Backward-Facing Man

by Don Silver

  In the morning, with some effort, he washed and dressed himself and then went downstairs. Maria had set a tray of muffins and juice against the wall, and Lydia emerged from the kitchen, smelling of cold cream and cigarettes. Artie explained that he intended to do some traveling over the next few weeks. He didn’t mention San Ignacio, whether he intended to come back or when. When Lydia protested, he agreed to take along a roll of mosquito netting to use as long as his shoulder hurt him. “Take these, too,” she said, handing him another vial of codeine pills. Maria fetched his bags, and the fat man hobbled down the steps. Despite the pain and stiffness in his body, he was feeling hopeful. For having escaped from his old life, for having survived yesterday’s attack, for having proven himself braver and more resourceful than his father or Chuck had ever been, he felt large and expansive. This is what it must feel like, he thought, to be proud.

  At 9:05 A.M., he entered the Bank of Belize and set the blue suitcase with his clothes on the linoleum floor. Pointing to the black satchel over his shoulder, he told Beulah Johnson that he would need some extra time. As they’d done every banking day for the past month, the two of them walked toward the tiny room. On this day, Artie lifted the lid to his safe deposit box before Mrs. Johnson could excuse herself, revealing wads of cash, mostly hundred-dollar bills, both U.S. and Belize, rolls of coins encased in plastic, various bonds and Treasuries paper clipped together in a legal-sized manila folder. It seemed important for him to show her—as a tiny child presents his body’s output—to leave her with a visual of his vast wealth, his net worth, naked. Perhaps he wanted her to feel diminished when he emptied the box and terminated their relationship. Once she left, he began lining the bag with the contents of the box—every last stack of bills and securities—which he then covered with the rayon shirts before emerging from the room.

  Despite the glimpse he’d offered her, Mrs. Johnson had no interest in what the fat man was doing. She never tried to guess her customers’ whims or get involved in their business. She considered it bad taste to concern herself with the fortunes of the bank and inconceivable to imagine that one customer’s withdrawal could have an effect on an institution such as hers. What she did notice that day was that Mr. Preston was in so much pain that he had difficulty moving. She offered to help him—an offer he accepted. Her last memory of him was looping the mosquito netting through the straps of the bag, so she could draw it tight against his body.

  Manny looked fresh and relaxed behind the wheel of the van. He was wearing hiking shorts, thick wool socks, and a pair of battered old leather boots. On the seat next to him was a grease-stained paper bag and a thermos. Like most other large vehicles in the country, the van was probably bought cheap in the States and driven south from Galveston, through Mexico, into Belize. Artie made several attempts to lift himself up into the passenger seat before the back door slid open and a dark-skinned, stocky young man in his mid-thirties got out to help. “Carlos,” the man said, sticking his hand out.

  Carlos wore a pair of tan shorts and a white T-shirt with the words MAYAN EXPEDITIONS. He had jet black hair cut short and a careless grin, which could be construed as either glib or friendly. The change in temperature between the bank and outside caused Artie’s glasses to fog up, so he didn’t notice Carlos’s hand. He put the blue valise on the seat beside him. “Why don’t we throw this one in the back?” Carlos said, but he was unable to get the fat man to part with the satchel. Cars honked around them. Even before the tourists arrived, the streets of downtown Belize City were nearly impossible to navigate. Carlos finally managed to get Artie in by leaning against his hips and pushing with his shoulders. Old cars powered by rebuilt engines puttered along, their trunk lids tied down with rope. Motor scooters with helmetless riders and kids dragging fruit in wagons passed by them, some hauling large packages, others with headphones. Manny piloted the van forward, inches at a time. Artie jammed his good hand into his jacket pocket and unhinged the bottle, then swallowed a codeine pill.

  As an economy, Belize is bush league. The finest luxury hotels have mildew in the lobbies. Mosquitoes swarm the eighteen-hole golf course where the half-dozen Belizean businessmen of any consequence meet to make deals. And the cinder-block fast-food shacks along the Western Highway look more like public restrooms than places you’d want to eat. For the most part, the road to San Ignacio has one purpose: to move Belizeans and Belizean goods back and forth between the ocean and the jungle.

  After about an hour on the road they entered the town of Belmopan, a glorified little intersection that became the capital of Belize after Hurricane Hattie leveled most of Belize City in the sixties. It was a hot, humid, inhospitable little crotch of land nestled in the country, a place where, aside from bureaucrats forced to move for their jobs, only insects thrived. Carlos sat on the forward edge of the backseat talking nonstop in a patois that was unintelligible to Artie—a mixture of Spanish, Mayan, and English that blended with engine noise and the Spanish-speaking radio station Manny had tuned in. Thanks to the codeine, Artie was able to relax and ignore his guides, who bantered and laughed, waving and yelling to people who were walking by the side of the road. After a while, he closed his eyes.

  Along stretches of unspoiled country, newly erected poles carried electricity into what was once jungle. Occasionally, a truck transporting animals or a school bus or a speedy little car passed them from the other direction, and the sun beat mercilessly on the van. Manny put his boot to the accelerator. They passed large fields with orange and palm trees tended by brown-skinned Mayans and groups of men sitting at tables in the shade playing cards and drinking cola. They passed gas stations, a church, a shack selling used tires with a sign that said MEKANIC and, underneath, WORLDS BEST HOT DOG. Carlos yelled to Artie from the backseat, “Where you from?”

  “C-C-Cuba,” Artie answered.

  “Cuuuuuuuba, huh?” Carlos said, laughing. “Cómo estas?”

  Artie didn’t answer.

  “Cómo estas?” Carlos repeated, leaning over the seat. Artie pressed his face against the doorjamb and said nothing. “Manny,” Carlos yelled. “Is your friend mute?” Manny kept his eyes on the road. “Cómo estas?” Carlos yelled again, this time into Artie’s ear, making a megaphone with his hands.

  Artie looked at his driver.

  “C’mon, Carlos,” Manny said. “He stutters. He can’t help it. Ain’t that right, Mr. Alex?”

  A truck barreled by from the opposite direction, and a blast of hot air filled the van. “What are you doing in Belize, Mr. Alex?” Carlos asked. He had a pretty good idea from what Jim had told them, but he thought he would have some fun.

  “Vac-cation,” Artie said.

  “A Cuban who stutters in English!” Carlos said, laughing. “Have you seen the Blue Hole? Have you been to the zoo?”

  Artie shook his head no.

  “Why don’t we take Mr. Alex to the zoo, Manny?” Carlos said, as if he’d suddenly hit on a fantastic idea. “We can show him the baboon sanctuary. I hear they have an ape named Fidel.” Manny burst out laughing, blowing bits of saliva into the windshield.

  “A-a-actually,” Artie said, soaked with sweat now, “I would like to get settled in S-S-S-S-San Ignacio as soon as—”

  “Or maybe we should take him for a hike in the jungle,” Carlos yelled.

  “He wants to get to San Ignacio before the banks close,” Manny said.

  Artie leaned back and inhaled earth and fertilizer and recent rainfall. It was his experience that the way to survive this kind of taunting was to ignore it. With his right arm, he rolled down his window and pushed his face into the hot breeze, and with his eyes half open, he counted electric poles, and, as he’d hoped, Carlos quit his harangue. A moment later, the van was filled with a smell, sharp and pungent. Artie turned as Carlos handed his brother a spliff, and Manny, with one hand on the wheel, narrowed his eyes and took several long hits.

  At the Mopan, Artie had heard about strict new antidrug laws that Belize had passed to qualify for U.
S. aid. Artie hugged the satchel tighter. What a disaster it would be if they were pulled over and searched, or if Manny got so high that he drove the van into a ditch. In his worst-case scenarios, he hadn’t contemplated getting arrested.

  Carlos pointed to a makeshift sign by the side of the road that said BAIT—5 KM, and something else in Spanish. This struck Manny as funny, and the two of them began laughing uncontrollably. The landscape was becoming lush, Eden-like. Manny started whistling—a kind of nursery rhyme that might have been a pop song. The wind created a kind of white noise, and the three of them fell silent until Carlos stuck his hand forward and pointed to something in the distance.

  “Roadblock,” he said, pointing. “Give me your passport.” Carlos touched Artie’s left shoulder, which made him wince.

  Artie squinted. A teenager in a brown military uniform materialized in front of a Jeep that was blocking both lanes about five hundred feet ahead. As Manny pressed the brake, Artie looked around the cab, frantic. His passport was in his shirt pocket; woven in by mosquito netting Mrs. Johnson had tied around the satchel. “I ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-ca…” he sputtered.

  “I’m not fucking around now,” Carlos hissed, his mouth against Artie’s ear. “Give me your fucking passport.” From the backseat, he tried reaching into Artie’s jacket.

  Artie winced. Even if he’d wanted to give Carlos his passport, he couldn’t have done so without untying the netting. “I ca-ca-ca-ca-ca…”

  A uniformed man waved them over. “N-n-n-n-ooooo.” Artie was wailing now, a combination of pain and fear. Carlos smacked him across the top of his head, knocking his hat and his glasses to the floor.

  “Either shut up and let me get your passport out, or these guys will put us in jail!” Carlos said, dead serious now. The soldier made a gesture indicating the van should stop. Carlos leaned over the front seat holding his machete.

  When Artie saw the blade, he started wiggling, like a man in a straightjacket. “Help! Help!” he cried out as they got nearer to the roadblock. “I’m being r-r-robbed!”

  “Relax, Mr. Alex,” Manny said. “They’re looking for illegals. We just have to show ID.”

  But Artie was inconsolable. “They’re going t-to kill me!” he insisted, leaning out the window.

  As the van slowed, Carlos brought the blunt end of the machete down hard between Artie’s head and his right shoulder so that, instantly, the fat man fell quiet and slumped forward. With the knife edge, Carlos slit the netting and pulled the satchel away from Artie’s body, tossing it on the floor. For a second, Carlos fumbled in Artie’s jacket for his papers, while Manny waved to the soldier. With his ass in the air, Carlos picked up Artie’s fedora and used a towel from the backseat to prop up his head. As Manny brought the van to a stop, Carlos yanked the black bag up over the seat and tossed it behind him.

  On the driver’s side, Manny showed his ID. “Cómo estás?” he said. The guard looked inside. “Turista,” Manny said, smiling sheepishly and pointing to Artie. “We were supposed to go to the falls,” Carlos added enthusiastically, “but our American friend had too much to drink.” Carlos spoke in a jovial tone, one conspirator to another. The guard smiled. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. A truck piled high with fruit pulled up behind them, and the guard waved the blue van through. As they accelerated, Artie’s head flopped forward toward the dashboard.

  “Did you have to hit him so hard?” Manny said.

  Carlos put his fingers to the fat man’s neck. “Too much fat,” he said, unable to find a pulse. There was a little bit of blood, sticky and warm, and a welt coming up on the back of his neck. “He’s alive,” Carlos said nervously.

  They drove in silence. “Now what?” Manny asked.

  A minute later, after unzipping the black satchel, Carlos was squealing like a kid. Mr. Alex, the English-speaking tourist from Cuba, was carrying more cash than the Belizean boys would see in their entire lifetimes.

  Along the Western Highway, the Mennonites had cut dirt roads leading into their groves, some of which stretched for miles to the edge of the jungle. “Turn here,” Carlos told his brother. From above, you would have seen a tiny blue dot crawling like an ant, followed by a cloud of dust. Manny cut their speed. The trail sloped, the dirt turned to grass, and then mud; Manny put the van in four-wheel drive. Carlos propped Artie up against the passenger door, adjusting the towel between his shoulder and his head. They rode in silence, the brothers lost in their own thoughts: Manny, afraid his brother may have killed a tourist; and Carlos, thinking he might never have to worry about money again.

  At the end of the road was a trailhead that the tour guides used for especially adventurous groups who wanted to see Sepulcher Cave. Manny pulled into a clearing and cut the engine. Carlos slid the side door open and carried the black satchel to the trailhead. When he returned, Manny was standing by the passenger door, wringing his hands.

  They worked in silence. Artie was so heavy it took the brothers almost ten minutes to drag him to the edge of the jungle. After a little while, the fat man’s eyes fluttered, and he started moaning. What may have formed in his brain as expletives came out as a mess of consonants. He came to his senses slowly—first, taking in the trees above; then, focusing on Carlos and Manny standing; finally, seeing the black bag at the base of a tree. A look of horror crossed his face. “Take me to the American embassy!” he demanded.

  Carlos laughed. “Mr. Alex wants to defect! He’s unhappy with how Castro has treated him.”

  “I know my r-rights,” Artie managed. “Your government would lock you up if they knew—”

  “And what would our policemen do if they knew you what you were up to?” Carlos said, grinning.

  “This is kidnapping. It’s against the l-law!” Artie tried to stand, but he couldn’t use his left arm to support his weight. “Thugs!” he spat, lunging for the satchel.

  The brothers helped him up. “Aw, Mr. Alex,” Manny said. “It’s not that bad.”

  Carlos lifted the satchel. “Come, Mr. Alex. We’re gonna take a little hike.” Manny led, clearing the trail, whacking at roots and branches with his machete, while Carlos prodded Artie, who limped along, wincing. The flora was dense and the canopy made it feel like dusk, even though it was just after noon. Without his glasses, Artie stumbled forward, barely able to see, swallowing a codeine pill every now and again to dull the pain. When Artie stopped, Carlos crept up behind him and whispered, “The coral snake is brightly colored. He lives in soil, and has short fangs that sink into flesh and just hang there.” Fighting fatigue, Artie soldiered on.

  After about two hours, the terrain changed, and the long, narrow trunks gave way to saplings, reeds, and rock. The trail, which took more frequent turns, was easier to follow, particularly when the sun broke through. Many times, Artie paused—angry, exhausted, and dizzy—but Carlos kept him moving. During one of those stretches, they came to the crest of a hill and stopped. Off to their left, between two giant rocks, was a drop of about fifteen feet; at the bottom was a pool of water fed from a waterfall. Straight ahead, the canopy seemed to stretch forever. Manny laid the machete on the ground and set his backpack against a tree. Carlos took the canteen from his backpack, took a long swig, and then passed it to his brother.

  An hour later, after a steep decline, the three men entered a deeply shaded grove. In the center of the clearing was a fire pit with a few partially burnt logs and a blackened can. About fifty feet away the trees ended and the ground gave way to a ravine. Carlos took the black satchel off his shoulder and spilled the contents on the ground. “Drink,” he said to Artie, pointing to a creek. Artie lay down and pressed his face against the black soil, gulping, then splashing water on his neck and head. The sight of his money spread over the ground seemed to unhinge him. Carlos pointed a pistol at the base of a spindly tree. “Sit,” he said.

  “I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Alex.” Carlos began lifting wads of currency from the bag, stacking them one beside another so that they stretched from Artie’s knees
to Manny’s machete, four feet away. “And I’m prepared to make a deal with you. You help us, and we’ll help you.” Manny was mesmerized by the money. He’d never seen so much of it in one place. Carlos was drawing circles in the dirt. “There are laws against transporting stolen currency—”

  “It isn’t stolen,” Artie said angrily.

  Carlos smiled. “Cut the crap, Mr. Alex. We know you’re not from Cuba, and we know you’re not here on vacation. We’re not stupid.” He put the pistol under Artie’s chin. Then he leaned in close and whispered, “Where’s it from, man? Who’s going to come looking for it?” Artie turned away.

  Carlos spoke next to his brother. “You know what the problem is, Manny?” Carlos said. “Mr. Alex here still thinks of us as a couple of wetbacks for hire.” He was staring directly into Artie’s face. “Give me the machete,” he said, extending his hand. Manny handed his brother the blade. “He needs to think of us now as partners…. Tie him up,” he said.

  Manny took the mosquito netting out of his pack and wrapped it around Artie’s torso. With his foot, Carlos moved a stump to within inches of the tree.

  “You can have h-half of it,” Artie said. “I swear you c-can take half!” Carlos pushed his face up close to Artie’s. “I w-won’t tell a soul,” Artie whimpered.

  “That’s better,” Carlos said, watching Manny make a knot. “That’s much better.” Artie shook his head from side to side. “Noooooo.”