The Codex

16

Sally looked skeptically at the junk heap of a plane being rolled out of the shabby hangar by two workers.

“Maybe we should have checked out the plane before we bought tickets,” Tom said to her.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Sally, as if trying to convince herself.

The pilot, a lean expatriate American with a torn T-shirt, cutoffs, two long braids, and a beard, came sauntering over and introduced himself as John. Tom eyed him and then cast a sour look toward the plane.

“I know, I know. Looks like shit,” John said with a grin, giving the plane’s fuselage a rap with his knuckles, which made it rattle. “What matters is what’s under the hood. I do all my own maintenance.”

“You don’t know how that reassures me,” said Tom.

“So you’re headed for Brus?”

“That’s right.”

John squinted at the luggage. “Going tarpon fishing?”

“No.”

“Best tarpon fishing in the world. Not much else, though.” John opened a compartment in the side of the plane and began shoving in their luggage with his skinny arms. “So what are you doing there?”

“We’re not sure,” Sally said quickly. The less said about what they were doing, the better. No sense in starting a treasure stampede upriver.

The pilot shoved the last bag in, gave it a few blows to make it fit, and slammed the hatch with a great noise of cheap tin. It took three tries before it latched. “Where you staying in Brus?”

“Haven’t decided that either.”

“Nothing like planning ahead,” said John. “Anyway, there’s only one place and that’s La Perla.”

“How many stars does Michelin give it?”

John gave a little laugh. He opened the passenger hatch and swung down the steps, and they climbed aboard. John followed, and as he entered Tom detected what he thought was a faint whiff of marijuana. Great.

“How long have you been flying?” Tom asked.

“Twenty years.”

“Ever had an accident?”

“Once. Hit a pig in Paradiso. Jokers hadn’t mowed the strip, and the damn thing was sleeping in the tall grass. And he was a big pig.”

“Are you instrument rated?”

“Let’s just say I know how to use my instruments. There isn’t much call for official ratings down here, not for bush flights.”

“Have you filed a flight plan?”

John shook his head. “All I have to do is follow the coast.”

The plane took off. It was a splendid day. Sally felt a thrill as the plane banked and the sunlight shimmered off the Caribbean. They turned to follow the coastline, low and flat with many lagoons and offshore islands that looked like green pieces of jungle that had broken off the mainland and were drifting out to sea. Sally could see where roads ran up into the interior, bordered by irregular fields or ragged patches where the trees had recently been clear-cut. Deep in the interior, she could see a ragged line of blue mountains, their tops sprinkled in clouds.

Sally glanced at Tom. The sun had bleached his light brown hair, streaking it with gold, and he had a lean, tall, wiry, cowboy sort of way of moving that she liked. She wondered how someone could just kiss a hundred million dollars good-bye. That had impressed her more than anything else. She had lived long enough to realize that people who had money cared a lot more about it than people who had never had it.

Tom turned and glanced at her, and she quickly smiled and looked back out the window. As the coast ran farther eastward, the landscape below became wilder, the lagoons larger and more intricate. Finally the largest lagoon so far came into view, dotted with hundreds of tiny islands. A large river fed into the far end. As they banked to make their approach, Sally could see a town where the river joined the lagoon, a cluster of shining tin roofs surrounded by a hodgepodge of irregular fields lying on the landscape like torn bits of rags. The pilot circled once and aimed down toward a field, which as they approached resolved into a grass landing strip. He made his descent, but Sally thought it was awfully fast. Closer and closer they got to the ground, but the plane only seemed to accelerate. She gripped the armrests. The runway flashed underneath them, but still the plane did not drop. She watched the wall of jungle foliage at the far end approach at high speed.

“Jesus Christ,” Sally yelled, “you’re overshooting the runway!”

The plane made a quick easy rise, and the jungle came skimming past them, the treetops no more than fifteen feet below the plane. As they climbed, Sally heard John’s dry laugh in her earphones. “Relax, Sal, just buzzing to clear the airstrip. I learned my lesson.”

As the plane banked and came around again to land, Sally sat back, mopping her brow. “Nice of you to warn us.”

“I told you about the pig, man.”

They left their luggage at La Perla, a cinderblock barracks that called itself a hotel, and then went down to the river to see about renting a boat. They wandered down through the muddy lanes of Brus. It was afternoon, and the heat had rendered the air dead and listless. All was quiet, and steaming puddles of water lay on the ground. The sweat was dripping out of her sleeves, running down her back, and between her breasts. All sensible people were having a siesta, it seemed to Sally.

They found the river at the far end of town. It lay between steep earthen banks, about two hundred yards across and the color of mahogany. The river curved away between two thick walls of jungle, and it smelled of mud. The thick water moved sluggishly, the surface dimpled with whorls and eddies. Here and there a green leaf or a twig slowly made its way downstream. A trail made of logs descended the steep embankment, ending at a platform of bamboo sticks constructed over the water, forming a rickety dock. Four dugout canoes were tied up. They were each about thirty feet long and about four feet across, hewn from a single gigantic tree, tapering to a spearlike prow in front. The stern had been cut off flat and had a mounted board designed to accommodate a small outboard engine. Boards were laid athwartship fore and aft for seats.

They scrambled down the embankment to take a closer look. She noticed that three of the dugouts had six-horsepower Evinrude engines bolted to the sterns. The fourth, longer and heavier, sported an eighteen-horse.

“There’s the local hotrod,” said Sally, pointing. “That’s the one for us.”

Tom looked around. The place seemed deserted.

“There’s somebody.” Sally pointed to an open-sided bamboo shed fifty yards down the riverbank. A small fire smoked next to a pile of empty tin cans. A hammock had been strung between two trees in a spot of shade and inside the hammock a man slept.

Sally advanced. “Hola,” she said.

After a moment the man opened one eye. “Sí?”

“We want to talk to someone about renting a boat.” She spoke in Spanish.

With a flurry of grunts and mutterings of displeasure he sat up in the hammock, scratched his head, and grinned. “I speak good American. We talk American. Someday I go to America.”

“That’s good. We’re going to Pito Solo,” said Tom.

He nodded, yawned, scratched. “Okay. I take you.”

“We’d like to rent the big boat. The one with the eighteen-horsepower engine.”

He shook his head. “That stupid boat.”

“We don’t care if the boat is stupid,” said Tom. “That’s the one we want.”

“I take you in my boat. That stupid boat belong to army mans.” He held out his hand. “Got candy?”

Sally removed a bag she had bought earlier, expressly for that purpose.

The man’s face lit up in a smile. He put a withered hand into it, sorted through the candies, selected five or six, unwrapped them, and put them all in his mouth at once. They formed a great lump in his cheek. “Bueno,” he said in a muffled voice.

“We’d like to leave tomorrow morning,” Tom said. “How long is the journey?”

“Three days.”

“Three days? I thought it was forty or fifty miles.”

“Water going down. Maybe get stuck. Have to pole. Much wading. Cannot use engine.”

“Wading?” Tom asked. “What about that toothpick fish?”

The man looked at him blankly.

“Don’t worry, Tom,” Sally said, “you can wear tight underwear.”

“Ah, sí! The candiru!” The man laughed. “That favorite gringo story. Candiru. I swim in river every day and I still got my chuc-chuc. It working fine!” He swayed his hips licentiously, winking at Sally.

“Spare me,” said Sally.

“So this fish is a hoax?” Tom asked.

“No, it’s real! But you got piss in river first. Candiru smell piss in river, swim up, and chop! If you no piss when you swim, you got no problem!”

“Anyone else come through here lately? Any gringos, I mean.”

“Sí. We very busy. Last month, white man come with many boxes and Indians from the mountains.”

“What Indians?” Tom asked excitedly.

“Naked mountain Indians.” He spat.

“Where did he get his boats?”

“He bring many new dugouts from La Ceiba.”

“And did the boats return?”

The man smiled, rubbed his fingers together in the universal gesture, and held out his hand. Sally put a five-dollar bill in it.

“Boats not return. Mans go upriver, never come back.”

“Anyone else come through?”

“Sí. Then last week Jesus Christ came through with drunken guides from Puerto Lempira.”

“Jesus Christ?” Sally asked.

“Yes, Jesus Christ with long hair, beard, robes, and sandals.”

“That’s got to be Vernon,” said Tom, with a smile. “Was he with anyone else?”

“Yes. He with St. Peter.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Any others?”

“Sí. Then come two gringos with twelve soldiers in two dugouts also from La Ceiba.”

“What did the gringos look like?”

“One very tall, smoke pipe, angry. Other one shorter with four gold rings.”

“Philip,” said Tom.

They quickly made a deal for a boat to Pito Solo, and Tom gave him a ten-dollar advance. “We leave at first light tomorrow.”

“Bueno! I be ready!”

As they came back from the river to the cinderblock barracks that passed as the local hotel, they were surprised to see a jeep parked there with an army officer and two soldiers. Nearby a crowd of children, jostling and whispering, waited for something to happen. The landlady stood to one side, her hands clasped, her face pale with fright.

“I don’t like the look of this,” said Sally.

The officer stepped forward, a man with a very straight back, a spotless uniform, and little polished boots. He gave a crisp bow. “Do I have the honor of greeting Señor Tom Broadbent and Señorita Sally Colorado? I am Lieutenant Vespán.” He took their hands, one at a time, then stepped back. The wind shifted, and Tom suddenly smelled a mixture of Old Spice, cigars, and rum.

“What’s the problem?” said Sally.

The man smiled broadly, exposing a row of silver teeth. “I am devastated to inform you that you are under arrest.”