Backward-Facing Man

by Don Silver

  At the front desk, Maria was straightening a shelf full of brochures. “Tonight,” he whispered. “Between seven and seven fifteen.” He pointed to his watch.

  “Thank you, Mr. Alex,” she said, blushing.

  Artie had dinner near the bay at a restaurant run by a large, middle-aged woman and her daughter. He sat on the concrete porch that was attached to a cinder block enclosure, which surrounded a barbecue pit. Judging by the number of motorcycles and pickup trucks that pulled up and then sped off, food was only one of many things being sold from the property. The waitress was a heavy, slow-moving girl in her twenties, and she wore dresses and shoes that looked as if someone else even heavier, perhaps her mother, had broken them in. Night after night, she watched Artie lather himself up with mosquito repellent and then wipe his hands with antibacterial cream. After seeing him spill hot sauce on his shirt, she’d taken the liberty of tying a bib around his neck.

  “Chicken wing appetizer, and t-t-two plates of fried chicken,” Artie said, sitting down. To celebrate his decision to leave Belize City, he had two beers. When he finished, he pushed his rice and vegetables into neat piles for the girl to scrape off and give the dogs.

  On his way back to the hotel, Artie bought himself a bottle of schnapps and a cigar. On the front desk was a little folded paper tent that said “Back in ten minutes,” which meant Maria was already upstairs. Lydia was watching satellite TV, which meant she was into her third or fourth whiskey. Angie, her daughter-in-law, was serving drinks and keeping an eye on reception. If a guest were to show up to check in or ask for their key, Angie would attend to them, the goal being to make sure Lydia didn’t know Maria was gone. Artie checked the clock over the front desk.

  Javier was a soccer player and could make it up four flights of steps faster than Artie could get out of the way, so he took the steps as quickly as a man his size could, then he tiptoed around to the end of the balcony and around the corner, sidling up to the window with the wooden slats. Quieting his breathing, he pulled in close. He heard a zipper open, a gasp, then Maria making a purring sound. Through the slats, Artie saw Javier on his back, up on his elbows, his head off the edge of the bed while Maria leaned over him, her dark hair spilling over his body. While she ran her hands over his chest, Javier rose and then fell, his torso arching up toward the ceiling and then sinking into the bed. Artie took a swig of schnapps. Javier lifted Maria and turned her over, sliding down and then moistening her between her legs, before climbing on top. Against the back wall, Artie watched their silhouettes become one person, together as in a tango. When at last Javier collapsed, Artie slid to the floor of the balcony with a soft thud. “Cuál era ése?” Maria whispered, looking at the wall. A moment later, he heard bedding being pushed aside, whispering voices, and fabric sliding across skin as the two of them dressed and then slipped out the door. When Artie entered his room, he knelt down before the bed as if praying, moving his hand to feel the warmth. In a few moments, he would pour himself a shot of schnapps and light a cigar, but not until the scent and the imprint of their ardor had disappeared.

  The next morning at the bank, Artie pulled out of his front pocket several brochures he’d selected from a rack at the hotel—Ambergris Caye, Placencia, Honduras, and Costa Rica—while Mrs. Johnson watched, smiling. Beulah Johnson considered it her civic duty to sell foreigners on the merits and the beauty of Belize. Over the past month, she’d regaled Alejandro Preston with stories of her country’s liberation from Britain some thirty years ago, its easy commerce and, unlike Guatemala, its friendly ways. “I want to see Central America before I g-go back to Cuba,” he told her before entering the safe-deposit room.

  “You really shouldn’t leave Belize before seeing the jungle,” she said politely.

  Actually, San Ignacio sounded perfect to him. It was inland, surrounded by river and jungle, yet far enough from the Guatemalan border that it would be difficult for thieves to cross back and forth. According to the literature, it had a friendly integrated community made up of Africans, Spaniards, Mayans, and whites, including Mennonites, who Mrs. Johnson told him were very good at business. The other day, Beulah Johnson had assured him that San Ignacio had several major international banks, including a branch of the Bank of Belize, to which she would be happy to phone ahead.

  After the bank, Artie walked about a half mile to the very edge of the downtown area, past the U.S. embassy, which was surrounded by stone pillars and a row of bougainvilleas that were always in bloom. A half block away, an immaculate gravel path led to the tip of a jetty where the Hotel InterContinental, an extravagant glass-and-stucco mansion, sat gleaming in the sun, and to the right of the hotel was a pocket of surf reserved for gigantic cruise ships, themselves huge floating hotels, which arrived weekly filled with wealthy tourists from Europe, South America, and the United States. Off to the side was a tiny pier that received the smaller boats, and, in front of that, a bench, where Arthur Puckman, aka Alejandro Preston, took a seat and waited.

  He watched gulls line up on the pilings and thought about how far he’d come. Since leaving home, he had changed his name and cut his ties. He’d secured his financial future in a way he’d been unable to for the thirty years, pulling himself out from under his father’s thumb, and removing from his day-to-day life the extreme irritation of working next to a brother for whom everything—from finding love and friendship to selling elaborate security configurations to pawnbrokers—came easy. For the first time in his life, Arthur Puckman felt accomplished. Proud even. His face—thinner and slightly sunburned and peeling—looked different to him in the mirror. People like Beulah Johnson, Lydia O’Rourke, even the young lady at the barbecue took notice of him now. About himself, he would once have said he’d started believing his own bullshit, which everyone knows leads to preoccupation and dangerous mistakes.

  When Jim first showed up at Regina Puckman’s in South Philly, less than twenty-four hours after Gutierrez had gone down, he told Artie that many years ago he’d gone to MIT and that he and Chuck had once been close friends. Over the summer between Chuck’s freshman and sophomore years, they argued over a woman and had a falling out. Jim said he heard about Gutierrez on the news as he was passing through town and felt the least he could do now was try to help Chuck and his family through the crisis. That was when Artie decided to tell him about the cash; the extravagant run of luck he’d had at the track. Jim told him his theory about capitalist reincarnation: how if you had enough resources, you could break free of entanglements and invent a new self. All you need is money, balls, and a willingness to act in ways nobody expects. Here, now, in Belize, Artie decided it was time for that new person to be born.

  Manny brought his little skiff in near the restaurants that were most likely to pay him well for his catch. He tossed a nylon-coated rope onto a small dock and started wiping down his boat when he noticed the fat man waving. Manny was expecting him. The night before, Jim, the American, had told Manny and his brother that a man with a lot of cash would be contacting them about a ride. Jim had also told the brothers that the man with the money was not who he said he was—Alejandro Preston, a vacationing Cuban—but rather a representative of an American company who wanted to bribe local officials to allow extensive deforestation to advance their business interests. Manny carried a bucket with fish and headed toward the bench.

  For Manny’s brother, Carlos, the appearance of a corrupt American businessman had great potential. In Belize, the Mayans were a laboring class, and busting ass was simply what you did unless you were lucky enough to run a scam, win at gambling, or come across a wealthy benefactor. Although Jim hadn’t been specific, the brothers were hoping Alejandro Preston would turn out to be the answer to their prayers.

  “Jim said me you c-c-could set me up,” Arthur Puckman said cautiously. The boy with the chocolate skin and the flat brown eyes nodded, as if he was either mildly retarded or was just barely able to understand.

  “Manny Punta,” the boy said, holding out his hand.
/>   “Alejandro Preston,” Artie said. “I need a ride to San Ignacio.”

  “When?” Manny asked.

  “As soon as p-p-possible.”

  Manny smiled, showing a gold tooth. “Me and my brother, Carlos, we drive a lot of people out there. That’s where our people are from. What brings you to Belize?” Manny was shy and a little clumsy. He had buckteeth, which he made no effort to conceal.

  “I had some success in b-b-business back home. I figure a man in m-m-my position ought to t-t-travel a little why he’s still got his health.” The two men started walking. They passed the InterContinental and headed down the road. In front of the American embassy, Artie tilted his fedora. “The road to San Ignacio,” Artie said, haltingly, “is it s-s-safe?”

  “Yes, sir,” Manny told him. “Very safe, Mr. Alex.”

  By then it was almost noon, time for the shops to close. Mayans, Spaniards, Africans, and gringos scrutinized them. “Do you have a gun?” Artie asked next. Manny Punta took the question in stride. In countries like Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala, police and underworld figures are often interchangeable. They go to school together. They date the same girls. They make money in the same ways. Traveling at night, you could count on being approached by con artists, banditos, and drug dealers.

  “My brother does,” Manny said. “He knew a driver who was robbed by the Guatemalans.” He spit the word. Jim told them Mr. Preston would be cautious. He was carrying securities that needed to be deposited in a local bank. Jim said he represented an international group that had a scheme to break up the deal and save the Belizean rain forests. He promised the brothers a cash reward for getting the fat man there safely.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars Belize,” Artie proposed, sticking his chin out.

  Manny kept walking. He hadn’t said exactly how much, but Jim was promising the brothers a lot of money.

  “Okay, two hundred,” Artie said, thinking he needed to improve his offer. “I want to leave tomorrow. Can you pick m-me up in front of the Bank of Belize? Nine thirty?”

  “Tomorrow’s Baron Bliss Day,” Manny said. “Banks are closed.”

  “Friday then.”

  “We have a blue van.” The men shook hands. On his way back to the hotel, Artie passed the bank where every paper, every coin, every document of value representing his wealth, his security, and his freedom was tucked away. Jim was right. Despite the risks, he was better off keeping his money in a safe deposit box. This way, he could pick up and leave whenever he wanted. And there would be no computer records, no patterns, no Social Security numbers, nothing traceable. Soon, things would be perfect. Even with an occasional trip to Costa Rica for a medical checkup, Artie could live out his remaining days like a king. Unfortunately, though, he would have to carry his fortune with him to San Ignacio, which set him thinking about having a bag he could sling over his shoulder, something he could hold closer to his body than the blue valise he had long ago borrowed from his uncle Joe.

  Along Main Street was a luggage shop that catered to wealthy cruise ship clients. It seemed wasteful to spend a lot of money on an item that would sit empty under a bed in San Ignacio, so Artie decided to venture a little bit out of town, hoping to find a bargain—something a native Belizean might buy—inexpensive, even a bit broken in. It was a beautiful day, uncommonly dry and breezy for late spring. He let himself wander, turning when he felt like it, stepping around children, piles of newspapers, trash and discarded containers of food, vacant yards, men playing dominoes on makeshift tables.

  Soon, the streets began to turn uphill, and, a few times, he had to pause to catch his breath. He passed a landfill: a heap of stinking food and soiled paper, old discarded items, refrigerators, car parts, clothing and broken furniture, along with garbage in varying degrees of decomposition. He was surprised by how much these people, who had so little, threw away. A red wagon without wheels caught his eye and, beside that, a black object partially hidden by a wooden crate. At first, he thought it might be a dead bird or a garbage bag, but, as he moved closer, he saw a black bag, mud-stained, with two looping handles you could sling over your shoulder. He picked it up. A little scrubbing and it’d be perfect. He pictured himself loading his booty and carrying it into his new bank, then returning home and stepping out on the balcony of his new room overlooking the jungle, away from the scheming money changers and the drifters who set up cardboard houses and butane stoves to heat their meals. He lifted the bag with the very tips of his fingers. It was a miracle to Artie that Belize City hadn’t erupted in plague.

  The voice came from close behind. Artie reacted as he would have at home, clenching his butt and hunching his shoulders, while straightening in an effort to be on his way. “I’m talking to you, mon!” the man said. “Where you going in such a hurry?” Artie turned and saw an African man with dreadlocks tucked into a wool knit cap.

  “I’m…I’m…I’m…” Artie stuttered.

  The man stopped, his face inches from Artie’s. He could hear him breathe. “Cat got yur tongue?” He grabbed the satchel. “What you doing wit an empty bag round yur shoulder?” Artie changed direction, but the man circled around, stepping in front of him again. “You want me to fill it wit ganja?”

  “Leave me…” Artie said, spraying him with saliva.

  “How about ya hire me to be yur guide?” the African said, putting his arm around Artie. “Get you home safe.”

  The truth was he could have used a guide. The streets up here weren’t arranged in any particular order, and Artie had no idea where he was. Fewer people seemed to be walking around than when he had set off. Artie tried to push him away.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the man said in Artie’s face. Especially under duress, he was hard-pressed to complete a sentence, which further angered his attacker. When Artie began to wail, the African wrapped his arm around Artie’s neck and pushed him toward a cement wall that ran alongside the sidewalk. Time slowed. Everything became fuzzy. Artie continued yelling until he felt a knife blade against his neck.

  “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” the African whispered, his face in close. “Shut up and give me yur money, fat mon. You can find yur own fucking way home.” He took Arthur’s arm and twisted it behind his back while pressing the blade against his throat. Artie’s arm went rigid, then limp. He heard a crunching sound and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The part of his brain that controlled his voice, never much of an ally before, shut down completely now. “I…I…I…I…I…I,” he stammered, jerking his other hand toward his pocket.

  “Stupid mon,” the African hissed.

  When Artie awoke, he was on his back and his glasses were off. Intense nausea accompanied pain in his shoulder, his left arm, and his upper body. He was staring at a wind vane in the shape of a chicken that was mounted on a tiny blue house. A teenage girl holding her baby was leaning over him. His face was burning, his upper lip swollen, and his left arm limp by his side. He coughed and winced as he tried to roll over and stand. She leaned over and handed him his glasses. When he finally stood up, she held out a ten-dollar bill the African had dropped.

  Arthur Puckman spent the rest of the afternoon in a hammock on the veranda of the Hotel Mopan, while Lydia O’Rourke, who’d fashioned a sling out of mosquito netting, brought him ice wrapped in a towel and codeine pills. He had one stiff drink after another, drifting in and out of consciousness, happy to be the focus of attention, happy to have learned his lesson about how dangerous Belize City could be, happy to be alive and to be receiving Lydia’s kindness. At one point, when Lydia asked him what exactly he’d done in Cuba to be able to afford such a lengthy vacation, he babbled incoherently about the manufacturing business he once ran.

  Pain woke him before dawn. With his good arm, he reached under the mattress but felt nothing. Then, with considerable effort, he pulled a beaded wire attached to the lamp. The room he was in was very similar to his own, except it was filled with books, wall hangings, and stuffed animals, including a very menac
ing-looking jaguar. He was wearing his boxers and the same shirt he’d worn the day before. His seersucker suit pants were draped over a chair, the belt still in its loops.

  Artie touched his shoulder and winced. He could move his arm along a short arc, but the pain took his breath away. He remembered the mugging, which strengthened his resolve to leave Belize City. He took a codeine pill out of the jar Lydia had left him and swallowed it dry. Outside, a curtain of rain obscured an old car propped up on blocks. He was on the first floor of the hotel, most likely in Lydia’s room. It was early in the day, perhaps just after dawn. Soon, the sun would come out and the taxi drivers would get into their cars, the electric wires would start hissing, and the first shift in Belize City—the security guards and hotel employees—would make their way from the hills downtown to work. After that, the money changers with their fanny packs and calculators would head toward the commercial district, passing the fruit stands and the tour guides and the street vendors, all of whom would start trolling for tourists and customers. One more day he had to endure before he would be leaving for good. One more day before he would enter the Bank of Belize with his black satchel, make small talk with Beulah Johnson and the security guard as if this day were like any other, except tomorrow he would take everything—paper, coin, and currency—out of his safety deposit box and carry it out with him.

  Artie napped until late Thursday afternoon. He had dinner at the restaurant near the bay but was too distracted to enjoy his meal or the ministrations of his homely waitress. He was down to his last few codeine pills, which he decided to save for the ride. When he returned to the hotel, he got Javier to help him upstairs so he could pack. He loaded his dobb kit with dental floss, toothpaste, hemorrhoid cream, and Band-Aids and packed the blue valise with underwear, socks, shirts, and pants. The two rayon shirts he’d bought in Belize he stuffed in the black satchel, which he brushed off as best he could. Everything else he put in the trash. The night passed slowly. His shoulder hurt, and he was constipated.