– Cincos dólares por noche. Por adelantado.
Jack fumbled with the wad of bills stuffed in his wallet. Just under twenty dollars plus a few Costa Rican colóns that would do him no good here. The bus from the border cost more than he had thought. Panama was expensive.
– Bueno. Dos noches por favor. He put his last crumpled ten on the counter and pushed it under the black grate. Better save something to eat with later.
– Última puerta a la derecha. The mustached man took a key from the wall and slid it to him. He pointed to the end of the hall and went back to gnawing on his spent cigar.
The room’s paper-thin walls asymmetrically cut the decadence of Spanish nobility past. A crooked fan hanging from the blue vaulted ceiling failed to stir the dense tropical brew. Jack opened the window that looked out over the plaza below. The dull afternoon silence of the Casco Viejo stumbled in unwanted and sat in the corner. Not even the leaves on the trees said a word. He tossed his pack on the bed and sat back against the sill and lit a cigarette.
So here he was. At the end of the road, literally. No paved streets led into Colombia and, although he had heard it was possible to walk through, two days alone in the coca jungle didn’t seem like such a bright idea. The only way to continue south was by sea. Then there was the money. He had none. At five dollars a night he couldn’t stay here long. He had to find a way south, and fast.
Padlocking the plywood door on his way out, he stopped to take a piss in the hall bathroom. Inside the dingy washroom, an old man sat naked in a chair bathing himself with a rag. Cold drops leaked from the pipes and echoed. Jack went to the basin on the wall and loosened his belt. At the sound, the man looked up. His glazed white eyes stood out from his dark, gaunt cheeks. He was blind.
– Buenos días.
– Buenos días, señor. Jack pissed and shuffled out of the room, leaving the blind man alone again.
Outside, the salt from the sea air stung his nostrils. The streets were abandoned. Jack crossed the shaded square and headed toward the faint sound of the shore. A few blocks down, the breeze greeted him on the waterfront and he stopped to peer out over the ocean. Across the bay the highrises of the modern city center dominated the skyline. He could vaguely make out cars bustling up and down the coastal thruway lined with picture perfect palms. Behind him, Old Town drew another short breath. The Pacific is the ocean of forgetting, he remembered.
He turned and started down the rutted street stretched between quiet waves washing ashore and the roofless carcasses that stood mourning better days. The once white villas and bright yellow Spanish façades were now riddled with holes and crumbling. A beachside pool contained only a shallow puddle of muddy water from yesterday’s rain. Before the bombs, this neighborhood had been the heart of the city. When the Americans came in, they didn’t bother rebuilding. The past only distracted from progress.
Jack walked without making any noise. He felt like an invisible presence in a place that didn’t exist. After seven months of traveling alone he had grown accustomed to the silence of solitude and even his own thoughts no longer interrupted him. He had to go south, that was all he knew and south from here meant finding a boat. The port should be around here somewhere.
A few rundown cafés kept their doors open but hardly anyone was inside. The squat houses gradually gave way to larger, industrial workshops and boarded up warehouses. A man passed him on a bicycle pulling a small cart of gas canisters. They moaned like bells when they kissed. The air thickened with black tar from the nearby refinery and a welder’s crackling steel. Jack could hear machines bellowing low in the distance as he approached the port.
At the gate, a guard with one arm was nodding off on a plastic chair and paid him no attention. Jack went in and started down to where he could hear the voices of men working. Along the wooden piers rusty barges and small iron ships were berthed with heavy chains. There were no waves in the still waters of the canal.
He came upon a covered quay where the smell of diesel and fish rode the clangs and bangs of crates being dropped on the dock. A rusty red boat slumbered along the wharf while three young men handed heavy loads along the line, heaving them onshore. The name Doña Flor was hand-painted in curled white letters on the side. Tired grunts echoed from below deck with each emerging delivery. An older man stood ashore jotting numbers on a clipboard, his eyes squinting from the cigar smoke.
– Disculpe, señor. Jack descended the wooden plank onto the shadowy dock.
– ¿ Sí ? Dígame. The grey bearded man didn’t look up from his papers.
– I’m looking for a boat going south, to Colombia. I’m willing to work for my passage. Jack spoke in his accented Spanish.
The old man didn’t respond. His worn, wrinkly brow creased in concentration. He jotted down a few more notes and looked up a the men working without speaking.
– ¿ Señor ?
– Mañana.
– ¿ Perdone ?
– Venga mañana. He spoke with a firm voice, grinding the words out from between his teeth and the mangled cigar that occupied the corner of his mouth.
– Are you going to Colombia ? What time should I come ? Jack continued a little confused by the captain’s short answer.
– Venga mañana. And with that he walked off half limping and shouting something at the men on the boat.
– Umm, gracias señor. Jack waved futilely as he turned back up the plank to the wharf. Ok, mañana. That was easy enough, he thought to himself as he started back in the direction he had come. He felt reassured by the decisiveness of his brief conversation. Tomorrow he would come back early in the morning and would set sail on the open seas. After having bused it across the entire continent, he was happy to leave the land and to finally make his way to South America. South was no longer a direction, but a place.
But just as he got to the gates, he heard someone shout from behind.
– ¡ Alto !
Jack stopped dead in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. A fat man wearing a white shirt and a holster advanced in his direction. He turned slowly and clenched his teeth.
– ¿ Dónde vas ? Before Jack could answer, the fat man put his hand on his shoulder and began nudging him back toward the docks.
– Ven conmigo.
He lead him into a small office a short distance from where Jack had spoken with the old sea dog. Inside, there was another man standing in the corner looking over some documents and a desk littered with folders. An iron fan rattled atop a file cabinet.
– Siéntate. Jack sat down in an uncomfortable chair before the desk. The man went around and sat down himself. He scrutinized Jack and after a long silence finally spoke.
– ¿ Qué haces aquí ? It was more of an accusation than a question. Jack calmly explained that he was looking for a boat south and that he would be leaving mañana, trying to say as little as possible.
– ¿ Tienes papeles ? Jack responded by handing him his disintegrating passport. The man examined it with disdain.
– You no work here. He slapped the passport on the desk and slid it across in disgust. Jack tried to reason with him.
– Señor, I’m just looking for a way south and there are no passenger ferries. I’ll be gone tomorrow, sin problemas. The port officer crossed his arms and answered, dry.
– No papers, no work. Jack knew what he meant.
– How much are working papers ? The man’s lips indistinguishably pursed and rose.
– Para ti, solo veinte dólares.
– Bueno. Hasta mañana señor. Jack stood and went through the door before any more questions could be asked. Twenty dollars. Everything has its price here. He walked back to Old Town angry and immersed in thought. He had little more than five dollars and his belly was already grumbling. Where the hell would he come up with twenty more ? And there was no guarantee that even if he did scrounge up the money the price wouldn’t suddenly go up tomorrow. Sneaking onto the boat was out of the question : a Panamanian prison was the last place he wanted to be. He though of calling someone back in the States but who would he call and, even if he did convince someone to send him some money, it was unlikely that a wire could reach him in less than twenty-four hours. Sit and smoke, something will come up.
Just before rounding the last corner into the square below his room, he found a bunch of green bananas ripening outside on a windowsill. He snatched them up and sat on a bench to eat. The peels were like rubber and he had to use his knife to cut the top off one. The fruit was hard and chewy. It fought his teeth at every bite. Damnit, I’m screwed. He tried to swallow.
– Why are you eating those icky green bananas ? Jack hadn’t noticed the young black man sitting on the next bench over. He spoke in English but with a clearly latino accent.
– ‘Cause I’m hungry, I guess. Bits of bitter banana stretched his cheek.
– Don’t you got nothing to eat ? He approached Jack’s bench and sat down. – Con permiso. Jack swallowed hard and put the wounded banana down.
– Actually, I’m outta cash. Looking for some fast work… They conversed in Spanish for a few minutes following the usual script : where are you from, how old are you, what are you doing here and all the rest. Raúl, twenty-eight, was a Panamanian native and worked as a bartender in a gay bar. After a quiet exchange, Raúl sat back and looked at Jack with a curious air.
– Listen, if you want to earn some fast cash I might be able to help you. Jack knew that something was amiss but he couldn’t pass up any offer.
– What do you mean ?
– How do you feel about having your picture taken ?
– Well, I’m not much of a fan of photography but… How much are we talking ?
– Hold on, let me make a call. Raúl stood and dialed. When there was a crackling on the other side he turned and walked away. Jack couldn’t make out what he was saying. Less than a minute later, Raúl clapped shut his cell and came back to the bench.
– Okay, meet me here tomorrow morning at, say, ten. They pay one-hundred dólares per session. It’ll only take a couple of hours, you in ?
– Only photos, two hours, a hundred dollars ?
– Sí.
– Okay, I’ll be here at ten.
They shook hands and Raúl left. Jack sat in the square with the late afternoon light slicing the streets between the decrepit buildings. He tried to eat the rest of his banana but gave up after half. The bunch of bananas decided to stay on the bench when Jack went up to his room. The day left as the night came.
*
The next morning, Jack awoke at dawn. He’d tossed in bed for the better part of the early twilight but sleep stayed a vague dream’s distance away. Swarms of sweat and moaning whores had kept him up all night. He was hungry, he was unnerved. He felt like a fly trapped in a hot box. The ceiling fan spun but did nothing.
Finally giving up on getting back to sleep, he rose sluggishly and dragged himself to the showers. There were already several men bathing under faucet heads that dripped with no more force than gravity. Jack stripped and stumbled under one. The cold water purged the restless night from his skin and relieved his mind of its somnolent stupor. His brown body felt solid again, but empty.
He descended into the morning square with only one instinct : eat. His frail form was running on two bites of a bitter banana in two days. Not far from his room he found a cramped cocina already serving rice and chicken with a side of fried platanos for three dólares. He had no choice, he had to eat. Rather, the sizzling odor had already chosen for him. Jack coughed up the last of his change and hunkered down over the pure pleasure of sustenance and survival. No chicken had ever tasted so good.
When he had finished, Jack sat smoking for a long while. He was silent again inside. He watched the slow day-goers ramble by, some carrying small sacks, others intent on their destination. A mulatto woman walked with her young son, a group of children chased a bicycle rim with a stick, laughing. Here under the staggering edges of bullet ridden walls people went on living their quiet lives, like new sprouts taking back burnt out tree trunks.
Before he knew it, it was ten. Back in the square Raúl already waited by a big, black SUV that stood out against the colonial backdrop. He was chatting with a razor-bald man in a tight black t-shirt. Another was sitting at the driver’s seat.
– ¡ Aquí está ! Raúl motioned the man’s attention to Jack as he approached. – Jack, te presento Enrique. Enrique, Jack.
– Mucho gusto. Jack offered his hand and they shook lightly.
– ¿ Y bueno, I told you he was muy guapo, no ? Raúl asked Enrique. Enrique leaned back and brought his hand to his chin.
– Sí, I think we can work with this. Jack looked away slightly embarrassed.
– You’re not shy, are you ?
– Guess I can’t be today, can I ? Both Raúl and Enrique laughed.
– Bueno, get in and let’s get going. We got a long drive ahead. Enrique opened the back passenger door and Jack climbed in.
– I’ll meet you back here for lunch. Raúl called from the square as the doors closed and the driver set the enormous tank into motion.
They drove for some twenty minutes out of Casco Viejo, across the modern center and dropped onto a long highway that stretched over pacific water for miles. Enrique briefly introduced Jack to the driver and made small talk.
– Does anyone know you are here ? He inquired casually, thumbing a newspaper.
– Yeah, kinda. Jack didn’t know how to answer. He wondered why he was asking. Truth was nobody did. Jack could have disappeared and no one would have noticed for weeks, maybe months. But he couldn’t afford to be afraid, he needed the money. Besides, it was too late for that.
The highway turned up and cut across a dense jungle thick with palms and greens of every genre. Not more than a few miles later, they came to a bridge and the driver slowed while crossing.
– Estamos aquí. Enrique started organizing his equipment on his lap in two black bags.
Over the edge, Jack could see a deep drop between two sharp rock faces on either side. Below, a small river meandered through a shaded forest of contorted trees, broad leaves and tangled vines. The SUV turned off onto a steep dirt trail on the other side of the bridge, descended a few hundred feet and grumbled to a stop a short way from the main road.
– Vamonos guapo. Jack and Enrique got out but the driver remained inside, opening to the sports page. – He’ll wait here while we go work.
The two men followed a rocky trail down the side of the hill through the dense tropical flora. Sweet smells of wild vanilla and coco perfumed the warm, humid air whispering exotic incantations. Jack felt the moist soil through his warn sandals and the tips of long fronds reaching for him and touching his skin. The dark earth already seduced his senses.
They emerged in a wide clearing along the steady river. The water moved quietly without breaking, protected by a high canopy outstretched for the soft rays of sunlight that radiated down from a distant blue sky. The iron bridge arched high above them, grey and still.
– Ok, lets get started. Take off your shirt and shorts and go play in the water. Jack waded into the slow moving waters of the forgotten river. The cool current caressed his legs, smooth hands of velvet liquid. When it rose to his waist, Jack looked over his shoulder at Enrique who followed him along the shore, mechanically clicking photos every few seconds. He half-heartedly splashed some water about and brought a dripping handful of over his face and head. Feeling ridiculous, he turned around and faced the riverbank.
– I don’t feel very playful. He watched Enrique snatch a few more photos.
– You are a serious one, I see. Ok, put your thumbs in your boxers and look here. Jack stood in cowboy defiance and stared at the camera.
– Good, good. Now just pull them down a little bit.
Enrique took photos for another few minutes with Jack’s black underpants at varying degrees and angles. He finally told him to completely remove them and to come back to shore. He slipped them off and swam a few strokes letting his body be carried by the current. His nakedness felt natural to him in this hidden place under the bridge. The sheer green face covered with bursts of selvatic flowers guarded this untouched corner of the earth. When Enrique wasn’t buzzing about, taking pictures, changing lenses, positioning himself on rocks and logs, only the sounds of unseen birds and the plashing brook floated through the ravine.
Jack’s naked body reached the shore dripping. Enrique bustled about in his bag and changed his lens again.
– Ok, now you have to sit on the rocks and touch yourself. Paradise lost.
Jack nestled himself in a shallow pool against a corpulent boulder that presided over the clearing. Enrique moved closer in, carefully adjusting the zoom. At first, Jack didn’t think he had it in him. The unnatural act of performance seemed perverse in such a natural place.
– How long has it been since you…
– Eh, its been a long time, he said. Too long, he thought. The celibacy of solitude had taken him over the last few months. The distance between him and intimacy had grown slowly along the road, the surreal past of disillusion too close. The thought of her.
– Well, just pretend like I’m not here, Enrique said shooting another. – Besides, no money shot, no money.
Jack closed his eyes and let his mind go. His body was there, in the south, submerged in sounds and smells of sensual beauty. His body was hard and young and brown, thousands of miles and hours of roads and beaches, meridional sun meditations and saltwater seances permeated his skin. The warm water brushed his sex and the still breeze embraced his soma. He dreamed. He dreamed of her and him and of what had once been, of memories of moist lips and tender glances. He dreamed of gracious affection and her long hair painting his bare chest, her soft breasts. He dreamed of her, of what had driven him here along this ocean of forgetting, fleeing from the end, escaping south to be free of she and he and him and her and them. Jack dreamed.
– Look, the little fishies are eating your cum.
Jack came to and his heart slowed. He stood without saying a word and wrung out his boxers. He put them back on, slipped into his shorts and went for his shirt, still stranded ashore. Enrique packed up his stuff and the started up the trail.
When they arrived back in the square in Old Town, Raúl was waiting there on the bench. Jack left them chatting as he went back up to the room to gather his things. He tossed the keys at the mustached man at the desk who didn’t bother looking up.
– Guapo, I hear you did real good. Raúl patted him on the back.
– Well, I did what I did.
– Sí, muy guapo y tambien es bien dotado, Enrique gestured wide with this hands, laughed and gave him a white envelope. Inside there were one-hundred dollars in small bills. Jack took out a few fives and put them in his pocket. The envelope went between the pages of Marquez.
– You want to go get something to eat ? Raúl asked. Jack was hungry but he was anxious to get back down to the docks. It was a little past noon and, with any luck, the Doña Flor would still be there.
– No, thanks but no. I’ve gotta try to make this boat south. Jack lulled up his pack from the ground.
– Wait, we’ll give you a ride muchacho. Everyone piled into the SUV.
At the docks, the one-armed guard was still sleeping. Jack got out and saluted through the rolled-down windows.
– If you are ever back in Panama, give me a call you crazy gringo. Enrique gave him a small card and a hardy handshake. Raúl leaned out and motioned for Jack to come closer. He patted him on the back and said,
– Take care, guapo. And don’t eat anymore green bananas.
– Thanks guys, see you the next time around.
Jack went straight for the docks, double stepping it and praying for a little luck. The captain had said mañana : in Spanish, mañana can mean either tomorrow, tomorrow morning, or simply not now. Jack hoped for the first.
When he rounded the corner of the covered dock, he saw the crew of the Doña Flor making the final preparations to leave. The captain was again with his clipboard in hand, cigar in mouth, directing the last handful of crates across the boarding plank onto the deck. Jack sighed with relief.
He moved down onto the wharf and started for the boat. Just before crossing over, he heard the voice behind him.
– Y tus papeles ? Ambushed, Jack turned. He’d had enough, he was hungry, he was tired. At the river, something had caught up with him. He needed more south.
– Escouche. Here are ten dolarés, take ‘em. Jack stuffed the two crumpled fives from his pocket into the man’s dry palm. – I don’t got more so you ain’t gettin’ anymore. Don’t even ask. Now leave me alone.
He marched over the plank onto the stern. He put his bag down next to the crates and boxes on deck, crossed his arms, and looked ashore. The officer looked dumbly at the green wad in his hand, shook his head, and put it into his pocket.
– Fucking gringo, he muttered under his breath as he walked away.
