Heaven Is High (10 page)

“They call them lagoons,” Bobby said from the backseat. “Swamps is what they are. I guess in the rainy season they could be lagoons. Alligators in there, water moccasins, and God knows what else. Bats, vampire bats, mosquitoes, horseflies as big as birds…”

“Jesus, Bobby, you got to quit bad-mouthing everything,” Ben said. “We want to sell a dream vacation package, and all you do is bitch.”

“I just was saying…”

Barbara tuned them out and watched the changing landscape. Soon dense forest—jungle, she corrected herself—bordered the road. Then cleared land where cattle were grazing. Or land in agriculture. More jungle, more clearing to reveal an extensive orchard. Orange trees or lime trees. She couldn't tell. There seemed to be no people, but it was the hottest part of the day, too hot to work out in the sun. She reached into her bag for tissue to wipe the sweat from her face.

“Let me do the talking,” Ben was saying. “Just let me handle it, will you? And don't babble about the water and the reef. He knows about them already, for Christ's sake.”

Barbara glanced at David and he gave her a fleeting grin, then faced the road again without a word. She wondered how long it had been since he had paid any attention to a thing either of the broncos said.

“You know how long before we get to the turnoff?” Ben asked after a few more minutes, leaning forward on Barbara's headrest.

“Probably twenty minutes,” David said. “It's a paved road, the only one on the right. A settlement called Orange Walk.”

“I thought I saw that on the map north of here,” Barbara said, visualizing the map she had studied.

“This one may be just a signpost,” David said. “The other one's a real village.”

“You'd think in a country small enough to stuff into the corner of a real state back home, they could come up with more names,” Bobby said.

“Stop that!” Ben said. “Jesus, you drive me crazy!”

How long will that marriage last? Barbara wondered. Bobby's complaints and whining would drive her crazy in one day. How long had David put up with that petulance? They must be paying him well, she decided. She took a sip of water.

“After we finish at the Santos finca,” David said, “we'll go on into Belmopan for some lunch before we start back to town.”

“It's a curious mix of Spanish and British, isn't it?” she said.

“More Caribbean than Central American,” David said. “And more British than Spanish. The best tea shops have excellent coffee. A real mix.”

“We'll play up the British part,” Bobby said. “Americans feel less threatened by the Brits than by the Chicanos.”

“If you say anything like that in front of Santos, I'll strangle you with my bare hands,” Ben muttered.

The jungle seemed to be getting denser. Occasionally a gravel road vanished in the greenery, or even a track that simply had been cleared and possibly bulldozed. It looked as if a wall, perhaps a sound-deadening wall, had been constructed along the sides of the road in shades of green dotted with brilliant bursts of colorful flowers from the ground upward until a canopy of foliage closed in.

“It looks impenetrable,” Barbara said.

“So did the fir forests of the Northwest, according to accounts written by the first sailors who made it up the coast,” David said. “A big difference is that you couldn't hack your way through that wall of trees with a machete. Here you can. And in places it thins out considerably, not quite a savannah, but not like this, either. Near the road, with more light, everything grows and grows.”

Somewhere along this road, Barbara was thinking, Augustus Santos had been gunned down. Where had his assailants hidden? How had they known he would be along? Or was it a commonplace, random event on this jungle-enclosed road?

David slowed down a bit and said, “Let's all keep an eye out for the turn. It might be hard to spot in advance.”

No guardrails, and no road signs, either, Barbara thought without commenting on it. The broncos stopped their ongoing chatter and helped watch. Suddenly there were ear-piercing screams, howls, roars.

Barbara jerked away from her door. “My God! What is that?”

The howls continued, gradually died down, only to be echoed from a greater distance.

“The goddamn baboons,” Bobby said in disgust when the noise subsided. “They're not baboons, no matter what the bozos here call them. They're just fucking monkeys screaming their asses off.”

“Black howler monkeys,” David said. “Little guys, ten, fifteen pounds at the most, indigenous here. They say they have the loudest cry of any land animal.” Another howling started, this time from a different direction, somewhere behind the Jeep. “If they scream and no other bunch picks it up, it's probably a male dominance contest. If it gets repeated, it probably is an attack. Jaguar, snake, guy with a gun, whatever, they can tell the difference and repeat the warning.”

“I think for the brochure we should include something like if you're lucky you might hear the famous howler monkeys, and if you're really lucky you might even spot a group of them,” Ben said.

“If you're lucky enough, they'll all drop dead of monkey plague or something,” Bobby muttered.

“We have to include them,” Ben said. “You can't spring something like that on people not prepared for it. You saw how Barbara jumped. It scares the crap out of people the first time they hear it.”

“I think that must be the turnoff,” Barbara said, squinting at a break in the foliage. It looked more like a deep shadow in the greenery than the entrance to a road, but a few seconds later, it proved to be the road they wanted. Paved, narrower than the one they left, with a small sign that said,
ORANG W LK
in lettering so faded as to be almost illegible. There was a ramshackle, abandoned building and the remains of a gas station with a concrete post for a pump, a ruined bit of concrete that might have been a driveway, and nothing else.

“Three miles and then left onto a gravel road,” David said, after making the turn.

*   *   *

It was much hotter on this road. The canopy closed in like a ceiling, then opened to admit a shaft of brilliant light, closed in again, and no air stirred. If two cars approached each other, one of them would have to brush against the jungle. Late in the day, early morning, whenever the sun was not high enough to shine almost straight down, it would be perpetual dusk in here, Barbara thought uneasily. At night, it would be a child's worst nightmare, especially if the howler monkeys started screaming.

She realized that she was beginning to feel a bit of sympathy for Bobby. This was not her kind of forest.

The broncos apparently shared her unease. Their endless chatter was silenced until David turned off onto the gravel road.

“If we can sell him, we've got it made,” Ben said in a low voice then. “He said one hour. That's how long you can take, David. Use it all, the whole hour. I just hope and pray he meant that we'll have an hour to talk to him while you're doing the pictures. Bobby, remember, we go for the economic benefits, not the fun part, not the diving or how great the reefs are. Just the economic benefits. He's a businessman. He'll understand that even if he hates the idea. People. Tourists. New businesses. He'll dig that.”

He was talking himself into his role as salesman, Barbara thought, hearing a note of near desperation in his voice. She felt sorry for him, tackling a job he had not trained for, had not studied, or even wanted. Just a job that had to be done.

“Light at the end of the tunnel,” David said in a low voice then.

Ahead, there was brilliant light, as if stage lights had been turned on, or as if the jungle had died and a sunlit desert lay ahead. Barbara took another sip of water and wiped more sweat from her face.

The vista ahead that opened was of a broad, grassy plain, studded with palm trees in clumps, oasislike in appearance. The gravel road turned into a paved driveway. Birds were flying, and bird cries and songs could be heard over the engine noise. Three parrots flew in a straight line into the jungle. The road curved and before them the plantation house appeared, a low, sprawling building with a red tile roof, shaded by tall trees with scarlet blooms, surrounded by blooming shrubs and low-growing trees heavy with flowers. A beautifully maintained lawn, one that might have been found on an upscale golf course, surrounded the building. A short distance behind it, and on both sides, the green wall of jungle rose. Nearer, a flock of parakeets erupted from a group of trees as a single body, milled about, and descended again.

“Jesus!” Bobby muttered. “It's a fucking Hollywood setting!”

As they drew closer, more house details became clear. The building was in deep shade with a wide covered verandah that appeared to encircle it. A man stood on the verandah and watched their approach. He waved, indicating a parking area near the verandah where two Jeeps and a dark sedan were parked. David pulled in and turned off the engine.

“Here we go, kiddies,” he said. “Barbara, want to help me unload some gear?”

“Sure thing,” she said.

“Come on, Bobby,” Ben said. “Let's get started.” He might have been saying let's face the music from the sound of his voice. Side by side they walked up to the steps leading to the verandah as Barbara and David hauled the camera cases, tripod, and screen from the Jeep.

David laughed softly. “Two scared kids not yet ready for prime time.”

“Do you think they'll succeed?”

“Probably. They reek of money and, as Ben said, Santos is a businessman. Big-time money just walked into his neighborhood. I'd expect him to carve himself a piece of it before he says why not. We'll see how it plays out.”

For the first time, she sensed a crack in the indifference he had shown the broncos and their project. There was a note of contempt in his voice.

10

The man who met Barbara and David on the verandah was no more than five feet five inches tall, and very wide. His face was as brown and deeply folded and furrowed as a pecan nut, with the same kind of shiny high spots. His hair was thick, straight, and black, showing a touch of gray at the temples. His broad smile revealed uneven teeth that never had been near an orthodontist when he was young, although how many years ago that might have been was impossible to guess.

“Miles Ronstadt,” he said. “I'm delighted that you will photograph the orchids. Delighted.”

“David Grinwald, and this is my assistant, Barbara Holloway,” David said.

“My dear Ms. Holloway, please allow me,” Ronstadt said, taking the tripod from her. “Come, meet Mr. Santos before we get started.”

The broncos and Santos were standing at a table farther down on the verandah, waiting for them. Ben and Bobby looked like two college students facing an oral exam they had not prepared for. Santos was tall and slender, dressed in a fawn-colored silk shirt and close-fitting trousers of the same color. He reminded Barbara of pictures she had seen of the conquistadors, with sharply chiseled features and a rather haughty, disdainful expression. His hair was brown and wavy, with a strand on his forehead in what looked like a carefully arranged coif, as if he expected the photographer to pose him along with the orchids and had assumed the right appearance, the right expression, the right hairdo.

Barbara knew he had to be in his sixties, but his demeanor, his stance, everything about him was youthful.

At the table, Ronstadt introduced Barbara and David to Julius Santos. He bowed deeply to her.

“I am charmed, Ms. Holloway, to have the opportunity to meet such a lovely photographic assistant. Please, join us. May I offer you a cool drink? A mixture of local fruit juices? Lemonade? Iced tea?” His voice was velvety smooth, seductive. And his eyes were as cold as black ice, Barbara thought.

“Thank you, but no,” she said. “I understand our time is limited.”

“It will go faster if she assists me,” David said. Then to Barbara, he said, “Ready to go to work?”

“In my country a man would be considered very foolish to rush to conclude any activity that involves such a lovely companion,” Santos said, continuing to focus his attention on Barbara. “But as you wish. I'm sure Dr. Ronstadt will offer every assistance possible. He is our expert.”

“Ready,” Barbara said, placing her beach bag on the floor near the verandah rail. “I'm really eager to see more of the orchids.” She nodded to Santos and turned away, aware that he was continuing to watch her.

“Dr. Ronstadt,” David said as they started to walk down the verandah, “why don't we begin with the ones you consider the most beautiful or the most startling, something like that.”

“Good, good,” Ronstadt said, smiling even more broadly. “My own favorites. Of course, that's a difficult task, to pick favorites. I daresay parents would voice the same objection in having to choose the favored child, but we do have favorites, don't we? Built-in prejudices, largely unconscious ones.”

“We won't need the scientific names,” David said. “These shots are for a brochure, just an indication of the beauty and variety. I'd like pictures of at least half a dozen individual orchids, and several more general shots of the verandah, to show the whole, overwhelming effect of so many rare flowers in one place.”

The orchids were incredible, Barbara was thinking as they walked and David and Ronstadt talked about the photo shoot, the best way to get the effect David wanted. She had nothing to contribute, and examined the verandah and the stunning array of flowers. They were in hanging pots that looked ridiculously small for the number of leaves and the blooms. They were on the verandah railing, and in pots on the floor. Dazzling colors, with strong whiffs of perfume now and again, flowers growing in sprays, uprights, in sizes ranging from no bigger than her little fingernail to mammoth blooms eight inches from top to bottom, or even larger.