it had more punch than The Torrid Zone.
Where a smaller road turned off beside the river, Maggie saw an Eco-Rico sign. “Why they have hotel up here? “Brenes said. “No beach. Is crazy.” They ascended past plantations of papayas and bananas and spindly yucca to an almost deserted village with the apt name of Silencio. The narrow, humped road seemed to disappear at the eastern bank of the river, but it was wide and shallow here, and Brenes gunned his car across, sending spumes of waves. Then they toiled up into the hills high above the churning river, the road now just two dirt tracks.
For the next hour, Maggie frequently held her breath as their route took them up a red-clay track that clung to the side of a mountain, the views both dazzling and terrifying. At one point she could see directly down the rubble of an old landslide above the Savegre River. She cast a look at Brenes to ensure her exhausted driver was still fully awake. “Temblor,” he said. “Earthquake.”
The country grew wilder – there were no farms up here, or even signs of habitation, just forest, an undulating canopy below them, trees and lianas flowering yellow and violet, the valley a vast bouquet. Maggie felt disoriented; she was used to flat lines, uninterrupted horizons, a monochrome palette.
The track grew steadily worse and finally became just a foot path where a fence of living tree posts and barbed wire met a gate bearing another Eco-Rico sign. Standing by this outpost of civilization, incongruously, were two men in crisply pressed shorts, a third man who was older and unshaven, and a young woman, about twenty-five.
After Maggie retrieved her backpack, the woman shook her hand. “Hi, we’ve been waiting for you; these folks want the cab. You’re the writer, aren’t you? My name’s Celeste Nieuwendoork; my husband’s the manager.” She was nearly a foot shorter than Maggie, pretty in a cherubic way, with a nervous smile.
The three men tossed their bags into the trunk and climbed in the taxi; the older one was carrying a laptop. “You won’t find a story here,” he told Maggie. “Wake me up when it’s all over.”
“It’s the driver you want to keep awake,” Maggie said. A yawning Guillermo Brenes had to reverse a few times to make his U-turn, but was soon on his way.
The man with the computer was a reporter for the Miami Herald, Celeste explained; the other two were Secret Service agents. “Senator Walker told them, ‘I’m giving you boys an order — go have fun at the beach.’ He’s such a super guy.”
Maggie hoped so; she should simply apologize to Mr. Walker for her chicanery and appeal to his apparent good humour.
Beyond the gate, a few metres up the path, stood a Ford tractor to which was hitched a cart with wooden seats. “It’s not much of a luxury bus, I’m afraid,” Celeste said. She had insisted on carrying Maggie’s pack, but just as she was about to lift it onto the cart, she paled and leaned against its wooden slats; Maggie thought the woman was about to be ill.
“A little morning sickness. I’m okay.”
Maggie steadied her. “Take slow deep breaths. Congratulations.”
“It’s scary when there are no doctors around. This is scary, too.” Celeste gestured helplessly toward the tractor. “Going down wasn’t so bad, but … I can barely drive a car. We’re so busy; I had to be pressed into service.”
“Want me to drive?”
Celeste smiled wanly, apparently assuming Maggie was joking. “If you’re nervous, we could walk. Though it’s a thousand metres up, and you have to be careful. There are snakes.” She made a face. “Jan says there are hardly any and they keep to themselves, but I’ve seen a few.”
“I was driving a tractor when I was ten.” Maggie climbed up, got behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and the engine rumbled loudly into life. “Ran a combine at twelve.” She pulled Celeste up beside her onto the big roomy seat.
“What’s a combine?”
“Where are you from, Celeste?”
A brownstone in Boston, she said. A year ago, as a graduation gift, her generous father arranged an Eco-Rico holiday for Celeste and an Ivy League girlfriend. Celeste found romance with the manager, Jan Nieuwendoork. He proposed; they married.
She was an open woman, an eager talker who seemed impressed by Maggie’s tractor expertise; it was needed — this was a narrow path with many hills and turns. It was not as if she was pulling a disc harrow, but on the inclines, Maggie felt the engine straining.
The Eco-Rico camp, Celeste said, accommodated sixteen guests, but it would be half empty after today. The ambassador and his staff were flying out that morning, and most of the senator’s aides would leave after lunch. Two Secret Service men would remain with Senator Walker and his wife, along with his campaign manager, his media officer, and a reporter for Associated Press.
“We have only seven plus you, so there’s plenty of room. Oh, dear.”
A deluge! — a wall of rain that soaked them to the skin. Just as suddenly, a few minutes later, the tap was turned off and the sun emerged, sucking up mists from the foliage. Maggie was not used to such fast shifts; it seemed a paranormal weather experience.
From the lush, coloured woods came a loud turmoil of insects and birds. At home, even in spring, she might be lucky to hear a meadowlark; here countless voices were raised. The gap between the mountains gradually widened, and when they crested a rise, a valley was spread luxuriantly before her. It was shaped like a pair of butterfly wings; at its indentation, a long spindly waterfall splashed down a wall of almost sheer rock, reformed itself as a small river, and raced toward a far outlet of the valley. A rainbow wove through the mist wreathing a mountain.
Almost out of breath with exhilaration, Maggie stopped the tractor. “That’s so beautiful.”
“You get used to it.”
How could she be so blasé?
They drove downhill toward a cluster of handsome guest cottages set in ornamental gardens: sturdy post and be
am, wide thatch-roofed porches, tall screened windows, and solar panels on every roof. Behind them was a barn-like utility shed from which Maggie could hear the putt-putt of a generator. The buildings were distributed within an oval clearing where workers were chopping at the grass with machetes. Two helicopters were parked there.
“We’ll put you up in what we call the Jungle House. Make sure you close all the doors at night to keep out the … you know, animals. Lunch at twelve – the dining hall’s in the lodge.” Celeste indicated a central building with a high-peaked metal roof supported by thick varnished tree trunks and enclosed by a wide balcony.
Beyond the lodge, where the valley tapered to a bottleneck, Maggie could see a narrow suspension bridge strung between the trees. “That takes you right over the canopy to the other side and a lovely hike up to a hot springs. There are so many trails, but you always need a guide. Jan will be doing a slide show this afternoon.”
As Maggie pulled in by the side of the lodge, she saw several people boarding one of the helicopters – the ambassador and his retinue.
A man of stringy build and stringier hair came quickly toward them, looking none too pleased that a guest had been allowed to operate the heavy machinery. Jan Nieuwendoork shook Maggie’s hand while Celeste gushed an explanation – she had felt ill; Ms. Schneider was raised on a farm in Canada and knew all about tractors.
Nieuwendoork looked relieved, though he seemed preoccupied. “And you have come to write a story about us?” The accent was Dutch, but barely noticeable.
Their exchange was interrupted by the clatter of propellers. They watched as the helicopter lifted off, then Maggie followed her hosts up a winding path through dense foliage to the Jungle House, a narrow wooden structure with a thatch roof. Celeste showed her to the bedroom loft above the living area and left her alone to unpack. While hanging her clothes Maggie was entertained by two small lizards bobbing at each other, their air bags expanded: male territorial display, no doubt. What other creatures were sharing this luxurious hideaway? She was glad of the mosquito net suspended above the bed.
She started when she heard a creak from her front balcony. Outside her screen door, looking in, was a square-jawed black man with intense eyes that were examining her as if collating data. He introduced himself as Ralph Johnson, U.S. Secret Service.
“Well, you’re a little too secretive.”
“We have to check out everyone. Mind if I look through your things?”
“Sure, go ahead.” She was in trouble: an untrustworthy character with no proof she was here to write an article.
But he was not looking for papers. He shuffled through her backpack and flight bag with quick expert hands, examining the camera carefully, as if for hidden incendiary devices.
“No pictures of the copter, please, nor of anyone in the senator’s party without prior arrangement. I’m not going to make an issue of it, but we know you’re not with the Geographic. The TV station you work for says you’re a highly unlikely terrorist, and the senator doesn’t want to raise an embarrassing ruckus over your cancelled reservation.”
It came to her that Senator Walker probably had little choice but to be seen as magnanimous, of presidential timber — there was an AP correspondent at the lodge.
“I’m sorry, but I paid a lot of money to come here. I just got my fanny pack picked for eight hundred dollars more.”
Though he listened with sympathy to her plight, he seemed more interested in the cover art on one of her Nancy Ward romances: a beguiling enchantress not-quite fending off a shirtless man.
“These some of your books, Miss Schneider?”
“Take that one with you if you like. It’s about a photojournalist who aimed her camera at all the wrong men — but one – and the camera couldn’t see the unbearable secret he harboured within.” Her mimicry of the dustjacket blurb brought a smile, but he declined the book. “Please thank Senator Walker. Oh, and tell him his gesture will be mentioned when I sell this story to a travel magazine with a circulation of millions.”
Johnson was studying her with new-found respect. “Actually, ma’am, the senator’s press aide may have some ideas along those lines. Mr. Walker doesn’t seem too happy about the poor coverage this vacation is getting.”
The walkway to the lodge was bordered with hibiscus; bougainvillea was in riotous bloom by the entrance. Barn swallows glided gracefully above the eaves, swooped about the open area. Several inviting hammocks were strung between porch beams, and in one of them, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap was making notes and filling an ashtray with butts. She guessed he was the AP reporter.
The central area of the lodge was open, offering shelves of books, reading chairs, tables for pool and ping-pong, and maps and enlarged nature photographs on the walls. Ralph Johnson was seated by the partially open door of an adjoining room, from which issued a murmur of conversation. Soft squawks were sounding from a CB radio on a shelf.
Johnson pointed her to the dining hall, where, standing by a massive hand-hewed banquet table, a waiter was tending to its lone patron. A red hibiscus was in this woman’s hair, a cigarette in one hand, a half-full glass in the other, a bottle of tonic by it. She beckoned Maggie with a brisk, insistent wave. Maggie recognized her from the glossies: Gloria-May Walker.
“You come right over here, sweetie.” Riot ovah heah. “You are the sly one, you are, Maggie Schneider from Saskatoon.” Obviously, she knew about Maggie’s subterfuge. “I’m Glo Walker from the equally odd-named town of Tuscaloosa.” She clasped Maggie’s hand firmly, and drew her into a chair beside her. “Miguel, don’t just stand there, fetch the lady a damn drink.”
Skinny Miguel looked nervous and confused. She addressed him loudly in pidgin Spanish: “Por favor, una gin and tonic for la señorita.”
“I get.”
Maggie would have preferred a coffee, but Mrs. Walker seemed not the kind of person with whom one argues.
“When I saw you pull in on the tractor, I just knew you were the kind of spunky gal I’d be able to team up with, Maggie. I am head-sore with boredom dealing with all the inflated male egos around here. It’s all dicks and jocks, except for that sweet little college girl – what’s her name, Celeste? – and I am not comfortable with pregnant women. I don’t know why — maybe it’s the unending palaver about the joy of being with child. The whole concept gives me the willies.”
Maggie was not prepared for a personality so forthright, so genially bumptious. She knew that Gloria-May had been raised on an impoverished farm, but it was a farm nonetheless, so she lacked city pretension. She had ambition and intelligence, too: she had earned a college degree after her marriage.
When Miguel brought Maggie’s drink, Gloria-May ordered another for herself. All Maggie could do was sip silently, barely able to breach the torrent of words. “Chester told me everything, about how they were fucking rude to y’all, a famous writer, cancelling your reservation. And how you cleverly outsmarted them.”
“I’m about as famous as a lump of cheese, Mrs. Walker.”
“Glo does fine. And please don’t be modest – that sounds so Canadian, honey. I truly admire what you do, writing romance novels. Serves a fundamental need, the way I look at it. Dick Do-nothing is glued to the couch watching the Rams and Bulls, so you either take a good book to bed or a vibrator.”
“For what it’s worth, Romance Journal said my last one started off too hot and went limp.”
“Been there, honey.”
“Can I ask what you and your husband are doing here? Or is that a state secret?”
“We’re supposed to be celebrating our seventh anniversary. I told Chester, bring in that writer, someone who works with her head, I’m surrounded by brainless political hacks. Thank the Lord, he’s sending most everyone away. Ever since he announced for president it’s been like a football team following us around. No wonder Chester can barely hoist the flag up the pole.”
Maggie was shocked that she could speak so blithely of her husband’s perfor
mance in the conjugal bed. She had always assumed a politician’s spouse would be coyly close-mouthed, but salty-tongued Gloria-May had once been a show dancer in freewheeling, fast-talking Las Vegas. Maggie had trouble envisioning her as the First Lady of the U.S.A.
Gloria-May’s flow of words continued unabated, and Maggie began to enjoy her candour. It was all gals and pals with her, winking and nudging, a continual touching of hands. According to Glo, this sudden budding friendship was predestined: “I know it’s bullshit, but the charts said I’d meet a wonderful new friend this week, and I’ve decided you’re it, so you don’t have a choice.”
“Okay, that’s a good deal; I need someone I can unload a bad night on. You’re going to laugh, and it’s okay.”
Over a lunch of fruit salad and fresh-baked bread, Maggie described her encounter with Pablo Esquivel. Gloria-May at first reacted with sympathy, then, having guessed the end, with a cynical, knowing smile. Warming to her account, Maggie began smiling, too, and played to Glo’s obvious bent for comedy with her imitations of Esquivel. She mimicked a husky male voice: “Friday is too long — too long to wait.”
Glo was inhaling from a cigarette as she started to laugh, and had to cough and wave the smoke away. With this telling, Maggie felt a lifting, a freeing; venting was curative.
“There’s a saying where I come from: When a good girl gets bad luck, good luck finds her. Give me that again, sweetie, when you asked to pay for the drinks.”
“He said, ‘I would not dream of it.’ ”
Glo laughed even more heartily. “ ‘It’s not safe for a woman alone’ – you have to like a guy with a sense of humour. Honey, I’ll tell you what would have most riled me – not getting laid for my eight hundred bucks.”
Maggie laughed — it felt good — but fell silent when a squad of mostly overweight men filed in, flanked by Ralph Johnson and the other Secret Service agent, a burly fellow applying a handkerchief to a runny nose. In the lead, and looking born to the position, was Senator Chester Walker. In his early sixties – older than his spouse by about thirty years – he had a face carved from the granite hills and a camera-ready smile. For one who had trouble hoisting up the flag, he looked virile enough to Maggie.
The Laughing Falcon Page 7
