The Lamb of Acuente

•

Guatemala City, June, 1954

He had come to Guatemala to cover the popular uprising against the communist regime of Jacobo Arbenz. He hadn't started his piece yet and he felt bad about that but the schnapps helped. He sat at a table drinking the schnapps in Der Rheinlanders, a Bierhaus and pastry shop owned by the bad-seed son of filthy rich German coffee growers. He sat with the most beautiful woman he had ever had a shot at, their knees bumping under the table. Brilliant black eyes eating him up over her raised stemware. She drank sangria. He tried to think about the story he should file but her hand, under the table, found his thigh and squeezed.

Okay, Eugene thought, I'm not married. This is a good thing. Roger Hollister, at the table next to him, was married. Roger and he used to work together at the Cleveland Plain Dealer before Eugene moved on to the Baltimore Sun and Eugene recalled Roger's wife, Joy. Joy, large and sweet. Roger was large, too. The little Guatemalan gal who sat with him was just as beautiful as the one with Eugene. Guatemala. What a well-kept secret. Did the women down here desire them because they were Anglos? Journalists? In his experience the women attracted to journalists were usually bookish and lumpish and glib. These kinds of women, his and Roger's and the buxom starlet on Frank Perry's arm at the bar, Frank Perry of the Frisco Chronicle-women like this generally found their dance cards filled by the dapper sons of the captains of industry, or svelte young men in officers' uniforms. We're middle-aged, thick-bellied three-story-a-week hacks, Eugene
thought. This is incredible. Roger Perry caught his eye and raised his glass to Eugene. Eugene downed his schnapps like a swig from the chalice of happiness and asked the girl if she wanted to come back to his room.

#

She was the best lay of Eugene Casey's life, even including the German gymnasium girl he had fed chocolate to for three weeks in 1945. This woman-Bella-lay stretched out naked beside him on the bed staring at him in adoration. You're so beautiful, he said.

Thank you, she said. You make me feel beautiful.

Her hand strayed.

Sorry. I think I'm running on empty.

She giggled. You are a hero, she said.

Really? Me?

You are here to tell the truth about the communists, yes?

Yeah, sure.

They are terrible.

The communists?

Oh yes.

Most people are, he said.

They come to my village, the communists brought by that devil, the presidente-

Arbenz.

Si, Arbenz. There are Russians among them. They kill our priest.

They killed a priest? He considered rolling over to retrieve his notebook and pen from the end table beside the bed but Bella lay languorously against him, a length of warm soft muscle and breast and hip. He didn't want to make her move. He didn't ever want her to move. What village are you from?

Oh, she said, it is a ways from here.

From Guate?

Si, a little ways from Guate. A little Mayan village that is my home.

You're Mayan?

She didn't say anything.

You look more, I don't know. European or something. Ladina, isn't that what they call it down here?

Mestiza, she said.
They killed the priest? How?

With a gun.

Did you see it? See the ones who did it?

They were communists, she said.

What was the priest's name?

Father Cesar Jiminez, she said.

Her hand found him again. He was tired and he had been drinking all day. He should rest for the press conference later with the State Department man, Peurifoy. Or he should have her again. He should probably do that but he didn't think he could. The most beautiful woman who had ever shared a bed with him and he wasn't up for round two. Damn middle age, he thought. Damn schnapps.

I'm going to get something to eat. You want anything?

She shrugged eloquently from her prone position. He stared at the ceiling fan that lazily stirred the dry June air in the small hotel room. Schnitzel? he said. Chorizo?

What you have, she said.

He got up and found his pants.

So what village was your priest killed in?

Acuente, she said.

Acuente.

Si.

#

Downstairs at the bar he ordered eggs and bratwurst from Hans, the owner of the cantina. Eugene thought about ribbing the kraut some about the whipping the Germans had taken in the war but decided to lay off him. Burt Nelson sidled up next to him at the bar and ordered two cervezas.

Burt, he said.

By God, Burt said. Gene Casey.

You crawled away from your desk, Eugene said.

No way I was gonna miss this.

Burt Nelson was managing editor at the Minneapolis Star. He was over fifty, overweight, and, in Eugene's estimation, over-the-hill.

Chance for a big story?

Burt laughed and pointed back toward a table where a bombshell of a girl sat making eyes over at them. When I heard who was hosting this junket I knew I had to get in on it. Nobody treats the press better than United Fruit.

Eugene looked at Burt, then back at the bombshell who waited expectantly for him. Then back to Burt.

It's a big story, too, Burt added. She told me the communists murdered the priest in her village. Bastards.

Eugene retrieved a notebook from his inner jacket pocket and wrote down Acuente-murdered priest. What village is she from?

Hold on, cowboy, Burt said. You're not stealing my story.

I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

Burt thought about it for a second, then said, You first.

My source tells me the commies killed a priest in her village, Acuente.

Quetzaltenago, Burt said.

That's a mouthful.

So is she, Burt said.
Eugene decided to laugh. Thanks, Burt, he said.

Burt winked. Duty calls, he said, and took the two beers back to the girl at the table. Eugene stared at her openly. She was amazing. Burt wasn't. They're working girls, Eugene thought-obvious in retrospect. At the time, though...at the time you just want to think a beautiful woman might still want you because you got something special. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, felt angry at being taken in.

Hans brought the grub and drinks on a tray out from the kitchen. Hey Hans, Eugene said, who's paying for all this?

Hans blinked a few times inside his big round kraut head but didn't say anything.

I mean, it must be getting pretty expensive.

Hans shrugged. A little food, he said. A little drink. Not too bad.

Eugene cocked a thumb back at Burt Nelson and the girl who sat with him.

How about the broads?

I don't know what you mean.

Eugene took the tray. Thanks, Hans, you've been a peach. He carried the tray up to the room and kicked the door by way of knocking and when the girl opened it he handed her the tray and pushed past her and while she stood there holding the tray he crossed the room to where her purse rested on an end table and he took the purse and opened it and dumped its contents onto the bed. Among the lipsticks and eyeliner and coin purse and detritus was her passport. Pasporto del Cuba. Her name actually was Bella but she wasn't a citizen of Guatemala. She was Cuban. He looked at her again. She was tall and svelte and curvy and there was no way she was some Mayan basket weaver. She belonged in a can-can line in a Havana nightclub. She belonged on the arm of one of Batista's henchmen. He stared at her naked perfection as she began to get dressed, abruptly realizing he would never see it again.

What the hell is going on here?

She shrugged.

You're Cuban?

I get around, she said. She finished dressing and walked over to the bed and began loading her purse with its spilled contents. He put his hand on her arm. She shrugged it off. You're making a mistake, she said.

How?

In every possible way.

Then she left. He watched her ass sway as she walked out the door.

#

The meeting with the State Department guy was in two hours. Eugene thought about taking a nap first, but instead he wolfed down some of the food on the dinner tray and went downstairs and found a phone and called his editor.

Gene. The voice on the other end of the line was difficult to understand through the crackling phone line. What do you got for me?

The whole thing down here is hinky, Donald.

That's…Guatemala, buddy.

Eugene was pretty sure Donald had been about to say Mexico instead of Guatemala. Everything south of the border was Mexico to Donald.

Donald snickered. Tell me about the women.

There is one, actually.

Just one?

She tells me the priest in her village was murdered by the communists.

Well hey, there's a front-pager for you.

Eugene thought about that. He hadn't had the front page in weeks. Above the fold? He could hear the shrug from the other end of the line. Maybe, Donald said. Can you get a photo of the priest? Is he a young guy?

I haven't dug that far. I'm not even sure it's true.
Why wouldn't it be?

She was lying about some things. She has a Cuban passport.

Maybe she has dual citizenship or something.

It's hinky, Don.

Well what do you want from me?

I want to go to her village. I'll have to hire a driver and a translator.

Pensive crackling concern from the other end of the line.

How much?

Eugene shot him a figure, high-balled it a little so he could come down in negotiation. Donald negotiated him down.

Get me a murdered priest, Donald said. Get me a photo.

#

The State Department confab was held in a church in a meeting room off to the side but they trickled in through the church proper and Eugene genuflected out of habit and tried to remember the last time he had taken communion. A long time. He would have to confess first and that had loomed so large for so long that ignoring the whole thing seemed the only recourse. He had skipped it through the war and afterward he had thought of how long it would take, how many hours it would take sitting there enumerating the list of deaths and fornications and lies and all the shit you had to do to stay on the side of the living and he hadn't been able to get his mind around all the hours it would take and mostly he didn't want to do it to some poor bastard of a priest and he finally gave up worrying about it. He felt the pull though as he passed through the church to the meeting room, mostly ignoring the face of the crucified Jesus behind the altar.

The meeting room had a buffet and an open bar. A couple dozen sweaty, white-shirted journalists knocking back cervezas and shrimps the size of figs. Eugene loaded up. The State Department guy--Peurifoy--stepped behind a lectern at the front of the room. He seemed a cocky little bastard. He carried a six-shooter on his hip and sported a fat tie that looked more crime syndicate than diplomat.

Listen up, he said. Writers took their seats, cradling paper plates of seviche on one knee and open notebooks on the other. First off, is everybody having a good time?

Numerous grunts and a few catcalls. Every one of these bozos was getting laid, Eugene thought. He included himself in the bozo category. Damn she had been something. So what if she was Cuban?

First off, Peurifoy continued, thank you for all your sacrifice down here in this war zone.

War zone? Eugene had been in war zones. He had lost two toes in the Ardennes. This was a snatch zone if it was anything. More catcalls from the crowd. As you know, the communists are taking this country over, curtailing freedoms, murdering priests. Noises of assent. We hope the stories you file accurately reflect the situation down here. Questions?

A guy from the New York Times mentioned a murdered priest and shot out a name and asked if he could get a mug shot of the guy. Peurifoy had plenty of photos and invited them up after the questions to pick up prints. Eugene raised his hand.

I have a murdered priest too. Peurifoy nodded. Jiminez, Eugene said. Father Cesar Jiminez. Yes, Peurifoy said, we have his picture.

What I'm wondering, Eugene said, is can you confirm his death?

Confirm his death?

Yes. I don't want to run this without getting a second source.

Peurifoy looked at him blankly. Consider the State Department your second source.

Where's the body? Silence from Peurifoy. Father Cesar Jiminez, Eugene said.

Yes, you told me his name. The eyewitness isn't enough for you? The girl?

How do you know the eyewitness is a girl?

Peurifoy looked through some notes, then back up at Eugene. What's your name?

#

After the meeting one of the State Department boys came up to Eugene and introduced himself and shook his hand and handed Eugene a picture, a 4-by-6 mug shot of a young priest looking seriously out at the world. The State Department guy's name was Harold Hall. The guy was a few years older than Eugene, maybe late thirties, tall and lanky, with porcelain flesh and a quirky little mouth. Father Jiminez, Hall said, I saw his body.

Did you now.

Yes indeed, Hall said.

And is Hall spelled with two L's?

You can refer to me as an anonymous source in the State Department.

Can I now.

Yes indeed you can.

Well thank you for telling me how to do my job.

Hall shot him a grin. You do know whose side you're on down here, don't you?

The side of truth and justice?

And the American way. Hall's grin, if possible, grew even larger. Good luck with your story.

Good luck with yours, Eugene said. He made his way over to the liquor table and poured several fingers of Johnny Walker Red into a paper cup and knocked back most of it and refilled it. Tiger Harrington appeared at his elbow. Tiger worked for a wire service and Eugene had talked with him on the telephone more than once when the paper needed to edit wire for length. Tiger said, That guy's a piece of work.

Hall, or Peurifoy?

All of the above. But for the moment, Hall. Or the guy who says he's Hall.

The guy who says he's Hall?

I knew him in Berlin. He was Paul Sturgess, then.

A man of mystery.

I'm pretty sure he was OSS. He fed copy to the Stars and Stripes. We had to run his stuff without changing a word. It was godawful. I think it was code.

Or just bad writing.

Drop points and horseshit like that to communicate with the Russian side of Berlin.

Those guys, Eugene said. They all think they won the war by themselves.

Who did win the war, Gene?

The scotch got his cockiness going and Eugene said, I did, don't you know. Then he thought about the two German Volksturm kids in the farmhouse outside of Warmberg and the scotch rumbled in his stomach and he quickly drained off his paper cup and crumpled it and threw it in an overflowing wastebasket beside the liquor table and said good-bye to Tiger and walked over to Howard Hall's lanky back and tapped him on the shoulder. The ache from the liquor in his stomach was turning to something like anger and he said, One more question Mister Sturgess.

Hall. Howard Hall. With two L's.

Are you still with military intelligence?

Pardon me?

You were OSS during the war. Which is called CIA now. Are you still affiliated with military intelligence?

Why would you ask such an absurd question? The smile never left his face. Eugene felt like punching him one. He wasn't sure why. The guy was just doing whatever job he was being paid to do. If lying to Eugene was part of it, then that's the way it was. Get a grip, Eugene, he thought. But what he said was, Do you get your jollies out of lying to my face, or are you just drawing your paycheck?

Hall stared down at him for a long moment. Eugene was quite certain he couldn't take him in a fight, if the guy really was CIA. He also doubted the guy would crush his larynx or whatever they do right out in the open here in the crowded church anteroom. Perhaps you should re-think your assignment down here, Mr. Casey.

Eugene shrugged. He considered one more smart-ass comment, but decided to let the guy get the last word and he turned and walked back to the liquor table and snagged a canape and one of the unopened bottles of Johnny Walker and walked out into the church. He stood at the front staring up at the anguished Christ and ate the canape and cracked the fifth and downed a long mean swallow and capped it again and turned around and walked out of the church.

#

The sun was going down over Guatemala City. Guate was a pretty damn dull city from what he had seen, not as bustling as Mexico City, not as cosmopolitan as Rio, not as licentious as Havana. Just adobe and stucco as far as the eye could see and squat, tough-looking Indians with a few ladinos and Europeans mixed in. He found a taxi and got to the Western Union place to see if the money from Donald had come in.

It had. Two hundred dollars, Americano. Eugene got it in the smallest bills he could, fives and tens, and went back out onto the street and considered grabbing a cab back to his hotel room and getting a good night's sleep and taking off in the morning. Then he thought about Howard Hall and the feral look the spy had given him and instead he found a cantina and ordered three bottles of beer and took them to a corner table and sat with his back to the whole place so he could nip on his bottle of Johnny in peace and make notes in his notebook. Notes and plans. He pulled the picture of the priest out of the inner pocket of his linen sports coat and placed it on the table next to his notebook and looked down at Father Cesar Jiminez. He didn't look old enough to be anybody's father. He was little more than a boy. Boys his age had fought the war, though. And younger. The two Volksturm boys in the farmhouse. They shouldn't have been in uniform. They didn't have
bullets for their guns so they shouldn't even have been in uniform. They were boys swaddled in uniforms, but the boys weren't soldiers, they were lambs, little lambs with bulletless rifles. Their uniforms were what had gotten them killed. Eugene wouldn't have killed them if they hadn't been in uniform. Father Jiminez' uniform had gotten him killed, too. Maybe it's just uniforms that are the problem. Get rid of uniforms and you have no more killing.

The barman was at his elbow then saying something in Spanish and pointing at Eugene's bottle of Scotch and Eugene tried to placate him by capping it and tucking it into an inner pocket but the guy kept talking, faster now, and gesticulating. Eugene had never learned Spanish, even though he spent much of his assignment time south of the border, but when the barman slapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the door he could understand that well enough. He drained off one of the bottles of beer and tucked the fifth of Johnny back into his jacket pocket and stumbled outside, propelled along by the barman, trying not to spill anything from the two remaining beer bottles.

Outside he found a cab. A yellow checker cab, right in the middle of Guate. He rapped on the passenger door window and the guy behind the wheel leaned over and opened the door and he got in, careful not to spill. He took a long swig of one of the beers and figured if that didn't get him kicked out then he had found the right cab.

Where you going?

You speak English, huh?

Enough, sure.

Where'd you learn?

Excuse me?

You didn't learn in Cuba, did you, or from the damn OSS spooks?

I don't know what you are talking about. I know some English, okay? I don't always drive a taxi, okay?

So what else do you do besides drive a taxi? Eugene asked.

Why do you care?

I'm a drunk Irish-American and that means I get fucking loquacious, okay?

What is loquacious?

It means I talk too fucking much.

I work for the fruit people once, El Pulpo, you know, they hire people who do more than just load banana boats, you know?

El Pulpo?

The Octopus. You know, United Fruit.

Yeah, I know United Fruit.

So where are you going?

Eugene swigged again on the beer and handed the other beer to the driver who held onto it and looked down at it suspiciously. The driver was maybe twenty-five or so, skinny, with a thin David Niven moustache and black hair brilliantined back on his head. You don't want it, then give it back to me. The driver shrugged, then took a swallow from the beer and tucked it between his thighs.

So where are you going?

Acuente.

Acuente? You are serious?

Yes. I have to go to Acuente. It's important.

In the middle of the night?

It'll be morning eventually.

That's hours from here man. You got to pay me both ways.

How much would that be?

The cab driver told him how much. Eugene told him Sure. Can you leave right now?

You show me some money first.

Eugene gave him a couple bills and the cab driver shrugged and started the cab and rolled off the curb into the night into the city. In minutes they were away from the lights leaving the downtown proper and into the suburbs where rich people lived in haciendas and Eugene thought about the rich people and how they made their money with their coffee and with their bananas and wondered how many of them were actually Guatemalans and how many were Germans and Americans and Brits. Crazy world. Mayan basket weavers starving half a mile away and rich S.O.B.'s owned the land the Mayan basket weavers had lived on for a thousand years.

So how come you don't work for United Fruit anymore?

The driver shrugged in the night and fiddled with the radio but all he got was static and then he found some salsa sounding crap and turned it up too loud. Eugene turned it down a skoche. Did they fire you?

Yeah sure. They figure I was organizing, you know?

Organizing?

For a union, you know?

Were you?

No, I don't care none about that. I was just you know, talking out my nose.

Talking out your nose?

Is that the expression?

Not one I've heard. Talking out your ass, maybe.

That's like cursing, yeah?

Yeah, like cursing.

Maybe talking out your nose is better.

Yeah, maybe. Eugene finished off his beer bottle and tossed the empty out the window and listened waiting for the satisfying smash of the bottle against a stone wall defending a hacienda like the bailey wall of a castle. The smash came and he smiled over at the driver. The driver frowned at him.

You shouldn't do that, man, the driver said.

Fuck em, Eugene said. He tucked his chin into the scratchy material of his sports coat and felt his eyes lower. Fuck em all. Then he fell asleep.

#

When he awoke the sun was coming up over purple hills in the east, shining into his face, a bright streamer of liquid light that hurt for a moment until he glanced away and over at the driver of the car who sat behind the wheel smoking a pipe and looking at a newspaper. The driver nodded at him, gestured out the window. Acuente, he said.

What time is it?

Early.

Eugene cleared his throat and opened the car door and leaned out and hawked out phlegm and closed the door again and found a cigarette and lighted it. What's your name, anyway?

Javier.

Javier, do you want to work as my translator today?

How much you pay me, man?

Eugene gave him a figure and Javier agreed and they got out of the car.

I know this bakery, Javier said. They might be open this early. Maybe a few campesinos getting rolls before they go out to the fields.

Is this coffee country?

Banana country, man. They work for El Pulpo around here, you know? Whether they want to or not.

What does that mean?

The Mayans, you know, they're mostly like little farmers, with a little corn, a few chickens, but the banana people, they need workers, you know? So they make the Indians work for them whether they want to or not.

How do they make them?

How do you think?

Tell me.

They point guns at them and they tell them, You, get to work over there. And if they complain they shoot them with their guns. That's how they make them.

Sounds pretty straightforward.

Straightforward, Javier said. That is funny.

They had reached the bakery and Eugene let Javier go inside first and Javier started talking to the woman at the counter, a chunky middle-aged woman in colorful garb who stood behind mountains of rolls and baguette-looking loaves except much fatter and ready-made tortas sandwiches and when they were finished talking Javier said, Give her a dollar, man. Eugene gave her a dollar and she gave them a bag of baked goods and Javier said, What do you want to ask her?

Eugene removed the picture of Father Jiminez and showed it to her and said, Ask her if she knows this man. She looked at the picture as Javier spoke to her and she spoke back and Javier said, Sure, she knows him. He's the priest.

Ask her if he was killed.

Javier spoke to her again and she didn't say anything and then she said a few words and turned and walked into the back.

She says she don't know anything.

Okay. Could you call her back here?

Javier said, I don't think so.

A man came out of the back and spoke to Javier and Javier said to Eugene, He would like us to leave now. They left the bakery.

Outside the sun was up and shining in a pretty pastel sky. Workers moved down the street. Most looked in good spirits chatting away with their fellows punctuating their words with short barks of laughter. Eugene said, If they're being messed with so much by United Fruit, why are they in such good spirits?

Javier shrugged. They're alive, you know? And it's going to be a nice day.

That's it?

What can I say, man? I think they know about the land redistribution, too, I mean they're not stupid, you know? Just because they can't read doesn't mean they're stupid.

What's the land redistribution?

You don't know, man? You a journalist and you don't know?

I don't know much.

The presidente, he take lots of United Fruit's land. He pays them for it, but they're angry at him anyway because he only pay them book value.

Book value?

The amount they've been declaring it's worth to pay taxes on. Much less than what it actually is worth. So they're all angry at him. Arbenz, he's doing some great things. Javier shrugged again. Just means somebody will kill him, I guess.

Eugene saw a church down at the end of the wide main street that ran through Acuente and said, Let's go down there. Somebody might know Father Jiminez there.

#

They made their way through the village of Acuente passing early morning plantation workers being herded onto buses that would take them out to the fields. They drew stares from more than one company straw boss. What did you do for United Fruit? Eugene asked Javier.

I did what they do, mostly. He pointed to one of the straw bosses. I tell peons where to go, what to do.

Then you quit?

I save a little money, buy the taxi-cab.

Do you have any problem with the communists?

Man, I don't know about any communists. We get radio stories saying this and that about them, and I hear about papers falling out of the sky that tell stories about the communists, but that's all it is.

What?

Stories. It's all stories.

It's all stories?

Yes.

They're not true stories?

No, they are make-believe stories.

That's hard to swallow.

Why? Javier said. It is your job, right? You make up stories for United Fruit?

Eugene thought about that as he walked toward the church. He thought about the story he was supposed to write. Communist regime, dead priests, victimized peasantry, heroic insurgency. A story spoon-fed to a pack of horny middle-aged journalists pretending they're Ernie Pyle. It's all bullshit, he thought, all of it. As phony as a smile on a Cuban hooker. But then he thought how maybe that could be the story. How this whole thing was being orchestrated by somebody or something for their own ends, the State Department, United Fruit--El Pulpo, with its tentacles everywhere, paying for their junket, getting them liquored up and happy with hookers, laughing at the lies that get published back home. It would be a helluva story. Donald might not want to publish it. If he had proof, though, he would have to.

They approached the church, a colorful little Mission-style affair, and Eugene walked around to the side and found a door and started pounding on it. He checked his watch, It wasn't quite five in the morning. He didn't care. He pounded louder. An old guy, he looked both dissolute enough and pious enough to be a priest, answered the door in early morning mufti, colorful pajamas and rope sandals. He looked pissed off but tried to act normal when he saw that his disturber of the peace was a relatively well-dressed American. Hungover, Eugene made no attempt at nicety. He stuck the photo of young Father Jiminez in front of the priest and said, Do you know him?

The priest nodded and invited Eugene in and gave Javier a disapproving once-over but didn't protest when Javier followed. They sat at a formica-topped table in a small, clean kitchen, the three of them, while a half-sleeping ponderously large older Mayan woman put a long-handled coffee pot on the range and stared at it through heavy eyelids. Quiet introductions. The older man was Father Avilla. The woman was Marta. Eugene was Eugene the Reporter and Javier was his translator but not needed as Father Avilla spoke excellent university English. Yes, I know Father Jiminez, he said. He was here for several months.

What happened to him? Eugene held onto the picture and waited to hear the worst about another little lamb slaughtered too young, the lamb of Acuente, another boy in a uniform.

Father Avilla looked at his watch and said nothing as he pulled a large telephone from the kitchen counter over to the table, its black cord trailing behind like the shed skin of a snake. As he dialed Marta brought small heavy cups with thick muddy coffee in them and Javier's eyes brightened as he thanked her. Eugene sipped at the coffee and it was the thickest, strongest coffee he had ever drunk and it was not unwelcome. He looked around the room with eyes that were more clear and saw how clean and bright it was. A picture of Jesus Christ Himself stared down at him, a kindly eyed Christ, not the sorrowful tortured Christ Eugene was more accustomed to. Father Avilla spoke in Spanish into the black telephone receiver and then was silent, waiting, sipping at his coffee and nodding appreciation to Marta who leaned against the counter clutching her own small cup, then Father Avilla spoke again and he handed the receiver to Eugene.

Eugene took the receiver and said, Hello?

Hello?

I am looking for Father Cesar Jiminez? Eugene said, his voice trailing upward in inquiry at the end of the sentence.

Speaking.

Father Jiminez?

Yes.

Eugene felt his heart beat a little faster. It was partly for the sake of the story he was writing but not only that; there might not even be a story, it might get killed, but there was still the truth. That was inviolable, whether it saw print or not. But it wasn't just the story or the truth, it was the fact of Father Jiminez' continued presence on the earth. He wasn't dead. The boy wasn't dead.

Father, Eugene said. Forgive me. He stopped. He couldn't speak.

Excuse me?

Forgive me, Father.

Hello?

I mean. Eugene cleared his throat. I'm sorry for disturbing you at such an early hour.

It is almost 10 in the morning, Father Jiminez said.

Where are you?

I am in Madrid. In Spain. What is this regarding?

You're alive, Eugene said.

Yes. What may I help you with?

You're alive, Eugene said again, and he removed his notebook and began asking the young man questions.

#

Outside on the street it was almost seven in the morning and the sun was up and shining and birds were singing with a springtime step in their voices. The village bustled. Children were everywhere, and women with earthen pots and knit bags filled with items and an old man slapped a stick in the direction of an obdurate flock of sheep. Eugene stood outside for a moment taking it all in. Priests weren't being killed by communists. It was all make-believe. Everything else followed. A massive propaganda campaign orchestrated by powerful interests including the State Department, United Fruit and the Central Intelligence Agency. A plot to overthrow a legitimately elected Guatemalan administration. American journalists used as dupes. He made mental notes of what he had to do: Get an interview with Arbenz. Confront United Fruit representatives. It would be a helluva story. If Donald refused to print it he'd try for one of the big magazines, or
an overseas newspaper. Somebody would run it.

You hear that, man?

Javier was looking up at the sky. Eugene listened. It was an airplane, its twin engines rumbling closer. He could see it then overhead and then the air was full of something and Eugene's first reaction was to hit the deck. He stepped back toward the church and under a doorway and motioned Javier back to join him but Javier just shrugged. It's just paper, man. Sheets of paper. Leafs, whatever you call it.

Leaflets floated down from the sky then except for one bundle that hadn't been busted open; it fell like a stone near a group of kids and bounced hard on pale maroon cobblestones and Eugene ran to it and tore one of the leaflets out of it. It was in Spanish. Javier was beside him and Eugene handed it to him and asked him what it said and Javier said, Your Liberation is at Hand. Death to the Communists.

Let's get back to Guate.

Fine by me, man.

#

On the road on the way back Javier fiddled with the radio in his car until he found a station with an announcer who sounded excited and Eugene asked Javier what he was saying and Javier motioned for Eugene to be quiet. Javier turned the radio up more loudly and listened intently and sped up several miles per hour on the chuckholed roadway that connected Acuente to Guatemala City. It led through plantation country at the moment and Eugene, who had slept on the trip out of the city, wondered how long the thick foliage would last until they reached the flatland that surrounded Guate. Javier turned the radio back down.

So what is he saying?

It's started.

What's started?

El Revolucion, they're calling it. A popular uprising against Arbenz and his communist regime. It's all a load of manure, you know?

Yeah, I think I do.

They find a colonel, Colonel Armas, and they say he's expressing the will of the people, and he's leading the people in an uprising, and it's all a load of manure. There is no uprising. There's a few rich ladinos who own things, they own CIA airplanes and a radio station and a few mercenaries. They own things and they tell people what to do and the ones who don't do it they kill them. Javier sped up and the taxi bucked and swayed around a series of curves and suddenly they were out of the thick plantation vegetation and an open plain stretched before them and a military truck was blocking the roadway. Javier screeched to a halt. Three soldiers with guns stood in front of the truck and with them was an Anglo dressed casually in a white cotton shirt and gray slacks. He carried a weapon slung around his neck. It looked like the Chinese made AK-47. Eugene recognized the State Department man, Hall, or Sturgess, or whatever his name was.

Eugene got out of the car and gave a half-wave to Hall. Javier got out of the car too and walked to its front with his hands visible and leaned against the car's hood and watched the soldiers through half-closed eyes.

Good morning Mr. Casey.

Good morning Mr. Hall.

You seem to be in a war zone.

Always after the story, that would be me, Eugene said.

And did you find your story, Mr. Casey?

Indeed sir, I certainly did. Young Father Jiminez meanders yet upon this mortal coil.

Hall imitated a thick Irish accent. How fortunate for him now don't you think boyo.

Apparently he was shuffled off by his superiors-to the other side of the pond, no less-after it was decided that rumors of murdered priests would help inflame world sentiment against the administration of President Jacobo Arbenz.

Fascinating, Hall said. And is that really the story you want to write, Mr. Casey?

But of course, Mr. Hall. And others. So many other stories lead outward from the simple fact of Father Jiminez' continued existence, stories involving manipulation of the press, propaganda aimed at creating war when there is no reason for one, American excesses in the affairs of other nations.

And do you think anybody will be interested in those stories?

Of course they will be. They're the truth.

Ah, but they're not, Mr. Casey.

No?

No. The truth is what we say it is. What we say and how we say it, that is the truth now, Mr. Casey. Now and forever, amen.

I beg to disagree, Mr. Hall.

Do you own a television station, Mr. Casey? Do you own a newspaper? I see by your dumbstricken expression that you do not. Them that do, sir, they will decide what truth is, not you, and their interests coincide with the interests of United Fruit, not to mention the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency.

Somebody will publish my story.

Your story is this: Operatives of the communist regime of Jacobo Arbenz are expropriating private property and terrorizing Guatemalan citizens. They are murdering priests in a systematic assault on religion. A popular insurgency led by the heroic leader Colonel Armas is bent on overthrowing the despotic regime of Arbenz. That is your story.

That's ridiculous.

Not at all. The communists are killing regular campesinos. It's happening all over the country. Hall raised the barrel of his weapon and pointed it at Javier and before Javier or Eugene or even the other soldiers could react the weapon went off. Several rounds fired. Javier snapped back against the hood of his car and flopped and flew off the side of it to the ground, blood geysering from his chest. Eugene had seen it before, men standing near him in the winter in the Ardennes when the German machine guns went off. Blood and gore in the snow. The boys in the farmhouse had taken only two rounds each when he had killed them and it hadn't been nearly so messy. This was really bad. Javier was a busted-open bloody pulp. Eugene looked at Hall, Hall grinning.

What are you doing? Why the fuck did you do that?

I told you, the commies are on a rampage.

Eugene got cold even though the day was turning off warm. He said to the soldiers with Hall, You saw what he did. He just committed murder. They were as impassive as statuary. You're witnesses, Eugene said. This man just committed murder.

He was murdered by the reds. That would be a fine story to write, don't you think, Mr. Casey?

You crazy bastard. You're sick.

Tell me what story you're going to write. Tell me what the truth is.

The truth is that you've just murdered an innocent man and I'm going to tell the police and the State Department and I'm going to write a story that'll blow the lid off this whole charade you're orchestrating down here.

The barrel of Hall's weapon shifted from Javier's corpse to Eugene. Eugene Casey stared down into it. The barrel loomed large as an abyss. Inside the abyss he saw the face of one of the boys in the farmhouse.

Wrong answer, Mr. Casey, Hall said.

He heard gunfire. Then, nothing.