“I was looking forward to it,” Lydia admitted.
“I tell you what,” Ralph said. “Why don't you go down with Chet? I could meet you at Lake Maracaibo in a couple of days. The sunburn ought to be all right then.”
Lydia made eyebrow question marks at me and said, “Maybe Chet will be too busy.”
“No,” I told her. “No, I don't think so. I'll pinch-hit for Ralph if you want, Lydia.”
“Then it's all arranged,” she said, and smiled.
In a little while, Ralph excused himself and marched his sunburned back stiffly in the direction of the elevators. The Tamanaco's small band struck up a passable mambo. We sat the first one out and sipped brandy through the second one, but the rhythm of the third one got to us. Lydia danced just like her sister. The mambo, I discovered, is not the sort of dance to do with the identical twin of your ex-wife, not after you found out so unexpectedly that you were still carrying a torch for her and there was nothing you could do about it because she was dead.
“That was nice,” Lydia said as she led me back to our table. She was slightly breathless and more than slightly breathtaking.
I gulped what was left of my brandy and said, “If we're getting an early start tomorrow, we better hit the sack.”
“Early is right. Sunrise. Paco's pilot says the flying time is three hours.”
“It's a private plane?”
“Yes.”
“Paco must have mucho dinero.”
“Si,” said Lydia, and gave me another one of her smiles.
I signed my name and room number on the waiter's check. The elevator took us to the fourth floor, where our legs took us to the Homersons' room. Lydia gave me her key and I inserted it in the lock. She touched her hand to my shoulder with gentle pressure and I turned toward her. When my face was in the right position she kissed my lips—also with gentle pressure.
“That's for the dance,” she whispered. “I enjoyed it.”
Ralph was probably stretched out on the bed inside, waiting for a vinegar rubdown to take the sting from his sunburn. “Good night,” I said and turned around quickly and went down the hall.
“I'll see you in the lobby at sunrise,” Lydia called after me softly.
I was a long time getting to sleep and I dreamed about a girl who could have been Deirdre or could have been Lydia.
Chapter Eight
WE TOOK OFF IN Francisco del Key's DC-3 from a private landing strip on the outskirts of Caracas when the sun was still big and red in the eastern sky. We flew southeast across a lot of green jungle and across the Orinoco River and landed in Ciudad Bolivar in plenty of time for an early breakfast and a fresh supply of gasoline.
It was already oppressively hot in Ciudad Bolivar's landing field. Del Rey's pilot, a big handsome taciturn halfbreed who didn't seem to have any English, supervised the refueling while Lydia and I stretched our legs. The pilot's name was Jaime, which is Spanish for James. He the high cheekbones and almost terra-cotta coloring of the Indian and the aloof knowing black eyes of the Spaniard. Lydia said he gave her the willies.
Lydia. She wore white linen Bermuda shorts and high ribbed white socks almost to her knees, and a loose-fitting white blouse. She had toted along a pith helmet in case she needed it. She looked fresh and cool and would probably look just like that in the marshes around Lake Maracaibo, where we would meet her husband tomorrow.
We were airborne when the time still lacked something of nine o'clock. Less than half an hour later we buzzed over Cerro Bolivar, a steep ridge thrusting up out of the surrounding jungle with half a billion tons of iron ore waiting to be smelted. And moments later, Jaime pointed dramatically and spoke for the first time since we had left Caracas; “Auyan-Tepui,” he said.
It was black and flat-topped, awesome and brooding. We were up over seven thousand feet and all at once we were skimming along with our wings practically scraping the stone pinnacles, the scrubby mountain growths, the dark rugged fissures.
“Will you look at that,” Lydia said. She leaned against me and we both looked, and there was Angel. It plunged down a steep gorge—that plunge has been measured as more than half a mile—to a ledge of rock. It caught second wind there, flung a lot of spray in all directions, and plunged for another few hundred feet. You would have to travel to some other planet to find a higher waterfall.
Jaime smiled after he had shown us southeastern Venezuela's claim to fame. It was something he took very personally, a habit which all the Venezuelans seemed to have. Maybe, I thought, they had learned it as a defensive measure against the Texas oilmen invading Maracaibo.
Ten minutes later, we landed at Francisco del Key's camp. Jaime opened the door to let in some Indians who took our baggage outside and went striding; off with it in the direction of a cluster of thatched huts. Del Rey came up toward us from a narrow beach of pink sand, a broad river beyond it, and the encroaching jungle. He was wearing bathing trunks, and the hair on his chest was gray against the tan leathery skin. He shook Lydia's hand and shook mine and said, “Mr. Drum. This is a surprise “
“Isn't it,” I said.
“Your falls are spectacular,” Lydia told him. “I've never seen anything like them.”
“There isn't anything like them,” he assured her. “Some day this spot will be a Mecca for tourists. That's why I'm holding on to these two thousand acres.” He looked at me for confirmation.
“You see,” I said, “I took you up on your suggestion. Here I am in Venezuela.”
“Yes. I seem to remember something like that.”
“How could you forget?” I said. “Under the circumstances.”
“If you change into your bathing suits,” he suggested, “we could have breakfast on the beach.”
I said, “We had breakfast in Ciudad Bolivar. Besides, I didn't bring a bathing suit.”
“That's too bad. Then you, Senora Homerson?”
“No. I don't think so. If Chet can't go swimming, I won't either.”
“Well, if I don't have some breakfast, I'm afraid I will be a grumpy host.”
We joined him on the beach. We sat in the slight shade offered by a clump of moriche palms, nibbling on sweet rolls and thick, syrupy hot chocolate. Jaime came over and said something in Spanish, which probably meant overnight quarters were ready for us. Del Rey asked about Ralph Homerson and made a joke about his sunburn.
We went walking in Del Rey's two thousand acres, much of which fronted on the river. Del Rey had changed to whipcord trousers and shirt and a pith helmet. I was wearing loafers and my gray flannel slacks and my green shirt. It made me feel as if I was taking a tour through a Hollywood jungle.
Brilliantly plumed birds screeched at us. Jaime, who came along for the walk, screeched back and offered us all a lopsided grin. He was in his element now. He looked like an enormously overgrown boy. Looking at Lydia, I could tell he still gave her the willies.
By lunchtime we had returned to the cluster of thatched huts. Some of Del Rey's other guests had now made their appearance on the pink sand of the beach. They were swimming and some of them, lolling on the beach, were munching on little pink perros calientes, which is hot dogs in any language. Everybody said we should try the water. Del Rey said he would give me the use of his bathing trunks, but Lydia begged off.
We did some more walking in the afternoon, but soon the sun got too hot. We mutually agreed that a siesta was in order, and by mid-afternoon the whole camp was snoozing away. . . .
I awoke sticky with sweat. I went outside my thatched hut, with the unexpected foam-rubber mattress on the aluminum cot, and walked down to the river. I was all alone, and except for the distant screeching of birds, it was very quiet. I took off my shirt and washed in the clear, cool, swift-flowing water. I stretched out on the sand and took a drink, Indian style. The water was sweet and cold. A shadow came between me and the sun. I rolled over on one elbow and looked up. Jaime was standing there. He had an expectant look about him. Even as I watched, it faded to disappointment.
I stood up. I'm big, but Jaime was bigger. He stood so still, he looked like a bronze statue. You could hear the steady roaring thunder of the many waterfalls which Del Rey had said made their leaps over rocky escarpments a few miles upriver from the camp. I walked back slowly toward the cluster of huts. Jaime stood there, watching me.
Supper was charcoal-broiled steaks and good rum and a lot of unnecessary trimmings. One of Del Rey's lady friends, a Polish expatriate with a rich alto voice and the heavy, big-breasted figure which the Latins like so much, sang us a risque Calypso song. The sun was going down in the west and setting the whole jungle afire.
Lydia said, “How about a boat ride, Chet?”
Del Rey's one rowboat was beached a few dozen yards away on the pink sand. I flipped my cigarette away across the beach and said, “Sure.”
“We'll leave a fire on the beach so you can find your way back,” Del Rey promised us.
“Oh,” I said, “we won't be gone that long.”
Del Rey grinned. “The sun sets very quickly in the tropics.”
Lydia and I went over to the boat and launched it into the water. I took off my loafers and socks and waded in after it, holding it steady while Lydia climbed aboard. She was whistling the tune of the Polish expatriate's Calypso song. I climbed in after her and began rowing slowly. The tholepins were well oiled and made hardly any noise.
I rowed upstream toward the distant falls so we could float back with the current later. The glowing charcoal campfire winked out as we rounded a bend in the river.
“It's very peaceful, isn't it?” she said.
In the sunset, Lydia's hair looked like flame.
“Yeah.”
“You're a funny guy. So quiet.”
“Deirdre used to say that too,” I said. “It annoyed her when we were with her snotty friends.”
“Were her friends snotty?”
“Yeah. I thought so.”
“It wouldn't have annoyed me. I don't like a man who has to talk all the time. I always think he's self-conscious. Don't you?”
“I never thought about it one way or the other,” I said.
“Chet? I have a confession-to make. I'm glad Ralph had that sunburn. He's so full of concern for me it makes me nervous. I'm glad I got away from him today. I'm glad I came here with you instead. Are you glad?”
“It's very peaceful,” I said, using her words. It wasn't peaceful at all. It was all broiling turmoil, inside of me. We were alone. The boat was small. We were very close. She seemed receptive. Ralph was a nice guy, I thought. If I enjoyed myself now I would hate myself in the morning.
“Maybe we ought to go back,” I said.
“So soon? Ah, Chet. I like it here.”
“It's getting very dark.” I could hardly see her. She was a barely seen silhouette in the stern of the boat as I rowed. The jungle was a darker shadow behind her but there was still a faint red glow on the water and a pink froth where spray broke on submerged rocks. Every now and then, the tholepins creaked.
“They'll have a fire going to show us where the camp is,” Lydia said. “There's no hurry.”
I rowed in silence. An animal screamed far off across the jungle. Another animal screamed back at it. The black wall of jungle receded slowly on either side of us. I imagined the sound of the falls grew louder.
“Is this far enough?” I said about an hour later. “The old back muscles are getting weary.”
“I guess it's far enough.”
I shipped the oars. You could see absolutely nothing now. The rowboat spun around slowly in the current and made its own way downstream. I lit a cigarette and was going to offer one to Lydia when the boat rocked. I inhaled deeply on the cigarette, watching the ember glow orange. I couldn't see the smoke I exhaled. Something plucked the cigarette from my mouth. It described a brief twisting arc in the darkness, hit the water and went out. Lydia touched me. Her hand was cool on my arm.
We didn't say anything. I put my arms around her and she settled against me in the darkness. I could feel the beat of her heart. “'All day,” she said. “All day long I wanted to do this. It isn't wrong, Chet? Is it?”
“Don't talk,” I said.
I got my hand under the white linen blouse. Her waist was hard and flat. She moved against me and made a small sound in her throat and we lowered ourselves gently to the bottom of the boat.
“It's all right, Chet,” she said. “It's all right because we'll go back to the States soon and never see each other again.”
I moved my lips against her hair and over her cheek and found her lips with them. It was a long, thrilling kiss, the first kiss like that I'd had since Deirdre. Lydia was trembling slightly.
A cool breeze had been born on the river with the coming of night. There were no buttons on the white linen blouse. Lydia helped me slip it off over her head: “It's getting cold,” I said. “Are you cold?”
“Oh, no. I'm warm, Chet. I'm very warm.”
I kissed her bare shoulders and the hollow at the base of her throat. She strained against me, her long legs and her flat belly and her breasts. “Deirdre,” I murmured.
She stiffened in my arms. She moved away from me and sat up. I could hear the rustle of the linen faintly as she put on the blouse again.
“God,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
“That's all right, Chet. Let's just forget it.” Her voice was unsteady.
“I didn't mean to say her name. I don't know why I said it.”
She said nothing for a while. I sat up too and peered into the darkness ahead of us. The campfire winked on suddenly, all hot glowing embers, as we rounded the bend in the river. A bird made a raucous noise in the jungle above us.
“I'm glad it happened like this,” Lydia said. “We would have been sorry. Wouldn't we?”
“Yeah,” I said. I eased the oar blades down into the water and rowed in toward the beach. I explored around on the sand and found our shoes. We got into them and walked over to the fire.
“See what I found?” Lydia said. She stooped and came up with a flashlight. “They left us a flashlight so we could find our way to the huts. Do you remember which one is yours?”
“I think so,” I said.
Using the flashlight, I walked Lydia back to her own hut. Someone coughed nearby in his sleep. We said good night quickly. For some reason we shook hands, as if we had made a secret bargain.
I found my own thatch-roofed hut without any trouble. I went inside and took off my shoes and shirt and stretched out in the darkness on the foam-rubber mattress. Tomorrow we were going with Francisco Del Rey in his DC-3 to Maracaibo, where Ralph Homerson would be waiting for us. Lydia was right. We would have been sorry.
But I lay there for a long time with my fingers laced behind my head, staring up at the darkness and cursing myself for murmuring Deirdre's name.
Chapter Nine
I AWOKE SUDDENLY. I had heard some unexpected noise in my sleep. It awakened me and now I didn't know what it was. It left me alert, though, my senses alive and expectant.
I sat up in the darkness, and groped on the sandy ground alongside my cot for the flashlight. Something struck savagely against my shoulder, just above the collarbone. I rolled off the bed, groaning and knowing that I had to move fast if I wanted to get up at all .
On hands and knees, I waited for strength to return. My left side was numb. A quick wave of nausea boiled up from my stomach. I wanted to shout, but couldn't draw a breath to do it.
The second burst of pain exploded against the side of my head. My arms and legs went rubbery and I fell face down on the sand. I was conscious, but that was all.
There was a scuffling sound, then quick, hard breathing close to my face. I wanted to move but was as limp as the washrag which they used on the bar at the Tamanaco. Strong hands tugged at my armpits. I was made to stand erect but could not support myself. There was a grunt of satisfaction and I felt myself hoisted up a draped across a big muscular shoulder.
We went jogging outside, two big
men on one pair of legs. We jogged that way down to the beach. The fire had gone out. My arms hung down the man's back limply and I wondered how long it would take before I regained the use of them.
Only one person here at Del Rey's camp could carry me around like that, I thought, being very objective. At the moment, I could do nothing else. It was Jaime, which meant James and now meant murder.
He deposited me without gentleness in the bottom of the boat. He did some grunting and some pushing and the boat rocked out into the water. It rocked some more when he climbed in. The cold white stars seemed very distant. There was no moon.
Jaime rowed hard and swiftly. I lay there on my back and thought how it had been with Lydia and me here in this same boat a few hours ago and felt the strength seeping back slowly. I could move now, if I wanted to. Move, and that was about all.
Jaime rowed downstream, away from the falls. We were gliding along at a good clip and it didn't take very long until he decided we had come far enough. He shipped the oars and leaned over me. I was still too weak. I shut my eyes. I thought of moaning but figured it might sound like something out of a grade B picture. I remained quiet. If I didn't convince Jaime I was unconscious, I was going to get thunked on the head again.
After what I thought was a very long time, Jaime scooped me up like a baby and let me fall into the water. I heard the tholepins creaking again. I rushed downstream with the current.
At first I thought I would swim after the rowboat. But the current was strong and so was Jaime and I could hardly stay afloat. I struck out weakly for the south shore, which was the shore of Del Rey's camp. My feet touched muddy bottom and I found handholds on a tangle of twisted roots growing down to the bank of the river. I dragged myself ashore and lay there, breathing hard.
I stood up and reeled off in the direction of the camp, which lay upstream and west. A mile, I thought. It would be about a mile. If I followed the river, I would find my way. If I hurried, I could beat Jaime back to camp, for he was rowing upstream. And then I tripped over something in the darkness and fell. I was a long time getting up. Several miles of numbness separated my legs from my head, which throbbed dully with pain. The thick jungle mulch was soft and inviting, like a featherbed. Jungle chatterings and screechings were all around me. I stretched out on my stomach and fell asleep.
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