“Don’t worry. Carl says he buys the stone lizards and the Olmec head outside, remember?”

“Yeah, for five thousand dollars. That’s not enough,” Russell said. One of the old men was bringing their horses. Russell could see him from the window leading them across the road from the stables, across the brilliant white volcanic sand driveway. He didn’t feel hopeful the way he’d expected to.

NINE

Rio Amargo ran wide and not too deep, so they could use it as a road into the jungle. They’d seen spider monkeys, so Russell knew they were far from any roads now. He could hear the monkeys’ screams, echos over echos coming down from the jungle canopy, at times thrilling. It was hot and it was raining. Drizzle fell from the slot of sky over the river. The neck and flanks of Russell’s horse, a bay, were stained a tan color by the rain.

He’d strapped his shotgun around his neck so that it sat on his stomach. He wore a black nylon bodyguard’s vest, with extra shells in the loops. The vest was soaked through. The sound of his horse’s hooves splashing in the river was loud, the metal horseshoes tromping on the riverstones.

Russell stopped his horse and turned in his saddle. He looked down the river through the mist and rain. He could see Carl on his horse a hundred meters behind. The young man’s horse had stopped and was fighting to turn into the jungle, wanting to leave the river and climb to easier ground. Carl was having trouble controlling his animal. The man was completely out of his element in the bush, and was no horseman. Russell reined his horse, turning him back up river.

In front of Russell, in the lead, was Mahler, leading a mule. Mahler rode a small Arabian horse, far ahead of them now, his shoulders slightly forward as he rode. Like Russell, he could ride well, and the challenge of riding upriver against the current wasn’t a problem for him.

Mahler had insisted that Carl—who’d come to pick up the antiquities in the garden—come out to search with them. Russell had been against it. Carl had confessed that he’d never spent time in the bush, and Russell didn’t think Tres Rios was the right place to start. In the end he’d relented; he was sorry now that he had.

Russell had gone into the town to buy newspapers and come back late. He’d found Carl in the living room alone, reading. He was wearing his wire glasses and pajama-style slacker shorts. He looked like a college kid on vacation. A big black flashlight sat at his feet. Carl said the power had gone out briefly while Russell had been gone.

“Where’s Mahler?” Russell asked, putting his things down.

“I’m not sure,” Carl said. For a moment they looked at each other; then Carl stood up, and they shook hands.

“You did a smart thing here,” Carl said. “Buying this place. I was just looking up the objects out in the garden. They’re worth a lot, especially the snake. Collectors love those Olmec snakes. I can get you maybe ten thousand dollars for that right away. More than what I thought.”

“How much are you making?” Russell asked. “Just kidding. Ten thousand dollars, sure. I’ll take it.” He looked towards the kitchen; it was dark. “You want a drink? I called on the way home and told the girl to cook some dinner. Did she?”

“Sure. I’d love a drink,” Carl said. Russell put down his shotgun and walked towards the kitchen. There was a maid’s bell. He rang it.

“I’m starving,” Russell said. “Have you seen Gloria?”

“She was here earlier,” Carl said. Carl sat back down.

“Have you eaten, then?” Russell asked.

“No,” the Dutchman said. “We were waiting for you.”

Russell looked into the kitchen, annoyed that dinner wasn’t ready. The kitchen was tidy but empty. He’d called and asked that dinner be waiting for him. He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and looked inside. There was German beer Mahler had bought, lots of it. He took a can and called to Carl and asked him if he wanted one.

Russell walked back out into the dimly lit living room that smelled sweet, like old books. “I don’t know what happened to the girl. I just hired her. I told her to have dinner ready by eight,” Russell said, handing Carl a can of beer. “You want a glass or something?” Russell asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

Mahler stepped out of one of the hall bedrooms then. Russell caught a glimpse—for just a second—inside the bedroom. A bedside lamp was on. He saw the girl pulling her skirt over her head. She’d been naked.

Mahler pulled the bedroom door closed and came out of the shadows of the hallway. He was smoking a joint. He crossed the room and gave Russell a nod without saying a word. Russell could smell the sex on him.

“Did you get the cigarettes I asked for?” Mahler asked, patting him on the back and offering him the joint. Dressed now, the girl came out of the bedroom, her head down, obviously embarrassed, and went straight past them into the kitchen.

He could see Carl’s horse struggling to climb up the riverbank, wanting to leave the hard going of the river. Carl was yanking back on the reins and kicking the animal at the same time. Russell swore under his breath, turned his horse around, and trotted back down river toward him. His mother had had him riding as a child, on the plantation. She’d made sure he’d learned horsemanship with one of the cowboys at a cattle ranch they owned. He’d spent weeks with the cowboys during his summers, learning their trade, everything from roping and branding to shooting long rifles at poachers from horseback. When he fell from his horse in the beginning, when they were roping in the corral, he would often begin to cry, his hands and knees in thick green cow shit. The men would only laugh and tell him to pick his sorry ass up, and quit being a faggot. After a week he stopped expecting sympathy. It hardened him in a good way. In the end, he’d learned to love the lasso, the way he could bring down a calf, the way he could get his horse to step back and tighten the lasso. The war had just started then, and some of the cowboys started carrying M-16’s. A mercenary who had come to train the cowboys taught him that automatic weapons torque when you fire them. He was twelve.

Russell knew, watching him, that Carl was doing everything he could to confuse his horse. He wiped his wet face. “Fuck,” he said out loud. He shouted for Mahler to stop as he approached Carl. But Mahler didn’t hear him. Russell pulled his shotgun over his head and was about to fire in the air to signal Mahler to stop and wait, but stopped himself. He realized that the shot might be enough to get Carl’s horse— already frantic—to buck him off.

The girl had been embarrassed when she’d seen Russell looking at her as she stepped out of the bedroom.

“Buenas noches, Patron,” she said.

“Buenas noches,” Russell said. Mahler was still standing next to him, the joint burning pungently in his hand. The girl came across the room and explained that she’d had dinner ready in the stove, and that they were just waiting for him to arrive.

Russell turned to look at Mahler. “What’s going on?” he said in English.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t fuck with me. What’s going on? I hired her. I’m responsible for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mahler said. “She’s in love with me. No one is responsible. She’s a grown woman.”

“Is she?”

“She’s nineteen . . . most girls have two kids here by that age. Shall we eat?” Mahler said.

“She’s eighteen, maybe, and you know it. She might be younger,” Russell said.

Mahler looked at Carl, and then back at Russell. He shrugged. “Is he jealous, Carl? Is that it? What do you think, you’re a man of the world. Is she sixteen or is she nineteen? They don’t even know, most of the time. Did you know there’s no birth certificate for these people? Maybe something in the church. But not during the war. Who knows how old she is? She probably doesn’t even know.”