style="font-size:15px;"> “No, I mean there never was a war.” Tornquist said. “I myself have personally never seen a single sign of actual war. Ten years and twenty visits and I never have, I swear it.”
An uncertain chuckle passed through the group, not sure how to read him.
“So,” said the guy named Bob, “All those M-16s we’re seeing are just toys?”
“Excellent observation,” Tornquist said. “Ever see one fired? Ever see anyone shot?”
He was even drunker than I’d thought. Catherine, standing on my left, made a gesture with her hand that I took to be a dismissal and turned to walk away. I was more than ready to go myself.
“Speaking personally,” said Tornquist, “I have never seen a dead body in this country. Personally, I have not.”
Now Catherine turned back, and drew in her breath as if to speak. “Be nice,” I whispered. She did the suppressed smile thing and elbowed me gently. And she was nice. “Oh, you know, you are so right,” she said to Tornquist, in a warm voice I hadn’t heard her use. “Mister—? I didn’t catch your name. Never mind. You’re right. That’s exactly what a lot of people here believe. There is no war.” She smiled, one that was also new to me, light and girlish. “But then, of course, it depends on what you want for a war. I mean, we aren’t talking about two armies meeting with bayonets in a peach orchard, are we?”
“We certainly are not,” said Tornquist. “There never was a war here. It’s all fantasy and rumor, like I say.”
“Or maybe it’s the socio-economic condition of things,” said Cindy.
Stenning, on my right, choked noisily.
“Except, oh wait a minute.” That was Catherine’s new voice again. She had struck a thoughtful pose, fingertip on her chin. “If it’s fantasy, we do have a little problem. I mean, four hundred villages destroyed, a hundred thousand people murdered. And the disappearances, so many. We do need to account for those somehow, don’t you think?”
“Oh, something happened to them all right,” said Tornquist. “Runaways, unfaithful husbands, unpaid debts, all the reasons people usually disappear. That’s my theory.”
That drew another run of laughter, but with distinctly less spirit, and a couple of people slipped away. “Let’s go,” I said to Catherine. Not that she should go anywhere with me, even across the lawn, but I think she might have, until Hank Stenning spoke.
“That’s not a new theory, in case you want to know. It’s what an Army officer here said to some women who asked what happened to their husbands. And he wasn’t kidding.”
“So, who’s kidding?” said Tornquist. “I’m serious. A non-war has been propagated with American tax money. We paid for a war and didn’t get one, and you can bet our money is lining somebody’s pocket.”
“Oh, we’ve got a war, for sure,” Stenning answered. “A war by different means, so they say. One body at a time.”
“Except in a Mayan village,” said Catherine. “Then you don’t count.”
I looked at the sky. A sudden cloudburst struck me as a really good idea, the kind that sends everybody flying in different directions. It didn’t rain, but two other things happened right at that point. The marimba band—this is the truth—began to play “God Bless America,” and Angela Harris, the hostess, arrived with a tray of miniature tacos.
“Just off the comal, everybody!” she announced brightly. “Get them while they’re hot!” She thrust the tray in front of Catherine, who waved it away. And now she wasn’t nice any more. Maybe it was Angela’s cheeriness that did it, or even her plaid skirt, for all I know, or maybe the music. Or the papaya juice. When Catherine addressed Tornquist again, her voice was steely.
“You know what, mister-what’s-your-name?” she said. “Rumor is too easy. Let’s talk about lies instead. Tonterias.”
“What?” said somebody.
“Intentional misinformation,” said Catherine.
“Bullshit,” said Stenning, with a big grin. It came out as “boo-shit.”
“Such as,” said Catherine, “there is no war in this country.”
“Or this country is now a democracy,” said Stenning.
“No longer a military state,” said Catherine.
“Reports of human rights viowations are greatwy exaggerated,” said Stenning.
“And there is no pursuable evidence of genocide,” said Catherine.
“Genocide! What genocide?” That was Bob, I thought, who stood somewhere behind us.
“Check it out in your travels,” said Catherine. “Try Agua Fria. You might find a mass grave. Or a well, stuffed with murdered people. Or Rio Negro. Over four hundred residents assassinated there, mostly children.”
“Oh!” interrupted Angela. “Oh, but! Isn’t this a wonderful place? There’s so much to see. What about the hot springs in Zunil? Has anyone been there? Or the ruins of Tikal in Petén?”
“And if you go to Petén,” said Catherine, her voice rising, “search for the village called Dos Erres.” She rolled the R’s with a flair. “You won’t find it. It was wiped off the map by the Guatemalan army.”
“Not the army. Guerrillas did that,” said Bob.
“Is that so. What’s your source?” asked Catherine.
“My boss, the U.S. of A. We stand behind the army here. That’s good enough for me.”
“Which means you are sanctioning murder.”
“Murder? Watch your tongue, lady. I call that remark criminally libelous.”
“Well, at least I’m not criminally naive.”
Now a couple of the women began to sing loudly, along with the marimbas—From the mountains, to the valleys—. Others joined in, and over that racket Bob and Catherine began shouting at each other. I stood there like a silent partner, “with” her but not wanting to be, and not wanting to forsake her either.
I could barely hear them. Bob called her a babbling bitch and she told him he was nothing but a puppet, without brains or balls, like most American tourists. I got that much. After that, their words were lost to me. They went at it, back and forth, until the marimbas suddenly cut off, the singing stopped, and into the interstice sailed Catherine’s elevated voice, mid-sentence, all by itself, loud and clear: “—And by the bloody Guatemalan butchers and their fucking U.S. money!”
Across the green terraces heads whirled our way. She looked down. I looked up, at the sky.
The marimbas instantly began to play once more, this time—I swear again—the Guatemalan national anthem, a melody my bones identified. There was a flurry of action at the door of the suite and all eyes turned to where Carlos Méndez were emerging with a party of several men. Méndez looked short next to the person beside
