the cj political report/THE BOOK CAFE...

EXCERPT:

MAMBO!
A Conversation with the Gods

IT BEGINS
1980

Jorge Petro-Brain laughed at the moon. Drunk and high on weed, he felt positively euphoric. He wondered at the huge violet ball that winked from the sky. It, too, seemed to be laughing. The idea of the moon laughing made Jorge hysterical.

This night the moon and Jorge smiled together.  He liked the moon tonight. This evening he liked everything. He had just gotten laid for the first time and, now at sixteen, felt very much a man. He tugged on a joint, inhaling the aromatic marijuana deep into his lungs. He winked back at the moon and again erupted into a fit of laughter. He sat down on the side of the road he traveled home loosening the buttons at the neck of his military uniform. To please his mother he wore his formal garrison jacket. He knew his sister, Adalila, was proud of him in his army uniform. His mother had told him that the ten-year-old would proudly describe him as guapo to her friends. Jorge was God to Adalila, father and brother alike, and now her big army man as well. Jorge shook his head in disgust. He wondered what his sister would think of him if she knew how he really felt about the military. He despised it. Thinking about his life in the army caused a scowl to cross his face. Still, his little sister felt differently. Because Jorge loved her, he would never reveal his true feelings to Adalila. Before his sister, he would stand tall and erect, proud, the way a good soldier should. He pictured his adorable Adalila with her bright, brown eyes and her wide dimpled smile. She told everyone who would listen that her brother Jorge was in the armed forces. He had a very important job to fight the rebels, Los Muchachos, opposed to the military regime now in power. “Los Muchachos, they are Communistas and very bad,” Adalila asserted maturely behind her round, innocent eyes. Jorge did not remember knowing anything about the Communists when he was ten years old. At sixteen he was sorry he did. He hated anything political. Politics had ruined his life. 

He looked at his watch. He was drunk but not so high that he didn’t remember his mother and sister were anxiously waiting for him to arrive at home. It was already past ten, and he still had a few kilometers to walk until he reached the house. By now, his mother and sister were probably fraught with worry and rightfully so. He had written he would be home by nightfall and it was unusual for him to be late. His mother had always insisted on his promptness.

Oh, but what a wild time he had tonight! After his first six weeks of army indoctrination, he had behaved like a lion from a cage. His leave was worthy of a celebration. He and his friends embarked on a drunken rampage. They’d managed to make it to the slum streets of the red light district where Jorge experienced his first woman. Just thinking about it now made his dick hard.

Suddenly feeling paranoid, he stood up to walk. Thinking it was the grass that caused his uneasiness; he dismissed his nervous feeling and threw away the last of the joint. What he felt, however, was not an unfounded fear. In Jorge’s country, those who knew better stayed off the streets after dark. It was a land at war; the people in the small Republic at last rebelling to years of living under military rule. Repressed too long, they were like an army of ants scavenging for a crumb of life. Desperation pitted brother against brother and father against son in the fight for human dignity. No one was safe from the battle, least of all a man in uniform As Jorge secured the rifle that hung from his shoulder his fingers toyed erotically with the trigger. The M-16 was his power, his weapon an appendage fiercer than his cock.

Though Jorge didn’t live all that far from the army barracks, he hadn’t been home in six weeks. Basic training had proved grueling even for a strong, healthy sixteen-year-old. Perhaps it had been his attitude; he was conscripted against his will into an army that denied the existence of a draft. They came to his house one morning: a group of armed soldiers ruling over a huge, open truck packed with men, the armies’ “volunteers.” They seized Jorge, hauling him off for a physical. He protested, declaring himself a pacifist, but the soldiers didn’t care. If you were young and able-bodied in his country, the army wanted you. They abducted Jorge and all his boyhood friends. Except for the military that constantly policed the area in search of subversives, few men remained in his village.

The night was steamy. The humidity hung high above the countryside. It was a false security blanket over an insecure land. Jorge’s stone mind played on the word security…security blanket…security system…security force. Jorge first realized he was a member of the armed forces; he a born coward in the military. What a joke that is, he thought to himself. Even with his weapon at his side he felt apprehensive and alone. He stepped up his pace, and decided to take the shortcut across the woods to his house. The man felt scared like a boy for what he believed was no reason.

Six weeks in the army had changed Jorge; he saw his life through a newly-altered perception. He became aware of simmering anger within himself he had not previously recognized. The army had taught him fear, the one emotion from which his childhood had protected him. He approached the woods with what he thought was an unwarranted trepidation. His high was wearing off, and so was his sense of humor.

He walked across a familiar path protected by tall amate trees. He knew that once he passed through the woods he’d come to a rise which below would lead to a clearing and the short dirt road to his mother’s house. As a child he’d called the clearing “the park.” The park was actually an abandoned dump that hadn’t been used in years, but wreaked of human waste. Jorge was still far enough away from the field that the east wind did not carry the stench.

As a kid, he had played baseball in the dump, but the civil war had come between Jorge and his catching career. It was only three months ago that the insanity that had overtaken his country and shattered his childhood dream. Jorge wished to be a baseball star, a pipedream he knew. He understood his poor station in life meant opportunity denied. Still, he ached to hold his battered mitt in his hand. He would do that tomorrow first thing if there was anyone left in town with whom he could throw a ball. Hell, there was always Adalila to toss him a few. For a ten-year-old she wasn’t bad, Jorge had to admit, even if she was a girl.

He recalled the first time his father had taken him to the park. He was seven-years-old, small for his age and painfully skinny, but his father wanted to start his training early. The first ball his father threw at him was so hard that the impact of the pitch stunned the child and knocked him to the ground. Young Jorge rose from the dirt with a fierce determination etched in his psyche; he promised himself he would never fall again. He didn’t, and though he had never said so, the father was proud of his son. Belief in his son’s talent was behind Señor Petro-Brains’ riding his young son to his limit. His son was going to become the best because that had been the father’s dream that had not come true. Poverty and a love for cervezas came between the father and his career. This would not happen to his son. The father hadn’t bargained on a civil war.

Jorge rubbed his callused hands. They were no longer toughened from the impact of a hard thrown baseball; it was the shock of an angry rifle that had bruised his fingers. They were nearly as raw as they were in the old days when his mitt was no more than a flattened milk carton after his father drank away his leather glove.

Jorge’s gut wrenched at the memory of his father. He told his mother he hated the man who had abandoned his family. Yet, he knew that inside him festered an unmet love he could admit to no one but himself. Ironically, it was because of his father that Jorge still harbored his dream. He wanted to become a baseball star however remote the attainment of his dream seemed. Which part of the dream he still clung to, he did not know.

Jorge clawed his way through the thicket. The green, densely overgrown brush reminded him of the jungle world in which he lived. The volcano of violence that had erupted in his country forced its way into Jorge’s consciousness. Jorge found the violence difficult to understand. His mother had done her best to protect her son from life’s harsh realities, although she did not believe in illusions like her husband who had been destroyed by his. Yet, she chose to shield her son from the false hope that things could be better.

The army shattered the boy’s illusions, though he did not know it yet. Although he had never been oblivious to circumstance in the way a spoiled child of a more sophisticated society is - subliminally aware of inequity and choosing to ignore it - he was just beginning to learn how much of his life he had taken for granted. Six weeks of training in the capital city showed Jorge there were greater possibilities in life than his mother had led him to believe. He grew up in a colonia on the outskirts of the capitol city. The ten kilometers that separated him from the city’s center might have been much more. Those who lived in his barrio rarely left. There they were born and there they died: men old at forty from the hardship of daily living, and women prematurely aged from continual pregnancy and improper nourishment. Poverty was rampant like the flies that infested the inside of the compesino’s huts.

So it was that these people remained for life in their small hamlets, their isolated hovels of hell. Campesinos, they struggled for survival. Lodo, hard-packed dung-colored mud, and barro de costilla, wooden sticks, they wove into pathetic shacks, the poor excuse he called home. Everyone had a roof over his head though sometimes it was no more than the side of a discarded cardboard box. The lush greenery of the tropical land that surrounded the rows of lean-tos was the only camouflage against the colorless lives the colonos lived.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Jorge trudged through the dark jungle. All this thinking was unsettling to him. He longed for five minutes of peace, but when he pushed his anguish aside, the fear resurfaced. His body shivered. Quickening his pace, he nervously walked on. His muscles ached from the tension he inexplicably felt.

Though he wasn’t aware of it, he started to pray. Prayer was so much apart of his Roman Catholic upbringing that he did not realize how often he turned to his faith for consolation. Catholicism was ingrained in him. The Church his salvation, and Christ was his savior. “Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou…” He repeated the rosary as he approached the midway point through the woods.

It was then he heard the cry, a wail through the night’s darkness echoing in the young soldier’s ears a cruel reverberation. It was a terrifying sound, so frightening that Jorge pissed in his pants. He was momentarily frozen by the strikes on his emotions but instinct overtook him. He dropped to the ground creeping toward the sound’s source. He was an animal in the bush functioning without thought; impulse propelled him.

Then he heard a second cry more ghastly than the first. He was certain he recognized it as human. Jesus! His brow broke out in a sweat as unbridled fear overwhelmed him. His face was as white as the menacing moon that loomed above and led him down a path to certain danger. As a snake silently slithers across the jungle floor, Jorge crept. He thought he heard voices and stopped until he established the direction from which the murmurs came. He knew he was close, but he didn’t know to what. He strained to listen and heard only indistinguishable whispers, but could tell the voices belonged to men. The air sizzled. Jorge was sure he was near to Hell. He hid behind a clump of greenery, shaking. He wanted to turn around and get away. Six weeks ago he would have run, but now he stayed.

A gun fired in the night followed by the sound of death’s whimper. Jorge parted the leaves of the brush, his eyes a camera in the very depths of hell. A mutilated face implanted itself on the celluloid of Jorge’s brain. He would never forget what he saw. Wormlike tentacles oozed from the cavity that a moment before was a man’s face. Blood poured from the hole. The corpse was naked except for the white collar of a priestly vestment. The chain of a crucifix bound his penis, the ultimate chastisement of a man of the cloth. Tears fell from Jorge’s eyes as he made the sign of the cross. His first reaction was one of piety as Jorge looked at that which he didn’t want to see. He stared, paralyzed, himself a victim of the atrocity exposed before him. He saw a swollen red prick drive unrelenting into the mouth of a woman who lay beneath a soldier. Another soldier ravaged her vagina, his body tensing as he ejaculated into spasms of perverse pleasure. Neither appeared satisfied. They forced the young woman to a crouched position, each soldier penetrating her arched buttocks. She never uttered a sound even as they commanded her to cower like a dog. She obeyed. Her mind was already dead. The bullet they now shot into her face was superfluous.

Jorge assessed the situation. He thought of the faceless men dressed in military uniforms, government men. They had just committed a heinous act.  Yet, murder was not a crime in the military.  Aren’t soldiers trained to murder? Isn’t that what the army had taught him to do in his six weeks of basic training? Jorge couldn’t fathom the idea of killing a man of the cloth. He felt confused about the rape. Who were these people? Why had the soldiers so brutally murdered them?

The soldier in charge strolled to a tree with an air of indifference. Jorge’s eyes carefully followed him, never blinking. O, mi Madre! There sat yet another helpless victim. Her mouth gagged, they had bound her body to the trunk of a tree. She wore a nun’s habit and had the face of an angel. Her skin was translucent, her blue eyes radiant in the dim of the night. She was clearly Anglo as was evident in her stubborn posture. Her chin stuck out proudly awaiting her fate. Americana, Jorge thought, proud even in death. He stared at the beautiful woman who was a mere moment from her murder. Ethereal, she emanated a Madonna-like presence. This Anglo woman, this nun, the bloodthirsty soldiers didn’t rape. They shot her neatly through her heart but missed her soul. As she welcomed death she looked up to heaven and smiled. Jorge thought he loved her.

Momentarily, he lost his sanity. Desperately grasping for reality, he blinked his eyes and forced himself to look at the mutilated remains of the victims. The two soldiers stood above the bodies, assessing their work with a cold-blooded nonchalance. They were National Guardsmen, members of the military police force. The National Guard operated under the jurisdiction of the same army of which Jorge was a member. Where a moment ago he felt as dead as the corpses that lay in front of him, now Jorge became a paroxysm of emotion. He felt an absurd desire to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wished to scream, but remained silent. He would like to claw out the eyes of the two animals that now brushed the earth with the priest’s frock. He felt sickened by their efforts to destroy the evidence of their involvement in the killings.

Yet, Jorge never thought to shoot the killers. Not even as he surveyed them through the sight of the gun he’d been cradling. Fear overwhelmed him. It wanted him to leave this grave of human carnage. He must get away and try to forget what he saw. He came to grips with his main concern: guard his mother and little Adalila and save himself. Any connection of Jorge to this atrocity would implicate his family. This was the main lesson Jorge had learned in his six weeks of training. A connection, no matter how remote to any act of a suspicious nature, was a clear connection in his government’s eyes. Paranoia was rampant among the military leaders of this country; it overflowed into the psyche of the common man.

Jorge chose to sneak away, but embedded in the abyss of his mind would always be this horror he could never forget. Halfway along the obscure road to his home the sixteen-year-old boy had experienced the supreme event of his life, the turning point. Jorge had met that often spoken about, but rarely recognized moment that comes to a man’s life when fate diverts him from the path he thought was his to travail and turns him onto another road, not necessarily the road of his choice. His life would never be the same.

Twisting his body slowly, using his rifle as a balancing agent, Jorge began his silent escape through the dense underbrush. He crawled on his stomach, allowing his elbows to pull him along first one leg and then the other. As if a paraplegic, he silently pulled himself across the earthen floor. His heart’s pounding intensified as he scrounged along the path to safety. His safety was no more than a marked line of his own creation that now seemed very far away; his panic distorted his vision. There was a small rise just a few meters distant. If he could just get beyond it unnoticed, he would be free. He breathed heavily, partly from exhaustion, mostly from the effect of fear. It was the fear that kept him going, a pathetic motivation.

Jorge was a mass of perspiration; his sight impeded by the sweat that dripped into his eyes. He did not stop to wipe them clean. Blindly, he made his way to the knoll that lay ahead desperation showing him the way. Instinct told him he was almost there.

When the bullet penetrated the calf of his leg, it stunned him. A sharp pain convulsed his body causing him to writhe in agony. He reached for the leg, then appraised his bloodied hand. Nature had taken over and caressed the wound with numbness. She compensated when he experienced a compelling heightening of all his senses. The breeze was singing a song, an angel’s choir. The scent of the rich earth seduced his nostrils. He became acutely aware of a man who stood directly above him. The barrel of the soldier’s gun was the only thing that separated them. Jorge confronted the cold, gray-steel that glistened in the moon’s shadow. He forced himself to meet the eyes that studied his. He began to sob cries of relief when he recognized the face of his cousin Carlos. It was a split second before the true flash of understanding came between the assassin and the witness. Jorge rose slowly, bravely meeting Carlos’ glare. He leaned on his gun to support his maimed leg. A deadly silence penetrated the woods as the two men sized up the situation and each other. For an instant, they were the two young upstarts who taunted the neighborhood girls with their boyish pranks. Now they’d become grown men, each the other’s nemesis. Jorge knew that what happened next was Carlos’ decision. The two remained silent, staring at one another. Somebody had to make a move.

“Carlos? Where are you? The soldier’s partner had heard the gunshot and was shouting to his accomplice. Carlos responded, laughing, displaying a front for the other soldier. “Es okay. It is nothing. Muy estupido. I shot my gun off by mistake. I’m coming.”

Carlos turned back to Jorge, his face like stone. Jorge began to say something but refrained. Carlos had protected him when he could have killed him. It was clear Carlos had made his decision. Jorge remained silent to allow Carlos to come to terms with his choice.

The moment seemed an eternity. It was lost in the shouts of the other soldier who commanded Carlos to return. Carlos did not respond. Instead, he whispered to his younger cousin in a deliberately callous voice. “I will close my eyes and count to fifty. If you are not out of my sight when I open my eyes, I will kill you. Entiendes?”

The last thing Jorge remembered of Carlos was the gold inlay surrounding his front tooth sparkling in the night beneath the laughing moon.  

 

CHAPTER ONE
    1980

What do you wear to a civil war? Although not a particularly deep question, surely it was a relevant one for Sydney Gordon. The young, female reporter was about to embark on her first foreign assignment. Truly, she hadn’t a clue what she should pack. She stood at the door of her closet gazing at her wardrobe. Nothing on the racks looked appropriate to wear to a civil war. Her wardrobe consisting mostly of silk blouses and Joan & David shoes seemed hardly the proper attire for a hot, steamy, guerrilla infested Third World country. Sydney Gordon settled for khaki’s, her tops picked from her vast collection of T-shirts. It was a wardrobe decidedly lacking in a definitive fashion statement. She took note of this as she neatly arranged her clothes in a Louis Vuitton suitcase. Only at the last minute did she indulge herself when she couldn’t resist stuffing in one seductive blouse and one negligee. Sydney Gordon believed one should always travel prepared for any situation that might arise.

As usual, she packed more than she would need. She tried to zip the suitcase shut and broke a nail in the effort. “Shit,” she cried, and stuck the tip of her finger in her mouth to numb the pain. A second later she forgot the damage as she hurried to answer the ringing doorbell.

A fat, bald, disheveled man stared back at her through the open door. “You’re late!” she barked at the man, leaving him standing in her foyer as she inspected  the first floor of her home in search of open windows. Satisfied she’d left nothing undone, she returned to the foyer to find the cabdriver standing exactly on the spot she had left him the moment before blankly gazing at the wall in front of him.

 “My suitcase is in the other room,” she instructed him, assuming he would have the sense to follow her to the bedroom He didn’t. She tried again. “I need help with my suitcase.” Still, he didn’t move. She tried a different tact. “Ah, sir,” her voice was demurely hesitant, “be a darling. I can’t seem to lift my suitcase. Maybe with your help...”

“It’ll cost you twenty bucks, up front.”

“Ten, at the airport,” she countered.

“Deal.”

“So much for feminine wiles,” Sydney chuckled to herself as she followed the cabdriver out the door.

 

* * *

 

It was a Friday when Keegan had phoned Sydney at an ungodly six o’clock in the morning. Keegan was Mr. J. R. Keegan, managing editor of Western News Service, the employer of Sydney Gordon. He woke her out of a deep sleep. His crisp voice barked at her the order for her to meet him at the office in twenty minutes. Sydney, never one to be intimidated by her boss’ abrupt demeanor answered like any fine, well-bred Radcliff graduate would do. “Fuck you!” she screamed into Keegan’s ear, slamming down the phone intent on going back to sleep. Keegan immediately rang again. He’d become accustomed to Sydney’s bullshit, even enjoyed it, though he never let her know it.

“Keegan, gimme a break,” Sydney pleaded before he had a chance to say anything. “I’ve had four hours sleep in three days. Are you trying to kill me or what?”

“Look, Syd, this is important.”

Sydney sat up in bed. Keegan only called her “Syd” when it was serious. He had her attention. “This better be good,” Sydney said. “Because if I get out of this bed and meet you downtown in twenty minutes and it’s not sensational, I’ll tell everybody at the office that your middle name is Rutherford. Got it?” She could hear his smile across the phone lines.

“I’ll have a pot of that steamy, black stuff you like to drown your gorgeous body in waiting for you when you get here. And Sydney, trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Keegan, I don’t trust anyone.”

“I know, Sydney. That’s why you’re such a good reporter.”

She placed the phone in the receiver muttering obscenities as she threw herself together. Avoiding the mirror after days of virtually no sleep, she quickly brushed her long, blonde hair; patted some gloss on her lips; and covered her eyes with the opaque sunglasses she used for an emergency such as this. Tossing a sweater over her shoulders, she ran out the front door to her car parked in the driveway in front of her house. She almost never put the car in the garage, living her theory that one should always be prepared. Walking to her car, she shivered in the early morning California dampness. Less than a half-hour later, Sydney nonchalantly strolled into Keegan’s office and plopped herself comfortably on the ugly green-leather couch in her managing editor’s inner sanctum. “So, Rutherford, darling, where’s the black gold I drove all the way across town for?” she asked, spreading herself comfortably across his couch, her long, bare legs driving Keegan crazy as the sun’s shadow defined the soft curves of Sydney’s perfect calves.

Keegan tried no to notice, but even he was not impervious to the reporter’s beauty. He pointed to the coffee maker at the side of his desk. “Help yourself.”

She did, sipping the brew, the caffeine jolting her fully awake. She stood, eying Keegan, waiting for him to explain the reason for this all important meeting.

“Sydney, sit down, I need to talk with you.”

“Yes, Keegan, I know. That’s why I’m here, right? But what’s so damn urgent that you couldn’t talk to me over the phone?

“We have to make a decision.”

“’We?’”

“Sydney, I’ll come right to the point. How’s your Spanish?”

“My what?”

“Your Spanish.”

“I thought you were going to get right to the point, Keegan.”

“It is the point.”

“My Spanish?” For some reason she felt nervous. She went for levity. “My Spanish, well, hmm, let me see.” She tossed out a phrase. “Yo quiero ir ala cama contigo."

She said it as if she were fluent in the language. She impressed Keegan. “What‘s it mean?”

“I want to fuck you.” She smiled at Keegan demurely, then laughed.

“Jesus, is that it?” 

“Buenas dias, como esta?”

“Your basic Spanish 101.”

“No, actually comprendo mucho, pero no hablo bien. I understand it, but don’t speak it well. Why? What’s the deal?”

“Central America.”

“What about Central America?”

“I’m sending you to Central America, Sunday night, the eleven O’clock flight to Mexico City. And then you’ll catch the TACA flight down.”

“No.”

“’No,’” what?”

The conversation was beginning to sound like the dialogue from an Ionesco play. There was clearly a lack of communication here.

“No, I’m not going to Central America,” she said adamantly. “My father wouldn’t like it.”

“What does your father have to do with this?”

“I’m Jewish, my father has everything to do with this.”

“Your trust fund?”

“Yes, my trust fund, one word of this and he’ll cut me off, zap.”

“I plan to pay you well.”

“You could never pay me that well.”

“Syd, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“My life won’t be worth shit if I go to that crazy place. If the guerrillas don’t kill me, my parent’s will. You know my father, Keegan. You’ve met him. He’s not particularly thrilled with my career choice. Oh, in his own inimitable way, I think he’s a little proud of me. I know he enjoys showing my byline to his country club buddies. But a war zone, oh, no, Keegan. Nope, I don’t think that would go over real big with him. Guerrillas, guns, bombs, guerrillas...nope, don’t think he’d like that. For God’s sake, he wanted to hire a body guard for me when I went undercover with that narc in downtown L.A.. Nope, he wouldn’t like this and either would my mother. My mother, my God, my mother would lose it, go on one of her silence routines. Did I ever tell you that when she’s unhappy, she stops talking to everyone? Just stares at us with her aggressive disapproval. I bet you didn’t know that silence can be aggressive. Well, it can! She screams in her silence, and really, it’s very unpleasant, Keegan. No, I don’t think I want to endure that, and I don’t want my father to have to suffer it either.”

They had changed places, somehow. As Sydney cogitated her boss’s proposal, she paced the small room. Keegan sat and watched her wrestle with herself. “Oh, the chains that bind, Sydney; don’t you think it’s about time you started making your own decisions without worrying about what your parents have to say? It is your life. This is your career.”

Sydney thought a minute and then looked at Keegan with those soulful blue eyes of hers.

Had he finally hit home? Poor brilliant, Sydney, Keegan thought. Born with an innate nose for the news and destined for great things but for her one fatal flaw. She was Daddy’s little girl and every decision she’d made in her life thus far was colored by her need for her fathers’ approval. “It’s time for you to grow up, Syd. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime and only a fool would turn it down. The decision is yours, Sydney, and it has nothing to do with your father and what he thinks or what your mother wants for her darling little debutante daughter. You’ve been a good daughter. It’s time for you to show the world the great reporter that you are. You’ve got talent, Syd. Are you going to squander it over a father’s overzealous adoration of a daughter, and a daughter’s guilt inspired über-devotion to her parents’? What Freud couldn’t do for you!”

He struck more deeply than he meant to and was witness to uncomfortable truth shadowing Sydney’s face. But she didn’t want to wrestle with Keegan over that, not now. She was too overwhelmed by the thought that she was actually contemplating taking Keegan up on his ridiculous offer. “What about Ramón?” she asked Keegan. “I thought Ramón was your Latin America boy,” she whined, returning to the behavior of the spoiled brat she was.

“Ramón’s tired. He wants to come home. Anyway, I’m not sending you down there to do stories on guerrillas. This is different. I’ve arranged for you to live with a family. I want you to do a series on the effects of Civil War on everyday life.”

Her temper jettisoned from zero to a thousand as it was wont to do. “You’ve arranged! What is this? Don’t you think you should have spoken with me before you ‘arranged’”?

“I’m speaking with you now,” Keegan said.

“Besides,” she readily admitted, “I’m scared.”

Sydney’s honesty could tear a heart in two.

“Which is exactly why you’ll go; I have never known you to do anything less than confront you fears.”

“Of course, Keegan was right. That’s why Sydney was sitting in the airport in Mexico City waiting for her connecting flight; and had just suffered a supreme indignity at the hands of an airline ticket agent.

She’d no idea what time it was when she had arrived in Mexico City. Somewhere in the sky there had been a time change. Sydney wasn’t sure whether the airline had scheduled her connecting flight to leave on L.A.’s time, Mexico City’s time, or the time zone in Central America. She’d walked to the check-in counter hoping to straighten out her confusion. A handsome but not so charming Mexican politely though curtly, answered her questions.

“Flight 23 leaves at eight-thirty, Mexico City time,” he informed her abruptly.

“Well, what time is it now?” she asked the man.

“There’s a clock on the wall,” He pointed directly overhead.

She hadn’t seen it. She felt like a fool. The clock said six-thirty. “How long does the flight take?”

“Straight through to Costa Rica is two hours. But someone has booked a flight to the Republic,” the ticket agent offered. Sydney took note of the obvious disapproval lacing his voice. “There will be a short layover there. May I have your ticket, please?” he extended his hand.

Sydney gave him her ticket. She took great pleasure in his startled reaction.

“You?” He eyed her up and down. “But you are a woman.”

“So it would seem.” Sydney was only somewhat amused. 

“Oh, perdón, señorita. I am sorry. Forgive me.” The agent was disgustingly apologetic, properly embarrassed, and curious. “Why are you going there?”

“I keep asking myself the same question.”

“He looked at her reassessing her with his eyes. Apparently, he liked what he saw. He chuckled and Sydney chuckled with him. “But seriously,” she then answered his question. “I’m a reporter, and war is what Americans like to read about.”

He handed her back her ticket and explained the boarding procedure. With respect and sincerity in his voice he offered, “Buena suerte. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Somehow, I think I’ll need it.”

She walked away and with time to kill wandered around the huge airport terminal looking for something to occupy her mind while she waited for her flight to depart. She couldn’t help marveling at the terminal’s size; it was beautiful, of Aztec design. Maybe that is why she experienced astonishment when she strolled outside for a breath of fresh air. There Sydney met with the very paradox that is Latin America. Surrounding the grand airport of Mexico City was a stinking slum, a barrio of graffiti-covered walls and ramshackle houses. The pretentious airport was nothing but a ruse. It was some clever politician’s attempt to exhibit to the world a country’s dream rather than its reality. Sydney thought about the money it cost to build the garish airport and how the money might better have been spent. Upset by her observation, she reentered the terminal hardly aware that her assignment had begun. Her reporter’s eye was observing, taking in and computing every sight that crossed its path. He blood began to boil in her veins. The flow of adrenaline pumped her senses to a heightened awareness. With the rush of awareness there came the familiar feeling of intensified emotions. Each assignment was like the beginning of a new love affair; the risks required an enormous amount of courage. It was the challenge that Sydney Gordon fed off. Keegan knew it. That’s why he wanted Sydney for the assignment. She knew little about the crisis in Central America, but she would learn the facts fast. Along with her plane ticket, Keegan had supplied his newest foreign correspondent with an envelope stuffed with background papers. Sydney found a seat in the empty airport. She opened the packet. Perusing the documents enclosed by Keegan, she began her education on the Civil War in the Central American country where she headed. She read U.S. State Department reports, church documents and transcripts of press conferences by the American Secretary of State. She laughed when she noticed the packet included a basic traveler’s guide to Spanish. She looked up her favorite phrase. Yo quiero ir ala cama contigo wasn’t included in the list of most useful expressions. Pity, she thought. She pressed on and studied a chronology of events related to the civil war. Words like human rights, deposed, coup d’etat and repression pressed themselves on Sydney’s brain. She suffered an acute sense of anxiety that she didn’t suppress. She had the feeling it was a condition she would become familiar with, one that in a perverse way would keep her alive.

It was then that she realized where she headed. In one flash of a second she confronted the true nature of her trip. She thought of Keegan. What had he said? “I’m not sending you down there to do stories on guerrillas. I want you to do a series on the effects of civil war on everyday life.” Sydney shook her head and rolled her eyes in disbelief. Then she burst into laughter. Right there, alone in the airport she laughed herself silly as she thought about her meeting with Keegan. “Am I an idiot or what? My God, I’ve been duped,” she mumbled aloud. “Christ! What’s the difference what kind of story I’m doing. War is war! I’m flying into a goddamn war zone!” She continued talking to herself. It was a habit she had. She could converse with herself for hours on end usually when waging some inner-battle. She was fighting for strength, summoning up the courage she held in reserve for times like this. Questions flew like flies in her mind. What am I doing? Do I really want this assignment? Do I have the guts it takes to do a story like this? She realized Keegan had deliberately made the assignment sound simple. Sydney felt her outrage. He had hyped her and she had bought his hype. For this she was angry at herself and wanted to scream. She was a kaleidoscope of feelings. 

Something jostled Sydney’s foot. Startled, she looked down to see a young, brown-skinned boy attempting to remove her shoe. Sydney pulled her foot from the boy. He got the shoe. She tried not to sound hysterical and truly what she felt was more like confusion. Still, she demanded the young Mexican give her back her shoe. Undisturbed by the tone of her voice, he remained crouched at her feet. In his hand, he held his newly-acquired possession. He spoke to Sydney in nearly-perfect English, “Your shoes are very beautiful and very well made. Did you buy them in Mexico?”

Sydney knew she sounded childish when she offered him an indignant reply, “None of your business, young man. Give me back my shoe.”

Again, he ignored her demand, fondling the red high heel. Sydney studied the boy. She thought he was weird but didn’t think he was crazy. She felt more annoyed than afraid. Still, she wanted him away from her. “If you don’t give me back my shoe and get away from here, I’ll call the police,” she threatened. She turned to look for someone she could call for help, but didn’t see a policeman anywhere. She noticed the surrounding ticket counters were empty at the early morning hour. ‘Damn,” she muttered under her breath as she turned back to the boy who still held her shoe. “I like shoes bery much,” he offered her. “I’m in the shoe business,” he said proudly. “I clean shoes.”

“Terrific,” Sydney answered.

“These are bery well-made shoes,” he commented.

Sydney had enough. She lost her patience. She grabbed for the shoe, pulling it out of the boy’s small hand.

He seemed surprised by her action and then hurt. “I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that they are such well-made shoes.”

Sydney felt badly. The boy was so young. “Look, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t go around taking off people’s shoes.” She began gathering her belongings deciding to go to the gate. Maybe she would be safer there. The young Mexican remained at her feet. After returning her shoe to her foot, she got up to leave and still the boy didn’t budge. “My shoes were made in the United States,” she offered him, kindly.

“I thought so,” the boy said, a deep sadness in his voice. “Everything made in America is better than what we make here.” He smiled sweetly at her, a youthful glance. “Even the women; you are bery beautiful.”

Sydney’s heart went out to the youngster. “Thank you,” she muttered, embarrassed and very much confused by her conflicted feelings. She started to walk away but paused before she did. “By the way, what are you doing in the airport at this hour of the morning, anyway? she asked the boy.

He answered, “I like to dream, so I come to the airport. Maybe someday I’ll come here and fly, and the plane will take me to America. I have been told that it is the land where dreams come true.”

A speechless Sydney stood dumbfounded before she forced herself to turn and walk away. Soon she would fly, and the plane would take her out of Mexico and into war-ravaged Central America, the land of forgotten dreams.

 

* * *

 

The airport of the equatorial Republic offered no pretense. It reflects what the country is, Sydney thought, as she walked down a long, barren hallway. Two men in green uniforms carrying very large submachine guns escorted her down the passageway. She tried not stare at them and instead focused her attention on the walls of the building. She noted they were old and gray, pitted from the incredible humidity that made breathing an effort. They appeared to go on forever, the stark, dismal, huge slabs of poured concrete. Sydney walked with her escorts, her heavy tote bag nearly breaking her arm as she struggled in her high heels down the dim corridor. The men had appeared as if from nowhere when she entered the building and they hadn’t said a word to her or her to them. They didn’t even look at her. They just walked as Sydney walked; they all walked together, she wished she knew to what.

Sydney was intimidated by the soldiers, or more to the point, by their guns. She had never been this close to a machine gun. She struggled to keep a blank look on her face sensing the soldiers would enjoy seeing fear registered on her brow. They all walked until they came to a large room and one of the men pointed to another gray wall against which a row of luggage stood in perfect formation. Sydney took the hint and surveyed the suitcases until she recognized hers, the one with the bulging seams, and ran to it as if it was a friend. Then she didn’t know what to do and was almost grateful for another man in green, he, too, cradling his gun. This man used his weapon to point to a long table. More men in uniform, all wearing rifles on their shoulders surrounded the table. The airport was swarming with guns, a regular beehive of soldiers.

Sydney waited for someone to help her with her heavy suitcase; no one did. She lugged it across the floor to the table manned by Customs Police She wrenched her back lifting it to the place on the table where they indicated she should place it.

“Passeporte, por favor,” one of the soldiers demanded. His voice seemed practiced in intimidation.

Sydney didn’t question his authority but immediately responded to the command. She handed over the small blue book with the seal of the United States imprinted on it. He retrieved the passport from her hand while his eyes held steady on her face. He was sizing her up, Sydney believed, the way the gunslingers in old western movies did, a kind of deliberation. She smiled back sweetly hoping to diffuse the tension. The expression on the policeman’s face held stern.

“Su classificación?”

“What?” Sydney felt too intimidated to understand.

A soldier no older than seventeen, standing next to the customs officer, barked at Sydney. “Habla español?”

“No,” Sydney answered, deciding this might go easier if they thought that she didn’t understand their language.

The young boy responded to her in English. “State the nature of your business here.”

Shit, Sydney thought to herself. He speaks English. Her friendly grin remaining fixed on her face as she answered the man, “I am a reporter.” She could see the look of surprise on the two men’s faces. Relentlessly, the soldiers fired questions at Sydney clearly enjoying their power. They requested the key to her luggage and then opened her bag. Taking out each piece of clothing piece by piece they meticulously searched for contraband. Sydney felt annoyance when they removed her negligee and held it up for everyone in the room to see. Whispers of amusement spread among the soldiers.     Where the hell is Ramón? Sydney’s patience was quickly wearing thin. She realized her foot tapped in displeasure and stopped it. Keegan had promised that Ramón would meet her in customs. So where was he? She let the soldiers have their fun with her luggage while she looked around desperate to find a familiar face. No Ramón.

“Excuse me,” she said to the younger officer. “An associate of mine is supposed to meet me here - Ramón Rodriquez. He works for Western News Service.”

Again, the soldier didn’t answer her question verbally, but instead pointed to a row of windows across the room, and Sydney understood. Ramón was outside pacing in agitation. He was here, but not in here. “God damn, Keegan,” Sydney seethed.

She turned back to the men who had emptied nearly the entire contents of her suitcase on the long table and were still busy at work. The soldier who didn’t speak English held a T-shirt of hers in his hand and was speaking in rapid Spanish to his young partner. He seemed angry. Sydney was certain that he was when he held the T-shirt above his head and appeared poised to rip it in half.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Sydney yelled at him. “What are you doing?” She stared at her T-shirt that he waved like a banner in the sky. Then she realized the reason for the soldier’s upset, and heard herself shouting: “No, stop! Rock ‘n roll, rock ‘n roll.” Every eye in the airport was on her now. She snapped her mouth shut.

The T-shirt, her favorite, was green camouflage like the design used in military uniforms. Imprinted on the back in bold, yellow letters it read: “There goes the neighborhood.”

“Where did you get this?” the soldier she thought didn’t speak English asked her belligerently in near-perfect English.

Sensing she might be in serious trouble she answered the officer directly. “An American rock ‘n roll singer gave it to me. It was a promotion for his album.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she boldly reached for the green shirt. The customs officer yanked it further away from her grasp.

“The young soldier intervened to explain to his superior officer. The officer became even angrier. The two men again engaged in a rapid fire of Spanish words that Sydney was unable to understand.

“How long do you plan to stay in our country?” the angry customs officer asked Sydney.

She answered, “I have a thirty day visa.”

“Are you planning to travel throughout Central America during this time?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. He paused deliberately and then said, “I will give you back your shirt, but,” he was emphatic when he instructed her, “you are never to wear it while in the Republic. And should you cross any of our borders with it, if you return, it will be confiscated. Is that understood?”

Sydney had the feeling the soldier meant her and not the T-shirt. She nodded her head indicating that she understood and then suppressed a sigh of relief. They might have detained her for further questioning and God knew what else. He handed her back the T-shirt and commanded her to repack her bag. When she finished, they told the reporter she was free to leave.

It was a highly nervous and very weary young woman who pushed through the door of the customs area. The brightness of the sun momentarily blinded her. In a second, however, her vision adjusted and Sydney gazed out at a land like Oz. In stark contrast to the aging airline terminal and all its gray, the country was a rainbow of color; a blend of nature’s palette of greens that lay beneath a brilliant cerulean sky. The sun wasn’t its customary yellow here. It was a ball of orange fire that lit the land so brightly even the dark lenses of Sydney’s glassed could hardly cut the glare. It was mesmerizing; the lush remains of an erstwhile jungle. Sydney felt as Dorothy must have felt when she caught her first glimpse of Munchkin Land. If this was what the people were fighting for, Sydney began to understand the struggle of Central America. The right to own even a parcel of this land seemed more important now that she saw its richness. A sweltering heat burned from the sun, yet somehow it seemed an encasement against the sense of violence that permeated the air. This feeling of violence was as strong as the humidity that soaked Sydney’s skin in sweat. It was this pervading violence that the one thing Sydney was not yet able to comprehend.

Before she had a chance to assimilate it Ramón descended on Sydney a rush of concern. Dear Ramón. Sydney looked at the swarthy man who approached her and noted the broad grin of welcome beaming across his dark face. There was a history to Sydney and Ramón, though Sydney didn’t think Keegan knew about it. Once, they had been lovers. Ramón had fallen in love with Sydney and had even asked her to marry him. Sydney, however, had experienced marriage once before. That marriage had been enough to quell any further desire in her for the state of connubial bliss. Ramón’s reaction to Sydney’s refusal had been one of fury. He set out on a plot to sabotage any future relationships she might have. Sydney was initially sensitive to Ramón’s pain. Yet, after a time his juvenile antics made her angry. For a while they were enemies; at work they began to compete. It was then Keegan first recognized Sydney’s exceptional talent, much to the chagrin of Ramón. Ramón felt that if Sydney wouldn’t become his wife, she had no right to become the managing editor’s star reporter.

Initially, Sydney had been the news service’s token woman, at least in Keegan’s eyes. He didn’t believe women belonged in a newsroom - they were far too emotional. Never mind that some of the most celebrated reporters were women. Jane Swisshelm made a name for herself covering the American Civil War; Anna Benjamin, the Spanish-American War; Peggy Hull reported from Europe in World War I. Maguerite Higgins was the first woman reporter to win the Pulitzer Prize. Still, Keegan believed that at best women should be writing society news or in a crunch, human interest stories. Politics, Keegan thought, was men’s business. Crime was far too ugly a world for a woman to investigate. To hell with the Women’s Movement was Keegan’s motto. John Rutherford Keegan understood it made great copy but thought its tenets absurd.

Sydney proved Keegan wrong in all his theories. Though emotional, she never allowed her emotions to cloud her perception. She had a remarkable ability to understand the political world. She was as comfortable with the elite of politics as she was with the derelicts of the drug world. Yet what Keegan respected most in Sydney was her amazing audacity. When Sydney Gordon wanted a story she got it, even when men would fail. She was the most persistent person he had ever met. Yet, Sydney was a kind human being. Whatever she saw, and she had seen a lot for a thirty-year-old, didn’t seem to affect her innocence. She maintained a purity of heart that few people ever attain. Still, she was a diva, a lot of work, but Keegan knew her talent and put up with her difficult personality.

“What the hell was going on in there? My God, Sydney, I thought for a moment they were going to arrest you. You were in customs for almost an hour. They detained two reporters yesterday. Jesus!” Ramón was a gush of words as he put his arms around Sydney. She pulled away.

“Don’t tell me about two reporters who were detained yesterday! Why weren’t you inside with me like you were supposed to be? Keegan said you would meet me in customs.” She looked at Ramón, irritated, about to give it to him. Then she saw the nearly hysterical look of concern on his face. She backed off. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’m here and I’m safe and that’s all that’s important. Right?”

“Right,” Ramón looked Sydney over from hear-to-toe. “And you’re just as beautiful as ever...”

“Cut the shit, Ramón,” Sydney stopped him before he went any further. Ramón laughed, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, same old Sydney,” he said.

“Same old Ramón,” she countered.

They arrived at their usual tentative truce.

“Oh, Sydney...” Ramón nearly forgot to introduce his two companions who stood awkwardly to the side during the reunion of Sydney and Ramón. “This is my driver, Pedro Gonzales,” he introduced the small brown-skinned man.

“Buenas dias,” Sydney nodded cordially to the man and then questioned Ramón. “What do you mean, ‘your driver’?”

“Well, one has to get around this hell-hole.”

“Your personal driver?”

“Uh, huh.”

Ramón was up to his old tricks; he had a high standard of living, usually at Keegan’s expense. “Tell me, Ramón. Do all the other reporters have personal drivers?”

“The Networks...”

“That’s different!”

Well...”

“You never change, do you, Ramón? I wonder what J.R. would think if he knew about this.”

Ramón changed the subject before Sydney could continue. “Syd, I want you to meet your hostess for the next few weeks, Barry O’Brian. Barry, Sydney Gordon.”

Sydney stared hardly able to hide the amazement she felt. Before her stood the most remarkable looking creature she had ever seen. A tall, winsome girl - at least Sydney thought she was a girl - leaned against the taxicab. On her young face she wore a petulant grin. Her skin was the color of honey, her eyes the rich brown of coffee beans. In contrast to her soft features that included a freckled nose that turned up ever so slightly, was her dark hair. She wore it short; cut severely in the style of a man’s cut. Even the clothes she wore were decidedly masculine. It seemed Barry had worked hard to cover up her femininity but she could not help that her small breasts peeked through her shirt. Barry stood, her body posed in a defensive stance. Sydney wondered exactly how old she was. She appeared innocent as a child. Yet she looked weary like an adult who had suffered years of life’s disappointments. She might be sixteen or thirty; Sydney was unable to figure which. She embodied in one all of the contrasts of the human race; in this way she was tantalizing. A neophyte? A waif? A woman? A man? Sydney could find no description adequate to describe this anomaly of a human being.

“Hello,” Sydney said, affecting a gentle tone of voice. She sensed Barry needed the kindness. Still, despite Sydney’s effort, Barry didn’t respond. This only confirmed Sydney’s intuition that Barry needed some emotional walls broken down. “Isn’t Barry a boy’s name?” Sydney asked, groping for the avenue that would lead to dismantling Barry’s defenses.

Isn’t Sydney?” Barry countered.

“Touché,” Sydney replied, offering a smile. “But I spell it S-y-d-n-e-y.”

“Well, I spell mine, B-a-r-r-y.”

“Like a boy?” Sydney asked surprised. The few women she knew named Bari spelled it B-a-r-i.

“Yeah, like a boy,” Barry toughly asserted, revealing to Sydney that she possessed a slight Southern accent behind her nearly flawless English.

Sydney asked her where she had learned to speak English.

Barry considered her question an intrusion and responded with a defensive tone of voice. “In Texas,” she said. “What of it?”

Sydney ignored the baiting. “Really? What were you doing in Texas?”

“I have an American passport.”

Ramón interceded. “B.B.’s father was an American. His family lives in Houston.” Ramón offered. “Come on, everyone,” he changed the subject, “we need to get Sydney to the hotel and secure her press credentials. And I’m sure you’ll want to rest before dinner, Sydney. You look exhausted.”

   “I am exhausted. Can’t the press credentials wait until tomorrow?” she asked. More than anything she could think of, at this moment she craved a bath.

“Sydney, those press passes are you life here. You go nowhere without them.” Ramón pulled out his assortment of government documents hanging like dog tags around his neck. “Of course, they didn’t do much for the Aussies last week.”

Sydney didn’t want to hear about the two reporters killed allegedly by the right-wing death squads the week before. “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s get going before I change my mind and take the next goddamn plane out of here.”

 

---

Caught in the maelstrom of madness of a Central American civil war is irrepressible reporter Sydney Gordon. Sydney stumbles upon the story of a missing young boy who may be the only witness to the brutal murder of an American nun. Sydney becomes obsessed with finding Jorge before the ruling junta does. In a race against the government and the man she loves, handsome and troubled television producer Adam Scott who has no idea she is searching for Jorge as he is, Sydney's life is turned upside down. And so is her heart as she meets the remarkable people of a country where father is pitted against son and brother against brother in the fight for human dignity.

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