He could tell immediately that Miguel was happier occupied, when he could focus on something else while they talked. He built and rebuilt engines and took them apart. He asked the hotelier about it: I thought you were fixing that up. I thought you had it. I thought it worked.
Miguel appeared to have dismantled an entire functioning engine, spread it flat and separate, atomized over his work-bench surface.
Everybody in Santa Lucía, Miguel said – down to the cleaners and the fishermen – held a residency permit allowing a maximum stay of two years. The population was in flux. Miguel had been granted dispensation, but he didn’t particularly like the arrangement. The permits were a deliberate ploy, he claimed, prohibiting the development of a real community. There was no hospital, no school. You weren’t supposed to live here, not really. He admitted his children were there unofficially – a long story, he sighed. The point was that they didn’t want anyone to be born. Equally, there were no provisions for the dead.
‘They? Who, the government, you mean?’
Miguel shrugged.
‘Say I want the bigger history: business interests, trading relationships, general comings and goings. You’re the man to ask, right? You’ll have the records, the accounts? I’d like to see them, when you have a moment.’
‘Whatever you want. How far back? And you’re in luck: I record every guest.’
‘Businesses, particularly the larger operations, whose representatives have visited the site. I want to know what goes on here. I mean, I don’t see tracks, logging routes…’
Miguel nodded. ‘There were delays – I’m not quite sure what the problem was. Much of the land around was taken, bought up, but then there were legal challenges, which led to more delays in constructing the rest of the route. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but operations were suspended, anyway.’
Miguel had a low focus, always looking down, close, whether as a consequence of living so long in what could seem a depthless forest or from years adjusting parts, working on leads, batteries, boards.
‘What about recently – anything happening? Commercial research, representatives passing through. I don’t know, people collecting samples?’
‘Timber samples?’
‘Timber, plants, anything really.’
‘It’s been quiet for some time.’
‘So no one working in any kind of commercial capacity has been through recently?’
‘Well, when you put it like that, I mean… Of course, there’s business going on locally, small-scale stuff. There’s the tourist groups, for instance. A lucrative business. The boats are always ready for them. Some filmmakers, working on documentaries – it’s not unusual to see them, either. The abandoned fishery involved a bit of work.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Well, there were the two individuals, but they weren’t here on business, I don’t think, that’s why I didn’t say.’
‘Who?’
‘Their names are here somewhere. I’ll dig them out, along with the rest of the records. Bear in mind we can only take cash here, so…’
‘When was this? You didn’t mention it earlier.’
‘Five, six weeks ago, I think. Though it’s difficult to tell sometimes. Stayed six, seven nights. Unfortunately, Marcelo is no longer with us. He took them by boat.’
‘The man is dead?’
‘What? No, no. He left. He works seasonally.’
‘What were they doing? Where did they go?’
‘I can give you Marcelo’s details. Track him later, he has all the information. I don’t know anything about them.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Well, they were young, I guess, a bit sullen. I don’t think they really wanted to be here. And I mean, I know you don’t like them either, but they really didn’t take to the kids. Dressed oddly, too.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Just not quite right. Didn’t fit.’
‘Miguel, this might sound silly, but the names – Mengano, Beltrano? Mean anything to you?’
‘What? No, nothing at all.’
‘What did they have with them, what did they bring?’
‘Nothing really. Just the usual, suitcases. And there was the crate. Marcelo, I remember, mentioned something about a crate. I don’t know what it was for. It wasn’t made up in the end. Maybe I heard him wrong. They didn’t leave with a crate.’
‘You’re sure? They didn’t leave with anything other than their original luggage?’
‘I don’t think so. I can’t say for sure.’
‘This crate: I want it clarified. They didn’t arrive with a crate?’
‘No, I didn’t say that. I didn’t see anything. Marcelo only, he said something about a request, building a crate. Look, I’m pretty busy here, we can do this later?’
‘Just a moment more. So the crate was not built; they didn’t take it in or out?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Nothing else you remember? Nothing at all unusual?’
‘There was one thing at the hotel, not particularly unusual.’
‘Well?’
‘Sometimes people, they’ll book an additional room. The rooms aren’t expensive, I’m sure you’ll agree: good rates. They do it for privacy. I do what I can, but I can’t stop people making a bit of noise, coming in late from the bar, fumbling with the lock on their door, that kind of thing. And the walls aren’t the thickest, I’ll admit. You might hear people walking around, pouring water down the toilet, coughing or whatever. So people do it to help them sleep, I guess: they buy up additional rooms.’
‘How many rooms did they book?’
‘Three.’
‘Three rooms together.’
‘No. I didn’t say that. That’s what was a little odd. They stayed in adjacent rooms, but the other room, the third room booked, that was on the other end of the hotel, facing the forest. Actually, if you look at the plans, you’ll see the third room couldn’t have been any further from theirs.’
‘Well, what for? What was the room used for?’
‘Nothing. No one came in or out, as far as I know. When the cleaner went in after they checked out, she said it hadn’t been touched.’
‘Isn’t that strange?’
‘Yes, it’s strange. But there’s nothing illegal in it, is there?’
‘Miguel, I’ll need as full a physical description of these two men as possible. I’ll need their names, their bills, receipts. Every piece of information that they left. Additionally, I want you to show me to the other room, the empty one.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Why won’t it?’
‘The third room, the additional room, Inspector. It’s yours.’
III
He was still waiting for the records. When he needed him, Miguel seemed to go missing. He didn’t see how it was possible in a place this size, this cut off, with nowhere else to go. The settlement was like a ship, an island, a theatre. You passed seemingly the same people always, in the same limited space.
He eventually found Miguel, who claimed to have been in the hut all along. Miguel threaded wires while he talked, his words small and conservative next to the fluency of the hands. The inspector was unable to identify either the different machine parts or their condition. He couldn’t tell if one half of the room, for instance, represented a different state of progress compared to the other. It may have been the case that the room moved into order, that Miguel had separated out the parts that way, according to progress. He couldn’t tell what was being built. The inspector was not so adept with machines and repairs. It had been a frequent source of gentle teasing. It still amazed him, really, that anything could go. That these lidless boards and lead-acid batteries could be fitted into a boat shape and you could step on it and trust and it would take you. He was caref
ul not to ask any more questions about the work.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ Miguel said. ‘They’re gone. All records, gone.’
‘What do you mean – you lost them? They’ve been stolen? There’s been a fire, what?’
‘They’ve gone through all my ledgers. You can see for yourself. It’s all ruined. This is bad news for me. How am I to explain this to the authorities? For tax, and what have you?’
‘Who did? Who went through everything? Bring them to me. I want to interview them immediately.’
‘What? No. The insects.’
Often, in afternoons, the inspector retreated to his room. The draining light, the feasting insects, the manifest frustration of life on this tiny, blank outpost. The children took to laughing at him, parodying his gait and walk, a slow and high-kneed stride, pointless and mechanical, like a puppet, they said. He hadn’t been the least aware. They laughed, called at him, threw pebbles at his room, disturbing him as he tried to read back through his case notes or dictated notes on the little progress he had made.
His room was small. Noise from the bar filtered through the shutters. Doors rattled, laughter broke. He was certain someone knocked, but it must have been another door. Guests came in and out – they’d nod when they saw each other, without making introductions. His net wouldn’t attach securely to the ceiling, so he woke tangled. The mattress was damp and grey. Something smelled.
Shortly after settling down for the night, he’d spent twenty minutes debating whether his bladder could hold, but it had now become painful. He scrambled out of the net, untucking a corner from under the end of the mattress, crawled to the floor. With the shutters closed, the only light came through the door. The bathroom was ruinous – mirror stained and cracked, broken pipes exposed, holes in the floor and walls. A pair of bright blue flip-flops had been helpfully provided. A thick, fuzzy ant line emerged from a fissure; it looked like hair shaved from a face. He squatted over the drop hole, just in case. As he returned to bed, he checked the lock on the door. It held, barely. For some reason he then opened it. The corridor was empty. He could go back to sleep. An object caught his eye. It had been deposited between his room and the next on his left. It was dark. He shouldn’t leave his room as he wasn’t dressed and didn’t want an embarrassing encounter, a trader stumbling back from the bar. It might have been an item of clothing, perhaps a hat. He leaned closer and it seemed to move. But it was just a gathering of dirt, a pile that had been brushed there for some reason. Mud, stones, mainly small sticks, trailed in by someone who hadn’t wiped down.
The doors rattled with the barest movement – a breeze, another door being opened or closed, someone coming in or out. A few more times he thought he heard someone and, once or twice, voices and even footsteps running away – the kids, he guessed.
He determined, the following morning, to put a stop to the incidents during the night, the banging on his door, the laughing. He couldn’t get any work done in these conditions.
He found Miguel returning to his hut and explained the situation. It wasn’t acceptable; the man really had to keep a tighter leash on his children. The conditions in the room were far from satisfactory. ‘And why is it only me, Miguel? Why do they bang on my door?’
‘I don’t know. Some foolishness – I apologize profusely. It won’t happen again.’
But it did. A pattern repeated. He’d finally, after some delay, get off to sleep, when he’d hear the banging, the laughter, the footsteps running away. So close, especially the voices, he could have believed they were right there in his room. He’d scramble out of bed, dismantling the net, run to his door as quickly as he could, but find, on throwing it open, that the corridor was empty. Then he’d wait. He knew they’d come back. Only somehow they anticipated him. They waited not only until he’d left his vigil, but for him actually, and miraculously, to fall asleep again. Then the knock. Another. Repeating until he gave in, jumped up from the bed, ran to the door, saw nothing in the half-light.
He sealed the open office window as soon as he noticed. He tested the lock three times, then traced the edges of the further two windows, checking for any airflow. The atmosphere had turned over. It didn’t seem possible that somebody could have been so blithe, so ignorant as to have done this. Carlos, he thought, had been lost anew, all remaining evidence gone.
He left the office, closing the door behind him. The employees appeared oblivious, habitually absorbed in work. He wasn’t sure who to approach. Nobody would admit culpability. He would be passed from one department to another, simply wasting his time.
He returned to the empty office. The keyboard was meaningless now. The carpet, the chair, the windows and the desk. Whatever had been left in the vacant office was gone. For the first time he sat directly on Carlos’s chair. The rings from the coffee mug were just perceptible on the desk. He wondered how long the window had been open. Although it hadn’t rained, the corners of the carpet were damp. Detritus had blown in. Something was present on the edge of the desk, too far to reach.
A bloom, soft, blue, no bigger than the nail on his smallest finger. Rather than pick it up, he leaned in to smell. It should have been dead, neutral, but the odour was as strong as the colour was bright. Carlos’s desk was narrower than the model used in the other offices, only just wider than his extended elbows. Carlos had requested it, perhaps brought it in himself, requiring the assistance of a friend or colleague. He would ask Vasquez. A horizontal board weighed it down, doubling as a footrest. The desktop little more than a slab, a butcher’s block. Standing over the table, bearing the instrument down and splitting the animal carcass.
Now the evidence had gone, he was clear to run his hands over the table. He was surprised at how uneven it was. Damp patches. The midday shadow cast by the open computer screen only just failed to hit the flower on the edge.
He blew onto the desk. The bloom reacted, but remained in position. He looked closely and saw that it was rooted there. A single wildflower blooming in the damp desk.
He woke up. A weak sun lit the room; the dream receded. Mosquitoes had stripped his back in the night, leaving blood on the sheets. It had hardened into crust, but when he washed his back fell fresh open. He sat on the edge of the low bed, his feet on the soft wooden floor, his hands on his knees. He was too warm. The fan barely moved. He tried to slow things down. He had to decide on a course of action.
The thick odour of the flower in the dream was fixed to the back of his throat. The pungent smell he had noted earlier was now much worse. An awful smell. It was there on the blood-stained sheets. Was it him? He left the room and went to investigate outside. He saw the lights of a labourers’ camp down by the river. They were constructing a new bridge. He could smell burned incense from their tents. They were trying to isolate themselves, ward off the source of that same stench.
It wasn’t excrement. He went around the back of the building. The wall beneath faced the forest, away from the settlement. Vines climbed it, smeared in thin dark splashes. Was this where dead animals went? So close to the community, the hotel?
He went back to his room and closed the shutters, sealing them with tape. Somehow it got worse. It was the smell of holes opened in the ground. Endings. He pressed his hands to the top of his head. Unbroken. He wiped sweat away. He had imagined a blade put against him, planing down his head, shavings like sawdust around him on his shoulders. Pulped tissue and nerve. The smell of his own brain. Scent and sense, matter and memory.
IV
He relaxed at the small hotel bar, continuing with Tribes of the Southern Interior. He found himself reading the same few pages several times, losing the thread, unable to make much progress. He put the book aside.
There was a new, rather conspicuous group at the bar, youngish and particularly thin, the men with three-day beard growth, clothes uniformly dark and torn. He nodded and waited. When one went to order, he introduced himself. Alberto –
tall, pale, red-headed – cut an unusual figure in the forest.
‘Bad timing,’ Alberto explained. ‘We’re just back. Five weeks’ filming. We had our own boat, but it was arranged back home.’
‘I’ve been here nearly two weeks already. I should explain – I’m with the police. I’m looking for information relating to a particular identity, an individual reported missing seven weeks ago. I believe he may be in the area somewhere to the east of here.’
‘What, kidnapped?’
‘I can’t say, for the moment. But I need to see if I can pick up the trail.’
‘Like I said, bad timing. Wish you all the best.’
Alberto turned to go. The inspector saw the knuckles of the man’s spine through the loose shirt.
He kept to the periphery of the conversation. The team had worked on nature documentary films, gathering footage from the forest. They set up 24-hour recording stations and planted motion-sensitive photographic triggers next to samples of rotting meat. Having gathered sufficient material they were leaving Santa Lucía in three days’ time, the next scheduled flight out. In the interim they’d trawl through digital footage and develop analogue in dark rooms. ‘And drink,’ Alberto said. ‘We intend to drink.’
He wanted to see how the darkroom was built. They let him come along the following morning. He heard them mention ‘la cueva’ and thought he was hallucinating, when someone clarified, said that’s what they called these places – caves. They tried various spots: vacant hotel rooms, the café and a back room in the bar. Each environment seemed too unstable and unpredictable – people kept coming in and out, doors opening and closing. They couldn’t rely on this dark, so they had to make their own. They found a level spot by the river to the south of the hotel. In eight minutes the tent was up. Then they lined it, on the outside, twice in thick black tarp. It held. Inside there was real dark. They split the space in two – one half dry, one wet. Attached wire hangers to the roof poles, set up a fold-out counter and a two-foot-wide plastic tub. Marguerite monitored ambient temperature; one of the biggest challenges developing in the tropics, she said, was the heat. ‘Changes conditions. Develops quicker than we’d like, emulsion gets softer, more susceptible to abrasion.’
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