Hard Red Spring (28 page)

“What kind of buzz?” she asked. “What made them afraid?”

“Father Guiar gave a sermon on the evils of knowledge and the next day a hundred people dropped out of the literacy program. You'll notice they never teach the New Testament.” Naomi put a few dried masks in the box. “I agree it's best we all go. Maybe, with fewer foreigners meddling, the people will finally relax and welcome their revolution without fear.”

“I'm sorry you'll be going,” Dorie said, meaning it. She had never met anyone who spoke about Guatemala like this. She'd never met anyone who was willing to change their mind about what they thought this country needed. “Will you be back?”

“Oh, who knows? Maybe,” she mused, smiling. “It's the lovely thing about being saved. You make mistakes, but you can always be reborn into something better than before. It's lovely,” and this time she said lovely she seemed to mean it more than the last. She lost eye contact with Dorie, turned two masks over in her hands—a jaguar and a deer. “To just start over. Over and over. Until you get it right.”

“It really works that way?”

“Oh yes. Just ask your maid.”

“Emelda? She's been here?”

“Many times. After our lunch together, she said she liked what I said about having a fresh start. She came here to find me and I taught her how to pray. The girl had no idea that speaking to, asking things of God was even possible.”

The radio static jumped in the background, the music cut off by a girl's voice.

“Have you heard
The
Voice of Liberation
yet?” Naomi asked with a frown. The weary missionary limped toward the radio to hear more clearly, then translated the Quiché for Dorie: “
It's a new day for Guatemala. The Communists are afraid, Jacobo Arbenz is afraid for you to hear the truth. The Indians have dignity, they are God-fearing, they believe in the respectability of hard work and morals. Thousands are marching all over the country. They are through being babied, being treated like helpless children. We don't want your land, Jacobo Arbenz! Resign or the people will rise up and throw you out!
”

Twenty minutes later, Dorie slipped back into her own party, where no one had noticed her absence.

—

Driving Tomás and Marcella home late that night, Dorie never thought the air of Guatemala City could be so clean. Jim drove Jenks's car, with the
windows down. The men in the front, the women in the back. Marcella reached for Dorie's hand, then her leg.

“Armando, now, that's a strong name!” Jim proclaimed.

“No, no,” Tomás said. “Too strong, not subtle enough. Juan is much better.”

“What're you talking about?” Dorie demanded to know. She felt so far away from everything in the backseat, even from herself, making her paranoid.

“We're naming the characters in Jim's next newspaper story.”

“Are we being followed?” Jim searched the rearview. “That car's been behind us for a while.”

“I don't think so,” Tomás reassured him.

Marcella's fingers made small raking motions on Dorie's thigh, right under the hem of her dress. Her eyes, hidden by her hat, betrayed nothing. “You look just like a little maid in that dress,” she said. “You want to be my maid? I can't find anyone . . . that Emelda girl owes me money.” Then she fell asleep.

Dorie did not believe anything Marcella said regarding Tomás. Of course the land dispute hadn't been dropped. Unhinged by grief and liquor, she invented the most bizarre stories to maintain the mysterious, pathetic scraps of her life.

“Dorie, I forgot to tell you, Tomás translated your note from the sky!” Dorie had forgotten about the leaflet from the plane, though she had considered it very important for a few hours. “It says, ‘Resistance is futile. Submit to the will of God.'”

“What an odd message.”

“It's from the grassroots opposition, calling on Arbenz to resign. And there's a Bible verse. Which is my favorite part. Something from Jeremiah.” Jim fished through his inner coat pockets and gave the flyer to Tomás.

“
They misled you and overcame you
,” Tomás read, “
those trusted friends of yours. Your feet are sunk in the mud; your friends have deserted you.
”

“Grassroots?” Dorie asked. “How do a bunch of peasants get aircraft?” Headlights appeared again behind them, close, illuminating the cab.
“The Voice of Liberation
delivered an ultimatum tonight.”

“When did you listen to that, Dorie?”

“During the party. Hernando came into the hallway with me, to listen and translate.”

They dropped off Tomás and Marcella without incident. Dorie was tired, so tired. As they drove home, she turned to watch her own face in the side
mirror, translucent and strange, caught in the headlights of a car behind. But then it turned away.

“Is it
The Voice of Liberation
? Did something on that show scare you, Dorie?”

“Of course, everyone's on edge.”

“She's something, isn't she?”

“Who?”

“María, the
Voice of Liberation
girl. The anger in that sweet voice just gets everyone going. Everyone loves her, there's no way to discredit her. Arbenz must be going crazy over it. You can just see her, can't you, when she speaks?”

“Yes, actually, I can.”

“What do you think she looks like?”

“I see a girl in man's pants and boots, standing up in the jungle and yelling into a microphone. A square jaw, those big black eyes. A real Indian.”

“That's exactly what I see!” Jim laughed, slapping the steering wheel. “A real revolutionary leader! A Joan of Arc! Who needs my newspaper stories when you have her? She's
real
.”

As Jim drove back through the commercial zones, Dorie closed her eyes. The night had been so bizarre. She relived it, then began dreaming it. She woke up, on the verge of identifying the source of her troubles, something much bigger than a love affair and a baby. Seeing flashlights and reflective tape, she realized they were at a police checkpoint. Usually the guards waved them through after noting their diplomatic plates. But now Jim had come to a complete stop at a metal bar blocking their way.

“What the fuck?” He leaned out the window to speak to a policeman in a jaunty cap, bent down to look inside. “Can't you see the plates?” Jim said. “I'm the American ambassador.”

“Please, no,” the policeman commanded. He tapped his flashlight lightly just inside the open window.

“What does he want?” Dorie peered out her window to see at least ten other policemen. Hulking, armed shadows.

“Listen,” Jim snapped, his patience already lost with the small intrusion of the flashlight. “I'm the American ambassador. To search this car is to violate U.S. territory.”

The policeman opened the driver's-side door with the ceremony of a chauffeur. “Please, wait here.” With his flashlight, he illuminated a patch of grass that glistened with broken glass. “One minute, please.”

Jim did not move. “I repeat, I am the American ambassador, this car is a territory of the United States.”

“Jim, just get out,” Dorie said, making out more soldiers and guns behind them. At that moment, the latch on Dorie's door released with a pop that gave her a start, for the only noise she had been expecting was that of a gun. Another shadow beckoned for Dorie to step out of the car and she did so, too stunned to resist.

“That's my wife! She's American property, too. Don't touch her!”

“Shut up, Jim.”

Dorie hoped that her evacuation from the car would compel Jim to follow, out of some instinct to protect her. To resist would make things worse, she believed. Jim, used to automatic deference, could not be trusted in this situation.

“Dorie, what are you doing?” Jim shouldered past the officer to confront her in the high beams of the car. In the concentrated spotlight, he looked maniacal, every stray hair illuminated, his skin pale and eyes tightened like a cave creature.

“It's just a checkpoint, Jim. We see people go through these all the time—”

“Not us!” He turned to the two officers. “I'm the American—”

“Yes, American ambassador,” one of them cut in. “Please, come here.”

Dorie obeyed, and Jim followed helplessly. “Dorie, stop it.”

One man stood between them and the car, while four others searched the cab.

“That's American property!” A broken record, Jim remained stuck to the only line he knew. The only line he'd ever needed with anyone until now.

“No,” their guard corrected him. “We borrow it. Guatemalan property right now, but we give you this.” He circled his flashlight beam around their feet. “This is American property. We don't bother you there.” He made a point of stepping away from their circle of grass. “You are safe in America, don't worry. Just don't step out of America!” He laughed, swept his flashlight across the landscape in a way that made nothing clear. Dorie watched one of the men unfold the wadded paper with the Bible verse on it and stare at the letters before folding it into his pocket.

“Okay, now please come into Guatemala.”

Neither of them moved. As if they truly inhabited a sphere of international protection there on the side of the road. The officers placed their belongings back into the Nash with disturbing care.

“If you do not come into Guatemala,” the man said, no longer joking, “I will be forced to invade your country. Please do not make me break the law.”

Dorie stepped toward the car. Jim followed without a word.

“Now, please.” He approached Jim with his hands in front of him, then those hands patted Jim's suit coat. He reached tenderly into the coat and pulled out the gun.

“I see you carry your wife's gun for her.” He held it up so the other officers could laugh at its size. “That is very manly of you, very nice.” He turned to Dorie, his face a mess of smile and shadow. “This is your gun? For your protection?”

Dorie nodded.

“Good. Guatemala can be dangerous for a lady. But still, it is a nice country. I hope you enjoyed your visit.” He handed the gun to Dorie, who had no idea how to accept it. She had never held a gun before and was surprised at how light and easy it felt in one hand.

“Yes, thank you for visiting Guatemala.” The officer stepped aside to allow them into the car. “I hope being here a few minutes wasn't an inconvenience. You can return to the United States now. A very clean car. Very nice.”

The ride home passed in silence, with Jim enraged and Dorie relieved at their luck. Nothing had happened. They had passed through a checkpoint just like anyone else in Guatemala. Like Tomás, Marcella, Emelda, like everyone at their party. Jim made things so much worse insisting that they were special somehow. And she understood, suddenly, that life with Tomás would be so much easier. Nothing to fear at all.

~~~~~

The train to Xela did not have a first-class option. Indians, Mestizos, and Hispanics stood tangled in the aisles. Seated passengers only accounted for a third of the people packed into the car. Dorie and Marcella sat with their luggage stacked around them like a fortress, with Cortez perched behind them.

Despite the nausea, the inconvenience of Cortez, and the smell, Dorie felt elated as their train picked up speed. But she knew it wouldn't last. Over the course of the next five hours, their train would slow and even idle several times to give United Fruit trains the right-of-way. She wanted to go fast, to increase the feeling of freedom overtaking her. For she was happy with her decision to love Tomás. He, more than anyone, must know that a dark child
could ruin him. He had much more to lose than Dorie—his job, his connections. But still, he wanted it. Why? Because he loved her. She no longer cared what anyone thought—in Guatemala or Brazil.

Once she got home, she would tell Jim about her pregnancy, and that would buy her some time. Maybe even some time after the birth. He was deluded enough to believe it. She thought of Emelda and felt better. It was always Indians with white traits she saw, hardly ever the other way around.

They could be in Brazil by the end of the month. The peasants would fight for her. Over the past few days, the impossible had turned inevitable.
The Voice of Liberation
reported marches all over the country, demanding that Arbenz resign. In response, Arbenz announced a widespread military sweep through the mountain jungles to bring the rogue broadcasters to justice.

“He calls them foreign agents,” Marcella scoffed. “But half their broadcasts are in Quiché! Of course, they can't just admit this is censorship.”

Just as Naomi predicted, the Indians were quickly turning against Arbenz. From there, everything began to fall into place for Dorie. Like God waving His hands over the capital, orchestrating events solely for her benefit. If Arbenz resigned, the land reform would be repealed, and Tomás would no longer be needed for the Fruit land disputes. An easy transfer to Brazil. Dorie even convinced herself that Marcella would be thankful for the loss of Tomás. The temporary injury to her pride would be more humane than forcing her to inhabit a marriage she believed unnatural.

The train came to the briefest stop. A minute later, soldiers, about ten soldiers, came through the front door of their compartment, making the car go quiet. Indian women went wide-eyed with panic, their men shrank back from the aisle.

“Jesus,” Marcella whispered. “It's the Communist brigade.”

The soldiers shouldered through in an orderly manner, then exited through the back. Not looking for people, but for seats. To Marcella and Dorie's disbelief, two stopped in front of their luggage fortress, surveyed it briefly, before squeezing by and sitting directly across. Two Indians, now facing them. They wore the same green uniform that Gilberto had only recently been persuaded to discard. These soldiers were going to the highlands to hunt down
The Voice of Liberation
. Everyone on the train knew it.