“Not the army. Guerrillas did that,” said Bob.
“Is that so. What’s your source?” asked Catherine.
“My boss, the U.S. of A. We stand behind the army here. That’s good enough for me.”
“Which means you are sanctioning murder.”
“Murder? Watch your tongue, lady. I call that remark criminally libelous.”
“Well, at least I’m not criminally naive.”
Now a couple of the women began to sing loudly, along with the marimbas—From the mountains, to the valleys—. Others joined in, and over that racket Bob and Catherine began shouting at each other. I stood there like a silent partner, “with” her but not wanting to be, and not wanting to forsake her either.
I could barely hear them. Bob called her a babbling bitch and she told him he was nothing but a puppet, without brains or balls, like most American tourists. I got that much. After that, their words were lost to me. They went at it, back and forth, until the marimbas suddenly cut off, the singing stopped, and into the interstice sailed Catherine’s elevated voice, mid-sentence, all by itself, loud and clear: “—And by the bloody Guatemalan butchers and their fucking U.S. money!”
Across the green terraces heads whirled our way. She looked down. I looked up, at the sky.
The marimbas instantly began to play once more, this time—I swear again—the Guatemalan national anthem, a melody my bones identified. There was a flurry of action at the door of the suite and all eyes turned to where Carlos Méndez were emerging with a party of several men. Méndez looked short next to the person beside him, a large, slightly balding man in a green silk shirt.
“It’s Zondo!” said Tornquist, and he and Bob hurried over to greet him. Méndez held up his hand for silence. The band came to a ragged halt, and now it was his voice that projected across the yard, beckoning everyone to come meet his “long-time matey, leader of the Buenas Nuevas party, Elizondo the great!”
Well, well, here he was before me, the “ubiquitous” politician. He was a remarkably handsome man, I noted, if quite a lot too chesty. His smile looked genuine, a little abashed, as he waved aside the flattery. “And what a lovely looking bunch you all are,” he said, holding out his hands to us one by one, working his way through our group, greeting several people by name. I recognized that voice, the good baritone I had heard on the radio. He spoke English with a flat American accent. Someone commented on it. Oh, sure, he had learned English at Notre Dame not so long ago, he replied. He got an A in English, but failed miserably at U.S. football.
Later I wasn’t sure I witnessed what I thought I did. He was standing in the group just four feet away from Catherine and me. He turned as he finished speaking, saw her and did a second take, or so I perceived it. “Cat?” I thought he said, in surprise. Just that. If he was speaking to her, she didn’t answer. She was walking away. It was over in an instant. Stenning was asking Elizondo a question. “What’s the Good News party? Is that the same as the New Jerusawem of Ríos Montt?”
“Well, since you asked,” said Elizondo. He laughed. “If, with all due respect to our former president, you refer to national unity and high moral values, then yes, I believe Guatemala can certainly be the New Jerusalem of the modern world. But there is much more to that, of course.”
“Never mind the much more, amigo,” prompted Méndez. “Multitudes are waiting to greet you.”
“He knows me too well,” said Elizondo. “So I will just say this, quickly. There is now a fragmented Guatemala, as you know. There is the land of the tourist. There is the land of the campesino, the Indian. Of which I am one, by the way. Yes, part Kaqchikel. Proudly. And there is the land the world sees from a distance, the one of internal conflict.” He was using his hands, gracefully. “But there is another Guatemala, made up of people like you, who work hard and strive to live with honesty and human kindness, pursue art and music and intelligent conversation. I want that to be the whole new Guatemala. There is no excuse for poverty and illiteracy. I want to see every citizen in this country enjoy the wealth and well-being God intends for us all. That’s our best strategy in the battle against evil. We can become a mecca of peace and prosperity, the Switzerland of the southern hemisphere. We’ve got the mountains, haven’t we?”
He chuckled, as if embarrassed by his own largess. Méndez said, “Hear, hear,” giving him a good-natured sock on the arm and hustling him away. The group followed and Stenning and I were left standing together. “What did you think?” he asked.
“Political stump.”
“We’ve been snookered,” Stenning said. “By Méndez. He denies us the right to tawk powitics on his turf, then he springs this guy on us at a party.”
“Is he important?” I asked.
“Did you notice the bodyguards? He’s rich as heck, I’ve heard. He owns a bunch of businesses and runs a big charity. A favorite of the business crowd.”
“That’s where Méndez comes in?” I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to go. I was scanning the lighted areas for Catherine. I should say goodbye.
“It’s the churchy stuff that bothers me,” said Stenning.
Had I missed something? “Méndez?”
“No. Zondo. And his mentor, former President Ríos Montt.”
That name again. “I heard Ríos Montt was a good guy.”
“Depends on the source.”
I was tired of Stenning. We were moving back toward the suite. I thought Catherine might have gone inside but she wasn’t there either. Maybe she had already left. So be it. Stenning poured wine at the drink table and handed me a glass.
“Hey, that’s your tutor, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Where?” I asked, glancing around.
“I mean the one who took on the powers-that-be out there. She’s right on target. You know that peace agreement cooked up here two weeks ago?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Endorsed by the UN, but President Reagan rejected it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to your great country and mine.”
“Skoal,” I said.
THIRTEEN
I escaped, left the party without paying respects to the hosts and headed into the lobby. I decided to stop at a bathroom and almost bumped into Catherine, who was emerging from the women’s. She looked unwell.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Not really.” She could hardly speak, breathing hard.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“Anything but that. I need to get out of here.”
“Then let’s go.”
I started in the direction of the courtyard. “Please, not the scenic route,” she said. So we pushed our way through the lobby to the front entrance. Outside she stopped and leaned against the doorway.
“Let me get help,” I said.
“No, no. It’s nothing. Just a little panic attack.” She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and knocked one out. Her hands trembled as she lit it. I didn’t know she smoked.
“Racing heart?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Sweating? Dizzy? Hyperventilation?”
“Yes. My parents used to think I was having a tantrum.”
“Stomach in turmoil?”
“How come you