Hard Red Spring (7 page)

Evie didn't find this explanation any more comforting than Ixna's story about the big snake. “And what about the cave? What made the cave?” she asked boldly.

“Caves are just made from water. When lots of water flows for a very long time, it carves out the rock. No ghosts,” he reassured her, winking.

Just outside the city's limits, they passed vast, empty fields. No Indian shacks, no crops, no workers. Half the year, the fields grew wheat. The other half, nothing.

“The dirt crop's looking good this year,” Father said, making his usual joke.

They'd seen these fields full of wheat on their initial arrival in Guatemala and Evie had cried, thinking someone had beat Father to his idea. But no, this had not been the case. “That wheat isn't grown for Indians,” Father had told her. “That's for export, grown in the regular season, and on a much larger scale than what I'm trying.”

“Why won't the Indians eat your wheat?” Evie now asked. “I understand they don't like bread, but they won't even try cookies!”

“Indians think that new foods will anger their ancestors. They think they can't be Indians if they change at all. They rely so much on corn that it's their religion, their clock, their food, their everything. Which was fine back then, when people didn't have clocks, but now what's the point?”

“Maybe if we baked them cinnamon cookies. They're the best.”

“Now, that's an excellent idea, Evie. I'll try that.”

Xela had already moved on from catastrophe. Its white buildings that had not crumbled stood immaculate again in the restored highland sunshine. Trails of whitewash dripped over the road, showing how recent the restoration had all been. The balconies of the rich, columned houses floated above, seeming to inhabit their own separate city fifteen feet above Xela.

They passed the ruins of the collapsed cathedral, looking just as it had in the newspaper. They watched an Indian road crew moving barefoot amid the rubble, perhaps to rebuild, perhaps to clear the way for something else. A white foreman, wearing shoes and carrying a whip, directed them.

“Father, there were little girls in there right before it fell. They were praying, I saw them. Do you think they all died?”

“Probably.”

“Can I play with them?”

He gave her a squinty look. “Not if they're dead.”

“How could God let that happen? How could He let His own house fall down?”

The road crew coalesced around a task. They pushed and pushed a single stone that would not move. Evie imagined a little girl squashed flat underneath that stone. Father steered around it and the sound of the whip behind them made Tiny bolt. “God has left Xela, for the moment. Of that I'm sure. But someone has already taken His place.”

“Who?” she asked with a shiver.

“We're going to see him now.”

—

The government building had walls that went all the way up to the ceiling, doors that properly closed, and even gaslights. A sign in the window read in several languages that the telegraph was broken for an indefinite period of time.

They entered a waiting room full of Germans. Robust men with red, worried faces, each holding a bag on his lap. Upon seeing them, Father groaned and said, “It's going to be a while, Evie. Let's play a game to pass the time.”

“What game?” she asked, setting Magellan on the floor.

“A game in which I predict the future. Are you ready?” A secretary called one of the Germans, who stood up and disappeared down a hallway. “I predict that his meeting will be very short. Under two minutes. And I predict that when he comes back out, he won't have his bag.”

“How do you know? You don't know what his meeting is about.”

“Just count, Evie. And see if I'm right.”

He was. The man strolled back through the room and out the front door in eighty-eight seconds, empty-handed. Evie soon learned that every meeting went this way, meaning Father knew something she didn't, which she considered cheating. She showed her displeasure by accepting his predictions coolly, not even giving him the satisfaction of asking what was in the bags.

They sat for hours, watching Germans and some Americans come and go. Evie began to lose patience. “We were here before him,” she whispered to Father. “So why is he going in before us? It's not fair.”

“I think you're old enough to know, Evie, that life in Guatemala is not fair.”

To distract herself, she studied a framed map on the wall: Guatemala. She studied the drawing, seeing railroads all across the country. Railroads she knew didn't exist, because the fact that they didn't exist had ruined their
trip down from New York. The crazy route across Mexico, boarding countless boats and trains, had been no fun at all. She shook her head, seeing all the mistakes, and pointed them out to Father.

“As always, Evie, you understand the situation here more than anyone I know.”

—

Mr. Ubico, the
jefe político
, saw them last. Evie had lost track of time, had even fallen asleep in her chair, and woke up to find the waiting room empty. And then they were all inside an office, sitting on a wooden pew that faced this man at his desk. Light-skinned, the color of a sugar cookie, he sat on a sort of red velvet throne and wore a cream-colored suit. He fussed with a dented gold chalice on his desk, the chalice filled with sharpened pencils, pointing up. Father took the shrouded crate, placed it on the desk, and uncovered it.

“A quetzal!” Mr. Ubico beamed. Magellan did not look so bad this morning, as Evie had cleaned out his crate and managed to smooth his feathers with a damp rag. If he looked sick or crazy, this man did not notice. He peered into the cage, curling his clean fingers around the slats. Magellan eyed this intrusion and Evie prayed he would not bite. She drew her eyes from the bird to Ubico's fingers, then noticed a stack of colorful pesos at the bottom of the cage, where Evie usually left food. Where had they come from?

“I will name him Estrada Cabrera. After the President!”

Evie crossed her ankles like a lady. An invisible clock ticked audibly from somewhere.
Tick, tick, tick
. Making her anxious. She wanted to tell Ubico about all the mistakes in his map, wanted to warn him that Magellan might bite, and that Estrada Cabrera was a terrible name for a bird, but knowing she shouldn't say anything, she grabbed one of her braids and plugged her mouth with it.

Mr. Ubico leaned back in his rigid throne, taking his time. “Do you like my office?” he asked.

“It's very nice,” Father agreed.

“The cathedral!” Mr. Ubico roared unexpectedly, making her heart leap into her throat. “The cathedral falls and suddenly I have new office furniture!”

“That's very fortunate for you,” Father remarked, sounding not at all like himself.

Mr. Ubico looked content, as if they had just dropped by to give him this tribute and admire his office. Evie, hoping this was true, began counting in
her head. Under two minutes and they'd be gone. At first, she had thought that Father was joking when he said this man had replaced God. But now the furniture, her father's strange formality, the gift, the chalice, and the fact that her mother had dressed her as if for church made her think that it might not be a joke at all.

“Señor Ubico,” Father tried, with a little sitting bow, “I'd like to speak with you about some business concerns I have. I've tried talking with the desk, but they don't understand my special situation.”

The ticking clock was maddening, keeping a strict record of Mr. Ubico's silence. Six seconds, before he replied. “Ah, yes. The second draft. It's been all day. Everyone is worried about the new draft. We were hoping the first would be enough, but it wasn't.”

Father pitched forward and sat on his hands. “But I have no problem with the draft. I just want to make sure that my men, who are indebted to me, are not taken away.”

Father pressed on, for the utter blankness of the man's expression. “I realize the importance of the drafts. With all the Indians wandering around without any desire to work, it's important to utilize them. It is their country, after all, and they need to be responsible for it. But my men are hard workers, I didn't coerce them, they aren't just working because of the vagrancy laws. They've been working for me for years and my crop depends on them.”

Evie hit ninety seconds. Just thirty more and this would be over.

“And these men,” Mr. Ubico asked finally, “are indebted to you?”

“I have the papers right here.” He patted his suit coat, right over his heart. “I advanced money to six of my men. Two years' wages.”

“When did you do this?”

“A month ago,” Father said.

Evie kicked her legs furiously under her chair for this lie. The heart-shaped buckles clicked against each other as she smashed her ankles together.

Mr. Ubico waved a hand in the air, as if offering absolution or fanning away a bad smell. “No matter, Mr. Crowder. We are sorry it has to be this way, but now we need all the Indians. Have you seen the new decree? The second draft is necessary.”

“But you have to make exceptions.”

The man made no reaction. Two minutes, gone. Evie tapped her toes on the floor.

“Wheat's a very important crop, not only for export,” Father explained.
“If you want to utilize your workforce, it's vital. The Indians can't live on corn like they did hundreds of years ago.” And here he launched into a speech Evie knew well. He counted off his points on his fingers. “Corn requires too much land. You can't build a strong economy on a starving population. You can't build a railroad. You can only go so far—”

He stopped suddenly, seeming to forget his own purpose under Ubico's bland stare. Evie wanted to finish for him, to highlight the points he'd missed. Corn exhausts the soil. Wheat can grow at higher altitudes, and requires less water, so it can be irrigated more easily. It can be stored and shipped much more easily. How could he forget all this?

“But if the coffee isn't saved, then everyone suffers. Then . . .” Ubico paused. “Then
there is no one to buy wheat
.” He showed his teeth, pleased at his logic. “We are all working for the same thing down here, Mr. Crowder. We are not enemies.”

“No, we're not enemies. So perhaps we could come to a friendly agreement.”

“We already have that, yes. Our friendly agreement is that you come to Xela and make your money and I allow you to do so.”

“Not if you take my workers! I am an honest man, only asking—”

“As an honest man, it will be better if you see it this way: The Indians belong to the government and we loan them to you ten months of the year. Two months, we ask for them back. We have big projects, roads and trains, and disasters to fix. Projects that benefit you and your business. That is reasonable.”

“Not for someone trying to run a cochineal business.” Father shook his head. “It's a time-sensitive harvest that requires skilled labor.”

Ubico shrugged. “Like coffee. There is nothing I can do. Your workers stay, then everyone will want their workers to stay.”

“Just one? Can I keep my overseer? Just one man? Judas Vico.”

“Is he literate? Literate is exempt from the draft.”

“Yes!” Father shot up to his feet. “He speaks four languages! He writes Quiché!”

Mr. Ubico shook his head. “Quiché is not literate.”

Father fell back into his seat. “But my family! What will happen to my family? We won't have food if we can't harvest this year.” For the first time since walking into the office, Father acknowledged Evie's presence, pointing at her.

Ubico glanced at Evie, just as she realized she was not sitting like a lady
at all. Clearly unimpressed by her slumped, kicking posture, he said, “I understand you are worried about your family, but there are more important things for Guatemala.”

Evie gave up counting. They were way past Father's prediction now.

“So I lose my money and my workers.”

“Your workers will still owe you money.”

Father lost his deferential tone. “But now they'll owe the coffee planters money, too. They'll be indebted to them for years. Do you think they'll come back to repay me?”

“It is not my job”—Ubico stood up, declaring the meeting over—“to think about you and your problems.
My
business is to get these lazy Indians to work.” He tapped the slats of Magellan's crate and made his way to the door, walking a little funny due to the gun holstered to his hip. Evie had never seen anything like it before, a gun with a nice suit. She stared at it, unable to match the two things in her mind.

Father remained seated, twisting uneasily in the pew. “You have to make exceptions. I know with all your meetings, all those people in your lobby, all this money moving in and out, you've made exceptions today.”

Mr. Ubico held the door open, a different one from the one they had come in through. One that led outside. Father took his time leaving, trying to come up with some way to change the man's mind. He adjusted his suit, dropped his hat, and then fiddled in his pockets for something that wasn't there. His blue eyes were huge and dry, his chin trembling. Evie watched him closely, realizing she'd never seen him speechless before.

She desperately wanted to leave now, but she became very conscious of walking away from the money in Magellan's cage. She knew they had no money and that that was a lot of money. Father left it all behind without a glance. In four steps he passed Ubico and was outside, but then he turned to say something through the open door.

“You know . . .” Father said in a struggling voice. “You know, I have a lot of investor friends in the States.
In Boston
. I know with all the trouble with that eruption, I know that this volcano business would be very interesting. I know . . .” He trailed off, losing courage with Ubico's widening smile.