Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain
Published by E A St Amant at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition August 2011
Verses and poems within, by author.
Web and Cover design Edward Oliver Zucca
Web Developed by Adam D’Alessandro
e-Impressions Toronto
Copyrighted by E A St Amant May 2006
Author Contact: ted@eastamant.com
E A St Amant.com Publishers
Thanks to the many people who did editorial work on this political chronicle and especially my diehard leftist friends. My appreciation to my friends from Nicaragua as well, who despite their long hours of work in Canada, found time to help me with the manuscript. Thanks also to Robbie Morra and Adam D’Alessandro. This is a work of fiction. The characters were created by the author, and any similarity or resemblance to any actual or deceased person is accidental. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, emailing, ebooking, by voice recordings, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or his agent. Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain, ISBN 978-0-9780118-1-9; Digital ISBN: 978-1-4523-0275-1. The local of Palvara Prison is invented, as are the Contra Camps, the Sandinista FSLN bunker and the Contra leaders. Some other locals are real and events are based on historical facts. This story is viewed through the eyes of an American commercial pilot, a Contra rebel and a businessman who has saved a democrat who was sentenced to death by Somoza and robbed and wounded by the Sandinistas; its perspective is in no way meant to justify the horrible atrocities committed by some units of Contras. Human Rights abuses were committed on both sides during the long conflict.
By Edward St Amant
How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water
Stealing Flowers
Spiritual Apathy
This Is Not a Reflection of You
Five Days of Eternity
Five Years After
Five Hundreds Years Without Faith
Restrictions
Book of Mirrors
Perfect Zen
Fog Walker
Murder at Summerset
The Theory of Black Holes (Collected Poems)
The Circle Cluster, Book I, The Great Betrayer,
The Circle Cluster, Book II, The Soul Slayer,
The Circle Cluster, Book III, The Heart Harrower,
The Circle Cluster, Book IV, The Aristes,
The Circle Cluster, Book V, CentreRule,
The Circle Cluster, Book VI, The Beginning One
Non-Fiction
Atheism, Scepticism and Philosophy
Articles in Dissident Philosophy
The New Ancein Regime
By E O Zucca and E A St Amant
Molecular Structures of Jade
Instant Sober
Living Animal
This book is dedicated to Roger Membreño S
Chapter One
I remember how afraid I was when Bharlina and I arrived in Managua on that day, July 19, 1979 and how I couldn’t eat or drink on the plane because of it. It was on an early morning turnaround Air Canada flight from Toronto, a fancy Boeing 474 with a classy breakfast and free liquor. The flight had been arranged to pick up Canadian Diplomats or those Canadians who thought there might be open fighting in the streets or those who’d too close ties with the Somoza Regime and their American supporters or those who were escaping before the Sandinistas could question them. Bharlina and I were just out of our teenage years and not seasoned journalists by any means. This was always on the back of my mind. It was rumored that the revolution was rolling into the city even as we landed. We were excited, being a witness to a violent event, but frightened too, or at least I was.
Bharlina worked for the Canadian Tribune, a labor newspaper, which I considered a propaganda rag. I was her camera man just as sure as she was my Pakistani princess. She was a good sport in bed and let me pretty much have my way with her. She had this Asian female ideal of sexual sacrifice for a long-term cause. This pretty much summed her up politically as well. I think the long-term cause, in my case, was to convert me to Communism and then marry me. She was a woman of means, as they say, and we checked into the Inter-Continental Hotel. It’s a fine old place and one of the few large structures in Managua which had survived its most recent earthquake. After we’d made out–I burn hot and especially when I’m nervous–we rented a jeep and rushed back to the airport. She wanted to interview the incoming Sandinista hierarchy and I wanted to take pictures of the famous Somocistas National Guard cornered on the tarmac, waiting for the Hondurans and Guatemalans to come and rescue them, read, the CIA. We were authorized by the Sandinistas, or at least she was, but I remembered how I felt when I found myself alone in the abandoned airport. The smell, the temperature, and the sounds were as though seeping into my body by osmosis. I was pretty darn scared.
I caught myself looking up through the holes in the roof of the airport that afternoon, and in the shifting perspectives, I blinked away the bright Central American sun. I wondered again how safe I was, then, glanced down to get equilibrium, scanning back and forth and verifying the footholds. I wore a loose t-shirt which fell well past my hips. It had a Montreal Canadien’s logo. Cement debris littered the floor. The holes in the roof, made by mortar and bullets, looked recent, maybe even from this morning. The walls were pocked-marked. In a strange way, I felt detached from my immediate surroundings. That’s what fear will do to people like me if they try to ignore it. It comes back like a dream, and besides, the twisted paths to this story, prohibits too much logical interpretation.
“Late last night, disorganized groups of the Sandinista rebel coalition poured into the city from all directions of the Central American country of Nicaragua,” I said quietly into a recorder strapped to a bag which held my camera equipment. I stopped and bent to pick up the pages that I had dropped, then, started again. “The strong-arm dictator, President Anastasio Somoza Debayle, known here as Tachito, has fled the country. ”
I stopped again and peeked around a corner and down a hallway also strewn with rubble and litter. I saw no rebel soldiers. As I said, I wasn’t afraid of them, only of being shot by accident. I stepped out into the hallway and continued to walk.
“The brutal and notorious National Guard is even now dissolving,” I continued. “A neighbor country, Guatemala, has promised the United States of America, to come with their air force and rescue thousands of National Guards, known here simply as Guardia. This will avoid their almost certain slaughter at the hands of the unruly rebel forces.”
A shot resounded from inside the building and I lowered my voice. “As I make my way to the roof of this quaint and shot-out airport structure, the remaining Guard, by some miracle, still holds the airstrip to its north. Well, it’s no miracle really. It’s known that while the international community watches, the Sandinista leadership, the FSLN, doesn’t want the blood of the Guardia on their hands. FSLN is an acronym for Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional or Sandinista National Liberation Front. Since last July, one year in a small country of three million people, more than 10, 000 people have died in this civil conflict.”
I made my way up the stairs. Two young men with rifles, wearing FSLN insignia, hurried in my direction. I pointed to my press pass and made sure that the crest of the Canadian flag sewn to my backpack remained in open view, but they completely ignored me.
Being neither a journalist nor a Canadian, I was happy about it. I had false papers and identification, but it would take little research to discover my American citizenship and that I had studied business, not journalism. I made my way to the roof to take pictures of the Guardia leaving or being killed, whichever happened. They might be worth a hefty sum in the days ahead.
“Here in Managua, it’s already begun to get uncomfortably hot,” I continued. “ From beyond the airport, I can hear gunshots being exchanged between the Guardia and the rebels as high-noon draws close. That’s when the Guatemalans start airlifting them. Barriers between the airstrip and the rebel positions around the airport, keep the enemies apart–for now. The FSLN hasn’t officially arrived in Managua. So far, their supporters are respecting the ‘Free Zone’ designated by the Red Cross. I can’t see where the gun fire is originating yet, but the Guardia on the airstrip is in serious trouble if the airlift doesn’t start soon. They must feel abandoned. They have been defeated by the Sandinista Coalition and betrayed by Somoza, whom days ago fled.”
I stopped in front of a wide brown sign with ROOF hand-painted in both English and Spanish. Behind me in the corridor which led to the observation platform, another sign read, Offices of Nica Airlines - Employees Only. I peaked in and looked around. I saw that it had been ransacked and heard a moan. In the middle of the floor lay a short stout man in a pool of blood. He was partly obstructed from my view by a desk and a large open safe, but I went in and crouched beside him. “Can you hear me?” I whispered, staring at the blood on his clothes.
“I’ve been shot,” he moaned with a whisper in pain, but managed with difficulty to lift his balding head to look at me. His English was without a trace of an accent. His body had blood coming from his legs, arms, and chest. I could see he was possibly dying and I was terrified by the sight of it.
“I’ll get help,” I promised.
“You’re American,” the man gasped, “don’t go. Sandinistas did this, after they robbed me. If you go to them, they’ll come back and finish me.”
I felt adrenaline rush through my body. Could it be true?
I bent toward the man’s ears and lowered my voice. “The building is in rebel hands. I’ll get a cart or something. I can’t possibly carry you all the way out of here myself.”
I hurried out and made my way down the hall. I remember being struck by my own mortality and I thought fearfully of leaving him to die. “Reconsider what you’re doing,” I whispered to myself.
Indeed, I even stopped for a second. I had already heard the whispers that the rebels had begun to arrest many of the old supporters of Somoza. “Perhaps this guy you are trying to help is one of them,” I said to myself further. I scratched my head. “Let the Sandinistas look after it,” I urged my cowardly self. “It’s really not your problem.”
I began to walk again, dragging my feet, and soon, I saw several small airport carts. I took one of these and returned to where I had seen the wounded man. I cursed myself. Inside the room, I stepped over to him and again crouched. “What’s your name?”
Although the man’s eyes were closed, and he appeared to be listless, with a gasp, he whispered, “Alfonso Memorio.”
“Are there any blankets or towels in the office?”
He indicated a cabinet to his left with a weak gesture. I rose and soon found clean wool grey blankets. I placed a small filing box into the cart to level it out to its sides, and then, placed one of the blankets over it. I put my arm under him and felt the wet blood. A shiver went through me. With difficulty, I raised him to the cart. He groaned in pain. I threw the other blankets over him and pushed him down the hall to the stairwell. His clothes were covered in blood, as now, were mine. “There’s no ramp,” I whispered, “hold on.”
I counted fourteen steps and could see that each one caused Alfonso immense pain. We reached the bottom of the stairs. I wiped his sweaty brow, and my own with the corner of one of the blankets. “My jeep is a hundred or so yards away,” I said softly.
“Christian, what are you doing?”
I turned guiltily around to see Bharlina. Her round and youthful face expressed exasperation, but her bold eyes always neutralize this unpleasing aspect. She wore a Guatemalan huipil shirt, with a blue design on white silk, worn lose, not tucked into her jeans and falling past her waist. Against her light brown skin, the stunning effect on her svelte body was evocative. She wasn’t a hundred pounds, but her breasts stuck out unabashly. It made her seem impossibly attractive, especially given that she wore no makeup except lipstick, and no jewelry, except bangles.
“I’ve found a wounded man,” I said apologetically.
She brought her hand through her thick black hair and gathered it at the back with a movement which indicated her anger. “He might be one of Somoza’s men.”
“You don’t mean one of the lepers,” I said, sorry about it as soon as it escaped my lips. My chances for more sex today had just disappeared. She swore in Urdu. I realized she had called me a homosexual and the bastard son of a pedophile. I had been translating her expletives ever since our first fight, over two years ago. “Okay, what?” I asked.
“We’re not in the safest place in the world, you know,” she added. “He is likely one of Somoza’s. You better check.”
“There isn’t time to check whether he is, ‘us or them,’ is there? Help me get him to the hospital.”
She looked at me in defiance. Again she swore in Urdu. She said my mother had mated with monkeys and that my family was as ugly as a baboon’s ass. “Let the Sandinista’s worry about it,” she added.
“He says the Sandinistas shot him.”
“What did I say? Remember, we’re guests here, but if we were caught helping Somoza’s men, we will be asked to leave. I want to cover this story.”
I grunted and bent over Alfonso. “Are you with Somoza?”
“I’m the President of Nica Airlines,” Alfonso uttered in painful gasps and rose his head to look at Bharlina.
“What did I tell you?” she asked.
“Did you want me to shoot him, girl, and we could both watch him die?” She spun on her heels and began to walk away from me. “Does this mean you’re not willing to help me?” I called after her. She turned around and came back, cursing again in Urdu. She said my penis was like thread and was only good for flossing her teeth. “I’ll drive,” she added.
I gave a little laugh and made to kiss her, but she pulled away. As we rushed to the jeep, I removed Alfonso’s wallet from his back pocket and looked at the identification.
“Alfonso Memorio, just like he stated,” I said. I put the wallet into my own back pocket.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” she retorted. “You would expect him to at least give his right name.”
I laughed again. “You crazy bitch,” I said to myself, then added aloud, “He said he wasn’t with Somoza, that’s good enough for me.”
“Allow me the courtesy to think what I want about a stranger for whom we are risking everything so that you can fight against the left in your own pathetic way.”
The open jeep came into sight. I turned the cart toward it and considerably picked up my pace. She hustled up beside me.
“Let me talk if we’re stopped,” she said. “Whatever you do, don’t admit to anyone that you’re an American, or that this man is the owner of an airline.”
“Fraulein Chickadee, as you wish.”
“If you hadn’t suckled at the cock of the bull so long,” she said in Urdu, “You would be half-human.”
I laughed for a third time. Her sense of humor was crude, but it worked for me. “He said he was the president, not the owner.”
Bharlina watched the blood drip out the bottom of the cart without changing her expression. “Down here, it’s the same thing,” she said.
We laid down blankets and placed Alfonso in the backseat. She began to race out of the airport. “We’ll have to avoid the streets which lead to the National Palace,” she said. “I’ve heard they’re blocked because of the celebrations. That’s where we should be going, and would be, if you hadn’t got greedy and wanted those photos of the Guardia’s escape.” She looked over and pouted. In Urdu, she called me a stinky purple fart whose odor stays in the room all day. “They shouldn’t be allowed to even leave anyway,” she added. “They should be put on trial for what they’ve done. We’ll have to avoid the roads monitored by the Rebels under the junta’s control. They’re checking for ID and arresting Somoza’s people.”
I looked at her with some sympathy and then looked back at Alfonso. “He’s in rough shape. He’ll be long dead before we get him help that route. The sweat and blood are literally pouring from him. Isn’t there a Red Cross Station near the airport?”
We screeched to a stop. “I forgot about that,” she said. “It’ll be in Sandinista control though.”
“If we want to save him, we better turn around.” She looked uncertain, but after a second, turned the jeep around and drove along the airport road. “There won’t be much there in the way of medical people, I think. You might have to sew him up yourself.”
“Me?” I said.
“You’re the one so concerned about him.”
“You don’t have to be so nasty, being disinterested will do. I know you’ve dragged me down here to witness the glorious revolution and I’m ruining your fun, but really, I won’t be able to forgive myself if I don’t try.”
“They’ll kick us out if we’re caught helping someone perceived as a Somoza supporter. I’ll go back to Canada without a story for the Tribune, and after all, that is why we’re down here–that’s why they’re paying us.”
“The point is, if Alfonso was a rebel supporter shot by one of the Guardia, you would risk your neck to save him.”
“And in that case then, you wouldn’t care.”
“That isn’t true. It makes no difference to me. You just don’t understand democracy.”
“Democracy? Phew.” She said the word with such disdain that I didn’t know what to say. In Urdu she accused my parents of uncapping my skullcap at birth and replacing all of the grey matter with shit. “I understand a great deal about the USA and what it stands for,” she added. “Money. There’s no democracy in America.”
“Just as there is no political freedom in Russia.”
A short silence followed. At length she pointed to a Red Cross sign about two hundred meters away. When we entered the airport service roads, it seemed not to be bogged down in the confusion of the rest of the city. She pulled up in front of a man in bandages who wore the red and black colors of the Sandinistas.
“English?” she asked. He shook his head. In Spanish she asked if there was a doctor in the clinic. The man pointed to a large tent, stuck like a tarpaulin between two old airport buildings, although one of the buildings remained no more than a shack. She pulled up in front of it. I jumped out of the jeep and peeked into the tent, flicking the sweat off my nose. Except for a few wounded men on cots, no one was present. I retrieved a medical dolly at the entrance, and with difficulty, I picked up Alfonso and placed him on it, rolling it into the tent. He was clammy and this time he made no sound . . . the pallor of death had set in. “I’m too late,” I whispered to myself, “he’s going to die.”
A tall blond doctor in a clean white smock came over from the structure to the east and looked at Alfonso. He was also wearing the Sandinistas’ colors. He seemed as though he would be standoffish, but to my pleasant surprise, his eyes were extremely friendly when they met mine. “English?” he asked with a Scandinavian accent.
“He’s been shot many times,” I said, “and is bleeding to death. Maybe he’s already dead.”
The doctor took a pulse, then he began to take off Alfonso’s clothes. “He isn’t dead,” he said with a calm voice.
“I thought this place would be swamped,” I returned.
“Excuse me,” Bharlina interrupted from behind, “I’m going.”
I reached over and kissed her with a light peck, waving a good-bye as she stepped into the jeep and drove away. When I turned my attention back, the doctor had Alfonso undressed. Blood smeared his entire plump body so that his black body-hair was matted crimson red. “Who is he?” the doctor asked.
He spun the dolly into the reach of an intense light and turned it on. I looked at the bright red blood and felt as though I could smell it. “I don’t know,” I lied.
“Nat,” he shouted. A tall blond woman with short hair and wearing glasses peaked out from an enclosure at the back of the tent. She was attractive even in a dull white smock. She also wore the Sandinistas’ colors. “Get the hypo,” he said. “Where’s Phyllis?”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked like some frightened kid whose father is dying.
“Was he conscious when you found him?” he asked as he put on rubber gloves.
“No, but he has been, off and on, since. He has been sweaty, pale, gasping for air, and sometimes, unable to talk.”
The two other medical people now joined him. The one he had called Phyllis was a petit brunette with beaming blue eyes who wore her white smock unlike her co-worker closely fitted to her slender form. “I need pressure and pulse,” he ordered.
He worked quickly, and in a moment, he had checked Alfonso’s wounds by touch. He had looked into Alfonso’s mouth. “Did you say you knew who he was?” he asked again as though sensing that I had lied
“I don’t know,” I lied again. “I was headed to the roof to take some pictures of the airlift when I found him in the hallway. I’m a photographer for a Canadian worker’s paper, The Tribune.”
“Respiration is cold,” the doctor said to his associates. “He’s palpated, and behind the neck it’s gritty. I think that the trachea is pushed over.” He looked up and pointed to a long thin needle. “Is this the biggest that we have?”
“Pressure is seventy-zero,” Phyllis said with a nod. “His pulse is one-forty.”
I watched while he took the needle and actually pushed it deep into Alfonso’s chest. I paled at the sight of it and could hear the rush of air come out the end of the needle. “The lung is out,” he said. “Pneumothorax. There. That’s it.”
The change in Alfonso’s face became visible, like a man who has come back from the dead, and he stopped gasping.
“Pressure is eighty-ten,” Phyllis said, “and the pulse is one twenty.”
He then raised the left arm of Alfonso, cut a hole under his armpit and shoved a large plastic bore tube deep into his chest. Thick red blood poured out of the tube in great spurts into a basin which the one he had called Nat held. I could see that I had placed Alfonso in good hands, but the sight of all the blood made me nauseous and the doctor must have seen it.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s a good thing he’s out,” he added. “We haven’t given him a thing yet.”
“It looks like you have done this a few times,” I said.
“I spent my first rotation in Emerge.” He turned to his assistant. “Start blood stat, ‘O negative,’” he said. His focus then returned to Alfonso, with his attention half on me, although he didn’t look up again. “I had an option here for my last rotation,” he said softly. “They liked my surgery, you see, and in Sweden they’re always sympathetic to any small group fighting the Americans. Nat here, is handy with a knife, and they thought there would be a bloodbath.”
I looked over at Nat feeling faint. “Don’t pass out on us,” he said softly. “Look away and take a deep breath before you look back. The lung is better. This man has been shot at close range. Once through the upper back, exit chest, through the hand, exit palm, through the upper leg above the knee, exit back upper leg and through the back lower leg, exit front lower leg. Nat, look at this. You know what? All the wounds are from the same shot. What a mess. He must have been shot at close range.”
I watched at this point in somewhat of a stupor. “Pressure is eighty over forty,” Phyllis said. “The pulse is one-fifteen.”
“We’re getting there,” he said. “Start second intravenous.”
He began to sew and bandage Alfonso. I was amazed. Outside of being born, I don’t think I had ever been in a hospital or clinic in my whole life. I hadn’t required stitches, casts, or operations for anything, not even antibiotics. Here I stood thick in gore and blood and I hadn’t even thrown-up. I was downright proud of myself. Alfonso’s blood had leaked everywhere and I looked down at my own clothes. They were full of his blood. “It appears that I’ve helped saved someone after all,” I whispered to myself.
The doctor gave me a quick smile. “One bullet, close range,” he said, “incredible isn’t it? Listen, if you want to come back in one hour, maybe two, then you’ll know whether all of this trouble you’ve gone through leads to the man’s recovery. What’s your name?”
“Christian Hudson.”
“You can see that he’s stabilizing. His breathing has improved. I’ll give him some morphine. He will sleep peacefully. If he stabilizes, he has to go to the hospital. The bullet appears to have taken out only minor arteries, but the next two hours will tell the tale.”
“Pressure is ninety-sixty,” Phyllis said, “and the pulse is one hundred.”
“It looks better all the time?” I asked.
“If you could arrange for a taxi later this afternoon that would be the fastest way to the hospital in this present situation. The revolution has caused major traffic problems.”
“Two hours then?” I asked.
I tore myself away and raced to the roof of the airport, but the Guardia had gone. I took out my binoculars and looked out at the city, but from my angle there was little of the revolution to capture on film. I didn’t know whether I would be safe wandering the streets, and I decided to head directly back to the hotel. A ride would have been nice, but I didn’t see any taxis for over an hour. Parts of Managua destroyed by the earthquake on December 23, 1972 had never been rebuilt for fear of a recurrence and streets flagged and dropped out into open grassy areas. The earthquake had destroyed most of Managua, generating many fires, and leaving about two-hundred-thousand-people without homes. This last year, Somoza had bombed parts of the city in desperation.
As I passed through the busier street I saw that the FSLN was definitely stopping many people, especially older men. I got the feeling they were searching for the Guardia’s leadership. I saw no one killed that afternoon, but I saw a lot of people questioned at gunpoint. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Managua isn’t pretty to begin with, but with everybody shooting their guns into the air, and with the confusion in the streets, by the time I saw a cab, I jumped in. I had seen all I had wanted of the revolution.
Although I was close to the hotel, on an impulse, I had the driver return me to the airport. He understood little English, but got me safely back and promised to wait. For all the sights and sounds I had taken in, only three hours had passed when I looked next at Alfonso. He was pale, but looked much improved. “Christian, he’s all set,” the doctor said and came up behind me. I shook his hand. “No major arteries were severed. He can go to the hospital.”
“Does anyone speak Spanish so as to explain to the driver what we’re doing?”
The doctor and the cab driver spoke for a few minutes and he sent a note with me. When we arrived, I didn’t stay long with Alfonso who wasn’t conscious. He was placed into a room and I gave a nurse twenty dollars to look after him. She seemed nice and I supposed that ended my responsibility toward him.
I had asked the driver again to wait, and when he delivered me safely to the hotel, I gave him forty dollars for his trouble.
Through the corridors and up the elevator of the hotel, everything seemed as usual. Few people were about though, and there were absolutely no tourists. I threw my shirt on the double bed and I stepped out onto the balcony. I could see down into the bright blue water of the large swimming pool below. It looked inviting. I stepped into the bathroom, turned on the shower and gave silent thanks that they’d still warm water. I crawled under the clean white sheets and fell asleep for an hour.
When I awoke, Bharlina was getting ready to go out. “What’s up?” I asked.
“My friends are having a celebration tonight and we’re going.”
I told her what I had seen that afternoon about people being questioned at gunpoint. “It’s not safe to be in the open streets,” I added. “Too many people have guns.”
“It will be an indoor-event. It’s nonpolitical.” She only meant there would be no speeches, but there would be plenty of guns. The bastard of it was that by about ten o’clock or so, they would be guns held by drunks. Tonight she wore a bright ochre-colored Mexican sleeveless tunic with a white cotton shirt and a straw hat hung behind her. The skirt fit her body in a manner which completely hid it. I was used to this modesty. I had even grown fond of her style, whether dressed in a bright silk Pakistani Sari, Cantonese Cheongsam, or Japanese Kimono and obi, she could stun any crowd with her beguile, and what is more, she knew it.
She had expressed the belief to me on numerous occasions that female sexual appeal and modesty were closely linked and that western men with the need for instant gratification had mistakenly shunned it. Moreover, short-sighted western women, had lost sight of it. I didn’t believe it for a second. It was as silly as anything she said. It had been manufactured from her anti-Western views. Her stunning beauty gave her license for whatever theory she spouted, as does any female born with it: Beauty does what it wants, irrational or otherwise. What man is going to be stupid enough to argue with such beautiful creatures. I took a shower and came out without clothes. She was sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony looking over the book I was currently reading, In a Free State, by V. S. Naipaul.
I pulled her into the room. Even after all this time, she got flustered when I was ready to go, what she called, being perky. It sometimes hurt her if I wasn’t careful. I kissed her, and although she didn’t exactly melt in my arms, she didn’t resist either. I think she liked my body, but not the fact that I ran so hot and asked for sex so often. I think she thought that I was part of the white-imperialistic-male-exploiters’ class and that we were all potential rapists.
I had short hair and a clean-shaven face, but the rest of my skin with the exception of a shot of black pubic hair above my genitals, was hairless. My body was taut, lean, but muscular too. I could easily give it a go three or four times a day. I was her first lover, and she was a sucker for me, but she hated it in principle as well. I think that she was a hostage to her own emotions. Something has to account for what occurred later. I think the seeds of hatred were planted by the license I took with her in moments like these, that is, especially sexually. While I burn hot, I try to be a considerate lover, but she had already had an orgasm earlier that morning, and nothing I had tried so far, could get her up twice a day, not booze, rest, exotic-places, fondling, visual-stimulus or anything else.
Afterwards, I dressed in dark green cotton pants and a white short-sleeve dress shirt which I had bought in Montreal with a logo on the pocket, Canadian Rocks. We walked from the hotel passed Somoza’s old office buildings down through toward the Central Park. Everywhere, there was confusion. Crowds of people made of mostly young boys, were hanging huge black and red Sandinista flags off of the buildings. We whispered to one another about the over exuberant masses. We were both nervous foreigners. The streets were crowded and the markets, busy, but we also saw people being taken away by the FSLN patrols, others being beaten by young men while the crowd cheered them on. It was as lawless as you can imagine in that dirty hot city.
The fear must have crept from my heart to my face. “We are almost there,” Bharlina whispered in my ear and then squeezed my hand.
I saw that she wasn’t happy about it either. We arrived at the Old Managua Cathedral, ruined since the 1972 earthquake but still standing. Near the doorway, a large banner hung depicting Augusto Ceasar Sandino, the namesake of the Sandinistas and Nicaragua’s national hero in the resistance against American colonialism. He had been murdered by the American-backed Somoza family in 1937.
We were welcomed by several men with AK-47s and wearing FSLN colors, but inside, I took immediate satisfaction in the fact that no guns were allowed. I saw there was a makeshift bar and the place was about twenty degrees Fahrenheit cooler than outside. I bought us cold La Toña beer. She introduced me to a skinny man with dark dirty hair. Fernando Uressé. He wore a thin mustache and had pimples on his face. He was taller than I by about three or so inches. Although I smiled and shook his hand, he looked to me unwholesome, greasy, maybe even sneaky. I dismissed him in my mind immediately. He also had an unmanly handshake. He wore FSLN colors, but I would have never dreamed that he had the ear of the junta leadership. Several other men came and shook our hands. They wore FSLN colors and I bought them all beer. Fernando told me in Spanish that he had been four years in the bush, or at least that’s what I think he said. “You must be happy today,” I said.
His answer totally surprised me. “I understand you’ve met Alfonso Memorio?” he said in perfect English.
I looked over at Bharlina and felt my cheeks flush. “Not many people realize that they’re arresting everyone connected with the Somoza government,” I retorted hotly. “Your enemies will soon all flee.”
I watched Bharlina’s face turn red and felt some satisfaction. My views of the revolution, and what I saw as its drunkenness, had in hours radically hardened me. The experience earlier in the afternoon with Alfonso had opened my eyes to see the obvious violence of the street, and when I had, I saw more than I wanted. This dark and gloomy church somehow symbolized it all: the smell of beer and smoke hung in the air, the dried mud floor littered with dead bugs and cigarette butts, and Bharlina’s friends, the ones who stood within an earshot, assessing me with haughty glances, then, as if they had made a collective decision, they drifted away in silence.
I took a sip of beer and watched Bharlina hightail it to the back of the hall with the pimply skinny Sandinista official. One man stayed, a teenager, and I caught his eyes and smiled. He had a brown complexion, perhaps five foot seven in height with dark short hair, and was trim with a beardless face. “Do you think it was something I said?” I asked.
He gave a soft forced laugh. “I think they don’t want to hear what you had to say,” he said. “But it’s true. Are you American?”
I pretended to be flabbergasted. “Is that an accusation?” I asked.
Somewhere from behind the makeshift bar, Latin music began to play, Maria, a traditional Spanish song. Some of the men sang it aloud and some of the women swayed to the melody. I saw that the teenager’s eyes were intelligent, and filled with humor, but I saw fear as well.
“I hail from New York City,” I continued in a hushed voice, “and I think that you’re right, I alienated my audience. It’s a good thing I didn’t tell them that I think Solzhenitsyn is the true leader of Russia and that Stalin killed more innocent people than Hitler ever dreamed of killing.”
“A professor once told me that on the political plain, Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Gabriel Marquez were mortal enemies.”
“I read ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ and I figured out by the end that it had been written by a Marxist, so I believe it, although I liked his book, ‘Glory and Power.’”
“Was that, The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene maybe?” he asked as though embarrassed for me.
I took another sip of beer, eying him suspiciously. “I had forgot about Graham Greene,” I said. “Is he a Marxist? They’re probably all Marxists.”
“I think he’s a Catholic writer.”
“I’m Christian Hudson.” I offered my hand and we shook.
“Nico Gilliez,” he said
“Where did you learn English?”
“ It’s common to learn English in Nicaragua if you get an education, but I spent also two years in the University of Miami.”
“Do you live in Managua?”
“My dad worked with the Guardia here in the city, that’s how I got to go to America.”
“Nico, why are you celebrating?”
“My dad and I are close; good friends, and I know he hates Somoza as much as anyone and is glad to see him gone. He called him Our Fat Little Pig.”
Despite my concern for him, I laughed. “The word, chubby, is much nicer than the word fat,” I said, “especially when you’re describing corrupt Central American dictators made in America.”
“You’re funny,” he said without laughing.
“It’s true, I am, but apparently, you’re the only person in Nicaragua who thinks so. Is your dad in danger? I’ve already seen many people arrested, some publicly beaten.”
“I don’t think so, they’ve promised a general amnesty.”
I could see the anxiety in his eyes. “I think revolutions are risky,” I said. “The only successful one to ever occur was in England in the sixteenth century. It’s often called the Bloodless Revolution. Of course it wasn’t without political violence, but the landowners overthrew the king and introduced a Bill of Rights. There were no mass arrests or public executions. It’s quite British if you think about it. I admire the English.”
“The word in the streets is that the junta believes someone has to pay for the sins of Somoza since he’s not here to do it. They say it won’t last long.”
“Talk like that is bad.”
“If someone has to pay, I just hope it doesn’t have to be my dad.”
“Your father isn’t in Guatemala then?”
“He’s in hiding. The junta promises not to fight with the Guardia and police, but everyone’s afraid.”
“Would you like another beer?”
“Thank you. I’m waiting for a neighbor–a close friend to arrive.”
“Then, I will get a few.”
I walked over to the self-serve cooler, threw down some American dollars into a metal bowl and took six Triple X. “Christian, is there any place in the world where you won’t embarrass me?” Bharlina said in a low urgent voice, stepping up behind me.
“Yes, in bed.” In Urdu, she said that my mother was a whore who had given birth to a dozen illegitimate retarded baby-boys and left them up for adoption all over New York State. She tried to pull away, but I grabbed onto her hand. “You started it,” I accused, “and you know it. You turned in Alfonso, you little bitch.”
“You smell like beer.”
“Everybody here smells like beer.”
“You’ve picked out the one person at this party who has a direct link to Somoza, no one knows why he’s even here.”
“Actually, he picked me out, and besides, who gives a shit?”
She looked at me with genuine concern and pulled her hands gently away. “Anybody in Managua with a gun.”
“You mean everybody?” In Urdu, she called me her little muchacho and said I was too selfish to be a leftist.
“You’ve got to love the Left,” I retorted, “especially when they act just like the Right. They become indistinguishable.”
She smiled, but it was a nervous one. “If you can’t see the difference, that’s fine. Americans are like that, but you’re being provocative on purpose. My friends in Managua, are concerned for your safety.”
I shook my head with incredulity. “I hope you’re not threatening me?” She sighed, and in Urdu, said that all the brain cells had long ago gone to my penis. “It found you all right,” I repaid hotly, “didn’t it? I should walk with my head bowed fearful of the left?”
“Try to get focused on your own safety. You could get us both hurt. The people are drunk on revolution, and one more thing. There’s a lot of anger, and please, don’t talk to the kid over there anymore. He has been identified as a collaborator.”
“He told me that his dad was a Guardia, but he hated Somoza.”
“Everybody hates Somoza now, but that kid’s a fool to be here.”
“Your fangs are showing, my Karachi girl.”
In Urdu, she told me that I talked through my ass and that it sounded like a throng of lemmings. “You’re cute though,” she added in English.
She returned to Fernando and I walked back to Nico, handing him a beer. “Is that your girlfriend?” he asked above a Reggae song which was loud. I nodded. “She’s pretty,” he added.
“I think so too.”
“She’s from India?”
“She’s a Canadian Pakistani from Toronto.”
“I know Toronto.”
“Have you ever heard of Nica Airlines?” I asked. He nodded. “Let me tell you a little story about the President of Nica Airlines, Alfonso Memorio. Rebel bandits shot him today, and Bharlina and I were at the Managua airport to scoop some photo’s of the airlift of your dad’s friends, and we saved this guy.”
“I’ve heard of him. I think he had trouble with Somoza. Is he in trouble with the junta?”
My eyes wandered the room and I spotted a group of young men who stared at Nico with open disdain. “Boy, if looks could kill,” I said to myself. For a moment, this made me consider Nico’s question more seriously than I might have. “I hadn’t thought of it,” I said, “maybe he is in trouble. I should have inquired but we’ve been busy, but at least I know where he is, since I brought him there myself. So, where is your friend and why is he coming here?”
“His name is Esteban Colero. His fiancée, Beth Paleiro, is with the Catholic School Student Coalition which supports the democratic changes which the Sandinistas promise. She’s the reason why I got invited here.”
“They invited her to this party?”
“Beth and Esteban met at school, and some of her family is rich and connected to the Chamorro family, but his family’s income is inadequate. It hasn’t gone smooth between them.”
“Esteban comes from the wrong side of town?”
Nico glanced at my face as though he tried to understand the expression I had used. “They’re neighbors in the Olè Parcos barrios,” he said. “You’ve never heard of the Chamorro family?” I shook my head. “They are Nicaragua’s Kennedys,” he added. “As I said, Esteban’s family is less rich than hers, but he is connected to our family through our friendship and thus through my dad to the Guardia. So he has some respect. Do you see what I mean? Until last week that meant something. That part is gone, but the Paleiro family is still friends with the Chamorro family. The Sandinista’s can’t afford a fight with the Chamorro family. They were the only public opposition to Somoza through the years and Pedro Joaquin Chamorro was assassinated on Somoza’s orders last year. He was the editor-in-chief of La Prensa, the National newspaper which the Chamorro family owns. Under Pedro, it had publicly criticized the regime and he had been arrested many times. Esteban and Beth will keep the engagement secret for now.” He looked toward the entrance. “There they are now.”
A young mestizo couple walked in our direction. They were both lithe and tall, and both had nervous smiles, as though they were conscious of the glances which came their way. To be sixteen again, I thought. “She’s beautiful,” I said aloud to Nico.
“Yes, hot, everyone’s jealous of Esteban. She drives the men wild.”
Esteban wore his hair long, passed his ears, and his plain white t-shirt was tight and showed a developed chest. He stood a few inches taller than his friend, Nico, and to my eyes, weighed twenty pounds more. He had a tough-guy image. Beth dressed in a new flowered-skirt and white-blouse which clung to her body as though to bring out every young man’s attention. Her face had classic Spanish features and I could understand how she could drive men wild. Her rich black hair fell in thick waves behind her head, and accentuated her dark shining eyes.
Nico hugged them both. He looked much relieved that they had arrived. “This gentleman, Christian Hudson, has bought beer for us,” he said by way of introducing me. I passed them each a cold one and they shook hands, then we stood in silence a moment. I caught Esteban’s eyes. “You’re Catholic, young, and in love,” I said over the music, “what else could you possibly want?”
Nico translated my remark. This seemed to break the ice and they laughed politely. “A job,” Esteban returned with a thick accent.
“As of dinner-hour,” I said, “there was full employment. They made it law this afternoon.” This remark received no response. From across the room, I glance over at Bharlina, who I knew surreptitiously watched me. I waved and winked at her. “Do you see my girlfriend over there, the tall Asian woman in orange?” I pointed through the smoke into the back of the Cathedral where she was gathered with a group of Sandinista soldiers. “She’s from Toronto, Canada,” I continued, “a safe place. I’m from New York City, a not so safe place. Just before you arrived, I meant to tell Nico, as a joke I mean, considering the crime-rate in New York City, that the shooting in the streets of Managua makes me a little homesick.”
Nico translated my remark, but it received no laughter. “Darn, one bad joke follows another,” I complained. “One has to work overtime to entertain the Spanish down here.”
Beth put her hand on my shoulder, leaned over to my ear in a friendly manner. “Many people watch us with bad looks, ” she whispered, “and it is hard to laugh.”
Her English was excellent. I nodded. “Let’s take our beer and go for a walk,” I suggested.
They were dressed in their best and we walked to the Inter-Continental Hotel. We drank with the leftist press in the lobby which had come to watch the celebrations and cover the news from a safe place of the people rejoicing about violent revolution. I took them home by cab and for the next few nights we met to discuss the developments happening around the city.
Five days later, in a dingy café near the hotel, I sat smoking and reading the FSLN’s official newspaper, the Barricade. One of the lines in the cover story on Humberto Ortego, stated, ‘Ortego declared in a speech to laborers, that the junta could wipe out the bourgeoisie immediately if they so desired, but they didn’t plan to do so.’
I showed the quote to Bharlina who shrugged. I showed it later that night to Esteban. “I think it would be foolish to believe any specific thing any of them said right now,” he said wisely–his English was nearly as bad as my Spanish. “He’s just playing to the left, but what about the man you saved, maybe he’s the bourgeoisie whom they mean?”
I nodded and thought immediately of Alfonso, then the next day, I asked Bharlina for the jeep. When I arrived at the hospital, I saw no FSLN presence, but I was careful not to ask about Alfonso at the reception. I went straight to his room. When I entered, I awoke him. He was alone. The room wasn’t much to look at but was clean and bright. “You recognize me?”
“Your face is superimposed in my mind, young man,” he said in perfect English, “but you stand taller than I remembered, and a little thinner. You don’t weigh over hundred-and-fifty pounds I would guess.”
“One hundred and sixty-five.”
“There’d be no mistaking you for Nicaraguan or even South American though. You look American with those grey, steely eyes and short brown hair. A Godsend I’m sure.”
He sat up with difficulty and we shook hands. My glance must have wandered to the empty stained bed pushed to the other wall and the faded yellow curtains on the windows. “It’s what Somoza has left us,” he said softly, as though reading my mind, “but it’s wonderful that you’ve come. I wondered if you would.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I am much better. I had heard that you are a newsman?”
“I’m on assignment for a worker’s weekly from Canada as a photographer.” We traded glances and I couldn’t think of what to say. I felt ashamed. “It’s not like that,” I said, “I don’t believe in Communism–it sucks, but not all the Sandinistas are communists.”
“They are, son, as sure as they shot me, communist to the last man and woman.”
“Are you still in danger then?”
He spread his arms to the right and left. “Do you mean from Nicaraguan medicine?”
I laughed softly and showed him the quote in the Barricade. “What are they up to? ” he asked. “Are they going to start rounding up their enemies immediately? From my knowledge of what happened in Cuba at the time of Castro’s Revolution, I knew that the communists never defined what the word Bourgeoisie means, but I know enough that at the very least, it includes me. As the President of Nica Airlines, the partial owner of Aeorzo Airlines of Guatemala, the operational Vice President to both Central American Airlines of Honduras and El Salvador, and a paid advisor to Tica Airlines in Costa Rica, I most definitely fall into that category. If the Sandinistas knew that I was alive, they’d arrest me as a traitor to the people whom I have always served. I’ve helped put Central America into the airline business. Yes, I think I better leave poor Nicaragua as soon as possible.”
He looked up and smiled. I sat on the corner of the bed. After a moment’s consideration, I rose and wrung my hands. “I agree with you, Alfonso, and to be honest, it’s really why I've come today, to help you escape Nicaragua.”
His eyes brightened. “I’m glad to hear it,” he whispered.
“Indirectly because of me and Bharlina, they may know you are here.” I told him what I knew.
“They’re still in disarray,” he said. “Disorganized, give them time. I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve seen it first-hand in Cuba. By Christmas they’ll be rounding up their enemies wholesale, who for now so carelessly assist them, but I believe you are correct. I need to get out of the country. Are you my Guardian Angel?”
“I think you’ll find me a skeptic on that front. Do you have any family?” I could see that he didn’t understand the first part of my statement. He shook his head to the second part. “I have a jeep,” I continued, “Bharlina and I were planning to visit San José anyway. I can get you out that way. I leave tomorrow, but I’m happy to wait for a few days if need be.”
“Tomorrow is fine. I know some back roads where we could cross the border. We can start down the coast. Because of my wounds, we’ll have to go slow, but I know the way. However, at the border they may be checking papers.”
“Did you really own Nica Airlines?”
“Apparently, not anymore.”
“Doesn’t a fellow like you have property and family in Nicaragua?”
“It’s what you would call a long story. I will tell you later about those things. For now, everything must be left behind.” I nodded. “As for Nica Airline’s aircraft, I own some cargo planes and a few DC-9s. I had licensed routes and ran an Aero taxis service with six single-engine planes, and some Dovers, some Islanders. We did good business, but I still have them all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They are out of the country. I waited around, the fool that I am, to see if the Sandinistas would keep the promises made to the COSEP, the Superior Advisor of Private Enterprises, that’s the business group which backed them against Somoza. Those promises included keeping their hands off businesses and business leaders. It may seem odd to you, but at COSEP we were democrats stupidly supporting the Communist front, but we realized that no other group could have ousted that cruel and corrupt son of a gun; we thought the Sandinistas would understand where they had received their support, well . . . I suppose we were blinded by hope. Already though, the Sandinistas are confiscating businesses. It’s time to leave. I should have left weeks ago as my business associates did.”
“Costa Rica will be safe?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t come back, especially if you are going to help me leave.”
“I know, it’s getting bad. Already there is no food, but Bharlina thinks she’ll stay. She will eat rice, but like Emerson, I'm a tapioca man.” I laughed at my own joke, but Alfonso didn’t understand it and only smiled politely. “That’s what Frederick Nietzsche called Ralph Waldo Emerson, ” I continued, “a tapioca man. You know, Emerson, the American poet and transcendental philosopher from New England.”
“I’ve heard of him. During my university years, I read Nietzsche. He’s an awful man.”
“Anyway Bharlina is in love with the idea of the revolution.”
“She will manage okay with them then; don’t we see what we want in this life?”
I breathed in as though under a hard test. “She says that you were shot by bandits and that the rest is in your mind.”
“She is right on that count. They were Sandinista bandits.”
“How are you so sure?”
“They understood who I was. They were operating on general orders not to let owners leave with their money, so they robbed and shot me–and left me for dead–it’s simple enough, really.”
“That’s all, robbery?”
“To the victors go the spoils.”
“But you were on their side.”
“I’m sure they would disagree with my own assessment. I opened the safe at a gun point when they shot me. It’s conceivable that the shooting itself happened accidentally. The rifle one of them held to my back just fired without warning. They were nervous and young, but they were Sandinistas, on that, you can be sure. They had the logos, the insignia, the lingo, and they knew who I was.”
He looked over and smiled, waiting for further interrogation. I realized that the two young rebels who’d nervously passed me in the airport that day had been the ones who’d shot him. “Maybe we should leave right now.”
“Maybe we should.”
“Come with me then. I will get my things and we’ll start.”
“Get your things and come back. I should be traveling through Managua as little as possible. Are you sure they aren’t following you?”