Drew couldn’t see too well. He sat up in the pickup bed, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger and gazed out again at the early evening. The sunset haze bestowed a dream-quality upon the landscape as they passed through it. He thought he saw a lake–and that's what they had told him he’d see--although what he saw didn't look like water, but more like a vast bed of red rust. There didn't seem to be any depth to it--no raised bank to let you know you're looking at a lake. It was simply a splotch, a stain on the otherwise monotonous sheet of arid land that ran straight to the horizon on both sides of the highway. Somewhere in the midst of the lake, possibly the center--although there was no reason to think it was the center since he couldn't see its boundaries--a huge black cone stood rigid and ominous. It didn’t seem like it could be real. It was too perfect. It looked too much like a volcano.
He looked over at his friends, Rafael and Sara. each seated a few feet from him in the pickup truck bed. He saw that Sara had fallen asleep. She was propped up against the panel behind the cab. Her head and body were vibrating with the motor, registering all the dips and bumps in the road. He watched her for a time. So still and beautiful. He imagined himself seated next to hear, her head resting against his shoulder.
Sitting next to Sara, Rafael’s eyes were only half-opened. This was his country, sort of. Rafael--"Rafa" they called him--lived most of his life in Costa Rica. He had fled Nicaragua when he was thirteen. His parents had gone years before him. First his dad, then his mom. His dad went to Miami to work with an uncle Rafael had met only once. His dad said he would send for Rafael and his mother once he settled in. He said it would be a few months. One year later, Rafael’s mother had saved enough money for a plane ticket and went to find the father. She also promised to send for Rafael in a matter of months. It never happened. Now Rafael was headed to the United States himself. By land. He and Drew and Sara were hitchhiking and bussing their way from San José, Costa Rica.
After his parents left, Rafael lived with his cousins and grandmother for the next two years. Then within the span of one month, his eldest cousin who had taken care of him and the other kids was arrested, his grandmother died, and he and his remaining cousins were going to be sent to an orphanage. So Rafael sold what possessions he could from his grandmother’s house and started walking to Costa Rica, where he knew he had an aunt who ran a bakery in the suburbs outside of San José.
Drew knew that Rafael hadn’t spoken to his father in the fifteen years since his father left. Rafael spoke to his mother once or twice a year by phone for fifteen minutes at a time, often spending more money on that short phone call than he spent on everything else in a month. He hadn’t seen her since she left Nicaragua. Rafael’s father and mother did not live together in Miami. Although they were never officially divorced, it was Drew’s understanding that they no longer even spoke to each other.
Rafael didn’t talk about his parents much, and when he did, it was usually only when he was stoned. Then he would tell Drew how he planned to go to Miami to see his mom and try to find his dad. He told Drew how he planned to hitchhike to Miami after they crossed the border into the States. From the way he would talk about it–always the exact same story, down to the minute details--Drew could tell that Rafael had formulated a picture in his mind of how he would confront his father. He played it over in his mind again and again, savoring the as-yet-unrealized moment almost as if it were a memory. He told Drew how he would find out where his dad lived without letting him know he was in town. How he would knock on his dad’s door, look him right in the eye when he opened the door, and ask him one question. As he told Drew, Rafael would become very serious, and when he got to the part where he was imagining asking his dad the question, his eyes would narrow and he would look directly into Drew’s face and state the question: "Me Conoces?" "Do you know me?" It always made Drew uncomfortable, as if he needed to respond, as if the question were directed at him. Months later, after everything had happened and Rafael was gone, Drew would think back to that moment and wonder if maybe he was asking Drew. Daring him to answer.
But Drew wasn’t thinking about that now. Now he was thinking about getting to Managua and wondering where they would spend the night. Wondering how far it was from Managua to the Nicaraguan border with Honduras in the North. Wondering if they would have as many problems crossing the border from Nicaragua to Honduras as they just had crossing from Costa Rica to Nicaragua. Wondering if they had already passed the spot where his parents died. Wondering if maybe they were passing it right now. Or now...or now.
* * *
Drew was jolted out of dreamless sleep. He looked around. Sara and Rafael were both awake now. The sunset haze had fizzled, and there was no lake and no horizon because there was no moon and there were no stars. The truck was slowing, pushing them all forward and to the right as the lulling high pitch of the motor began to drop. The driver pulled to the shoulder of the highway, got out of the truck, and began urinating and at the same time asking in his Nicaraguan Spanish: "How far are you going?"
"As far as you're going," Rafael responded.
"I'm going to Managua...you'd better stay there tonight, too. It's not safe to travel at night."
The driver got back into the cab of the pickup and the three passengers sat back down, having stood up in the pickup bed to stretch their legs and yawn.
"How far do you think it is to Managua?" Drew screamed over the windnoise to Rafael.
"Not far."
Two hours later, as clumps of spare, squat buildings began appearing along the highway with increasing frequency, Drew noticed that Rafael seemed excited.
"How much longer, Rafa?"
"Ya llegamos, güevón."
"What did he say?" Sara asked Drew.
"He said we’re here already."
"Here where?"
"Managua"
"This is the capital? Where are all the buildings? And the people?"
"I know what you mean," Drew agreed.
They had expected Managua to look like San José in Costa Rica: densely populated and with a central downtown area and at least a few buildings over ten stories. But Managua was low and spread out and sparsely lighted. There were no tall buildings, and the few larger buildings were scattered and apart, as if fleeing from each other and the center of the capital. Drew assumed the layout of the city must be the result of hundreds of years of earthquakes, invaders and war; one wave after the other, with no break long enough to even consider any sort of urban planning, let alone carry it out.
Rafael explained that they would not be able to hitchhike to the other side of Managua. In order to cross the city and continue their journey north, they would have to take a city bus. So the three friends found their way to a bus stop, where they waited ten minutes until one arrived.
The bus was relatively uncrowded when they got on, at least as far as buses in Central America go. Drew, Sara and Rafael each got their own seat. But as the bus made its way through the nameless streets of Managua, it began to fill up with people. Before long, someone was sitting next to each of them.
Drew felt uncomfortable. He had never been to Nicaragua before, and all his Nicaraguan friends in Costa Rica had told him stories that made it seem like it was a war zone. Drew had bad associations with Nicaragua and what happened to his parents. As if the country itself had caused the explosion that killed them, since no one had been able to prove who actually had. He just wanted to get to the other side of Managua and move on.
A young Nicaraguan guy sitting next to Sara struck up a conversation with her. This made Drew even more nervous. The guy seemed nice enough, but Drew knew Rafael wouldn’t like it. In the short time they had known Sara, Rafael had come to regard her as a younger sister, which Drew thought was odd. First, Sara was older than Rafa, and secondly, Sara didn’t need any help or protection. She had a certain strength about her that Drew had never encountered in anyone before. It was a strength that didn’t stem from being hard and steely like Rafa, but seemed like real strength; a steady, unwavering strength that she exuded; a humble assuredness, as if the worst moment in her life had already passed and she had survived.
Maybe Rafa’s filial vigilance was the result of the fact that Sara didn’t speak or understand much Spanish. At any rate, he was always watching out for her. It was obvious to Drew that it bothered Sara at times, but she let Rafa play the part, for his sake.
"You are from Pennsylvania, also?" Sara’s new friend asked Drew in his choppy English, leaning over to Drew’s seat.
"No, I'm from Costa Rica."
"You're joking." he said in Spanish, looking Drew up and down.
Drew responded in Spanish: "No, my parents were American, but I was born in Costa Rica."
"Is your friend Costa Rican too?" he asked, referring to Rafael, who was apparently uninterested in the conversation, looking out the window, but, Drew knew, listening.
"Not really," Drew said, hesitating. "He was actually born here."
"Vos Sois Nica?" the guy asked, raising his voice toward Rafael.
"I was born here."
"But you speak Spanish with a Costa Rican accent..."
"I know."
The guy must have sensed that Rafael didn't want to talk about it. He switched back to English and back to speaking exclusively to Sara. Neither Rafael nor Drew had asked him his name.
As the bus made its way through the streets of Managua, Drew wondered if all cities were as strange as Managua. The only large city he had ever known was San José in Costa Rica. Of course, he had seen other cities on TV and in movies....the Asian cities--straight up and down and all blinking lights and teeming with life...the European cities--old buildings, pigeon-infested public squares and double-deck buses....the U.S. cities–all glass and reflections with the inhabitants scurrying from one place to the next....and the Latin American cities to which San José belonged–a seeming amalgamation of all the other types of cities.
Managua was different. One of the oddest features was a large hill jutting up from the midst of the city. It was of such a strange shape that Drew estimated its diameter might be greater in the middle than at its base. It was top-heavy and looked ready to fall. Or maybe it was the way the scant light from the city only partially illuminated the hillside. An optical illusion.
"It’s hollow," Rafael said to Drew, pointing toward the bulbous landmass with his chin.
"What?"
"They say it’s hollow."
Chapter 2 – 1984, Managua, Nicaragua – The Past.
Camilo waited in the garden while the doctor’s houseman went inside to wake the doctor. Camilo slowly breathed the moist night air through his nostrils, taking it deep into his lungs. You are to hand the message directly to the doctor. Do not let anyone else read its contents. He looked up at the moon and estimated that it was probably well after 3 a.m. Dawn was only an hour or two away. After he reads the message, he will hand it back to you. His horse was still breathing hard, even though fifteen minutes had passed since he rode up to the house and rapped on the gate with the butt of the old revolver he carried. It had been his grandfather’s revolver. Camilo had never fired it and didn’t even know if it worked. Only two of the six chambers had bullets, and the bullets were probably older than the gun. As a young boy, Camilo saw his grandfather fire the weapon once. You are to burn the message immediately after the doctor reads it.
The doctor’s house had been a two-hour ride from Camilo’s grandparent’s farm. The house was on the outskirts of Managua, probably only 5 kilometers from the lake downtown. It was a nice neighborhood. The sound of his horse’s feet on the paved road had attracted the attention of some of the residents. Lights had gone on as he passed. He had been worried he would be stopped. These were dangerous times. The horse was good for back roads through the country to avoid the army jeep- and truck-patrols on the main roads, but once he got near Managua, the horse drew a lot of attention. Especially in a neighborhood like this one. Especially at two in the morning. Most people probably figured it was a campesino headed into Managua to get an early start at the market. Here, Camilo would not have to worry about army patrols, but would have to be wary of the police. He had rehearsed a routine in case he was stopped. He would say the bus from the village near his farm had broken down and he was dispatched to Managua to pick up necessary parts first thing in the morning.
The moon was three-quarters full, and thin, wispy clouds passed quickly beneath it. You are to report to your cell leader at noon the following day and verbally confirm that the doctor read the message.
Camilo’s head felt heavy, and he bit the sides of his mouth to try to stay awake. He was crouching with his butt on his heels. He folded his arms across the tops of this knees and rested the side of his head on the shelf his arms formed. He could feel himself drifting away to the pulse of the crickets in the dull air. Never write down the name or address of anyone you contact.
The sound of the bottom of the metal door-gate scraping on the concrete porch startled Camilo awake. He had been dreaming that he was in the small wicker basket of a hot air balloon, skimming along three meters above the ground. A rope was dangling from the basket, and men were reaching for the rope to pull the basket to the ground. Camilo was frantically trying to work the controls of the balloon, but he could not make it rise. The controls were a series of levers on a panel that took up most of the wicker basket. There were rows of levers of varying sizes and types, but no matter which way he flipped any of them, he could not raise the balloon. He didn’t know who the men were or what they wanted, he only knew they were after him and he was trying to get away. The rope was bobbing dangerously close to the pincering hands of the men as they jumped for it.
Almost all his dreams were pursuit dreams. When he was a kid, it was dangerous animals or monsters. Now it was almost always men. When he did occasionally dream of monsters, the monsters were much more humanoid than those of his youth. Much less interesting.
He was grateful that he had been wakened away from the leaping and stretching of his pursuers. He estimated that he had been asleep for about a half an hour.
The voice of the doctor’s houseman came from inside the darkened antechamber in a cautious whisper:
"Pase adelante."
Camilo stepped into the antechamber. It felt cool compared to the humid air outside. In the moonlight coming in behind him, he could make out the shape of the doctor standing before him. They had never met. The doctor was short and slight. Camilo took the doctor’s outstretched hand and said "Mucho gusto" as he shook it. In the same instant that he said he was pleased to meet him, he realized that the doctor had not extended his hand in greeting, but only to receive the message. Camilo awkwardly withdrew his hand from the doctor, fished the message from his pocket, and gave it to him.
"Traeme el foco," the doctor said to his houseman.
The houseman stepped into the house proper and returned almost immediately to the doorway of the antechamber with the flashlight and handed it to the doctor.
The light of the flashlight illuminated the doctor’s head as he read the message. Camilo saw the doctor’s face for the first time. The doctor’s expression did not change as he read the information on the paper. The doctor looked to be in his forties, with a stern, grim, hard-chiseled face. His chin jutted out a bit and Camilo could see a bulging vein in his neck pulse rhythmically. The way the flashlight only partially lit up the doctor’s face reminded Camilo of the jack-o’-lanterns he had seen in American movies–grinning and awful.
He kept waiting for the doctor’s shadowface to betray some hint that the message had been read and understood; that the clump of words handwritten in blue ink on the plain white typing paper had some secret significance to which the doctor was privy. But the look never came. Camilo knew the words on the paper by heart. He wasn’t supposed to read the message, but he had. He couldn’t resist the temptation. After he read it once, he knew it had been a mistake to open it. He knew he would read it again and again without making sense of it. He had hoped that somehow the secret to the symbols scribbled on that paper would be unlocked by the expression on the doctor’s face. But nothing. Not even a nod from the doctor. He just handed the message back to Camilo and said in an even, emotionless voice, "Quémalo afuera."
Camilo did as commanded. He stepped back outside, held the open paper away from him, and set it on fire with his lighter. He lit a cigarette from the paper as it burned. He dropped it to the ground as the flame neared his hand. When he turned around, the gate was already closed. He had a two hour ride back to the farm, avoiding patrols. Then he would have to help his grandmother get the children ready for school. Then he would have to go to his cell leader, Marielos, to report that the doctor had read the message and get his next assignment.
Marielos was the reason Camilo belonged to the movement. She was beautiful. He was in love with her, but didn’t know how to tell her. He didn’t understand all of the politics. He didn’t understand what he was doing on any given assignment or why. But he would do anything she asked. He completed each assignment for the simple joy of seeing Marielos in order to get his next assignment. To feel the inevitable momentary racing of his heart as he greeted her, kissing her cheek. He would smile dumbly in her glowing presence. He would blush. It was not his revolution; it was Marielos’s. But the closer he got to it, the closer he got to her.
He finished his cigarette, thinking how there was no way to destroy the message. It was etched in his mind. Meaningless, yet powerful. Numbers, symbols, strange words, and a name.
"0=13-2. Lluevepeces. El Rubio."
Chapter 3 – 1984, Northern Costa Rica, near Nicaraguan border – The Past.
Terri Stillman smiled to herself as she sat in the front seat of the car watching her husband Don clumsily try to hold open the accordian-like map so the gas station attendant could peer at the tiny printed names of towns and roads and shrug and puzzle and suggest a course of action. The attendant probably had no idea where they were headed or how to get there, but he would pretend to know and would tell Don that the fastest way was to turn right and take such-and-such a road until you come to the bend and then left and then right and then ten more kilometers. After twelve years of living in Costa Rica, Terri knew that, generally, if you ask a Costa Rican for directions, they will give you directions, even if they don’t know the way. At first she thought it was malicious, that it was directed at her as a foreigner. But she soon learned from observing her Costa Rican friends that it was done to everyone and was done because it was considered rude not to have an explanation or answer. Giving the wrong answer was less rude than giving no answer at all. Saying you don’t know is like saying you don’t care.
Terri could tell that the gas station attendant didn’t know the way by virtue of the fact that he was looking at the map. If he had known, he would have answered immediately. Another thing Terri had learned during her life in Costa Rica was that Costa Ricans generally don’t use maps. Funny, her husband had lived here just as long as she had, but somehow these unwritten rules of life escaped him. So Terri also knew that her husband would come back to the car convinced that he now knew how they had to go and that it was only a couple of hours.
All this was contained in Terri’s smile as she sat watching her husband.
They had been traveling for four or five hours since leaving San José and heading north. Terri was hungry and tired and wanted to stop to eat somewhere, but they hadn’t seen a town or roadside restaurant in the past twenty kilometers of narrow, twisting mountainous roads.
"Okay, we’re set," Don said as he climbed back into the driver’s seat and handed the misfolded map to his wife. "I’m pretty sure I can get us to San Carlos in time for lunch."
One hour later they were sitting across from each other in white, plastic chairs looking at one-page laminated menus–Spanish on the left, English on the right. They were not in San Carlos. Don had finally relented and stopped at a roadside restaurant. He rested his elbows on the cigarette burn-scarred vinyl table cloth.
Terri looked from left to right on the menu, checking the translations. Gallo Pinto con Huevo - Rice and Beans with Egg; Gallo Pinto con Salchichon - Rice and Beans with Sausage; Picadillo - Typical Costa Rican Dish with Potatoes and Beef; Hamburguesa con Queso - Hamburger with Cheese; Papas Fritas - French Fries. The french fries in Costa Rica tasted different than the ones Terri grew up with in Brooklyn. The Costa Rican variety were small and dry and hard throughout. The flavor was also different. Maybe it was the oil they were cooked in. After all her years in Costa Rica, the words "french fries" no longer meant to Terri what they once had. Now these words, along with certain other words, had come to immediately evoke in Terri a sense of nostalgia--a numb sadness that crept into the back of her mind and remained until well after she could even remember what had made her sad in the first place. "Ketchup" "Restroom" "Highway" "Peanut butter". The sadness was something she never mentioned to Don. She often thought how her son, having been born here in Costa Rica, would never know what "french fry" once meant to her.
Don got the Gallo Pinto con Salchichon and Terri ordered a hamburger with fries.
After they ate, Terri went to the bathroom while Don had a cigarette and rechecked his cameras and lenses. The toilet in the bathroom didn’t have a seat on it. Seatless toilets were another thing Terri had grown accustomed to. She had mastered the art of hovering just above the rim of the toilet in a partial squat, digging her elbows into her thighs above the knees for balance. Terri had also gotten used to carrying her own toilet paper everywhere; there was never any toilet paper in public restrooms.
When Terri returned, Don had various camera parts and attachments spread out before him on the table. He was fastidious when it came to his camera equipment, but with everything else he was a slob. The darkroom at home was immaculate–not a mote of dust to be found on any surface and all of the fluids and pans neatly labeled and arranged on a stainless-steel utility shelf. The rest of the house would have been a shambles if not for the help of Marta, the live-in housekeeper. Terri felt funny about having a housekeeper. It was unheard of in the South Brooklyn neighborhood of her youth. In Costa Rica it was common among the middle class to have a part-time or live-in maid. Marta also helped to take care of their son, and if not for Marta’s help, either Don or Terri would have had to give up their job at the paper.
Don reassembled his camera equipment and carefully stowed it in his leather shoulder bag. Terri made the universal check sign to the waiter, raising her left hand into the air, fingers together, and scribbling into her flat left palm with the imaginary pen held in her right hand.
"Are you going to photograph our beautiful fauna and flora?" the waiter asked Don in Spanish, gesturing to the camera bag as he set the check on the table between them.
"We’re reporters with the Central American Gazette.," Don explained.
"Really? Well, then why don’t you take a picture of my restaurant to put in your newspaper."
"Oh, so you’re the owner," Terri observed, joining the conversation.
"Yes, my family has owned this restaurant since I was a tiny child. We also own a hotel in Guanacaste on the beach."
"That’s nice."
"You both speak Spanish very well. How long have you worked for the Central American Gazette?"
"Too long," Don said, laughing. "We’ve lived in Costa Rica since 1972."
"So you’re practically Costa Ricans by now."
