Why is she torturing herself this way? No one really knows who these kidnappers are or why they are aggrieved. Alma is already putting words in their mouths, writing out their manifestos in her head, viewing the video they will make in which an unshaved, pale, petrified Richard pleads for his life to some head of state.
On the short flight down to Newark, Emerson tries to engage Alma in conversation. But he forgets about her when they meet up with Jim Larsen, the soft-spoken Swan representative, for their connecting flight down to Santo Domingo in first class. What kind of an aid operation is he running, spending all this money to travel in luxury to help the impoverished of the world? Such violent either-or distinctions! Alma better watch out or she’ll soon find her own left hand chopped off by her right.
Emerson changes seats so he and Jim can confer and brainstorm and order up what seems like a lot of martinis for what is not yet lunch. Just as well. Alma can’t seem to concentrate on anything, not her Coetzee novel, her Dante paperback, her journal, or the Balmis material she stuck in her satchel before leaving. To distract herself, she picks up the newspaper Emerson has left behind in his seat pocket. In the Vermont section, her eye is caught by a short piece titled “Trouble on Turkey Day.” Unbelievable that the wheels of this sleepy, little state can turn so quickly, but then it was Thanksgiving and the paper was probably strapped for news. Alma is mentioned only as “a neighbor” who claims to have seen Michael McMullen about to inject his mother, Helen Marshall, with an unknown substance. Meanwhile, Michael McMullen maintains that he was only trying to give his mother her diabetes medication; he was not trying to do her in by infecting her with a deadly virus. He lost his head and struck the sheriff by mistake.
How do you strike somebody by mistake? Alma wonders. Probably, Mickey was aiming to strike her, and the sheriff got in the way. But more to the point, what strikes Alma now sitting on this plane, flying away from the scene of one possible crime to the scene of another probable one, is, Who said anything about a deadly virus? Why would Mickey defend himself against an accusation she never made? Hasn’t he inadvertently implicated himself? Where in the world would Mickey get hold of a deadly virus? Is that what was in the syringe that Alma knocked out of his hand and that the sheriff’s men later couldn’t find? Maybe Hannah picked it up after they all left and before she fled? Has she been found? Even the life Alma might go back to if she manages to save Richard seems suddenly unmoored, rickety.
A deadly virus. Like this one infecting her head. Everywhere she looks she sees signs of dread. She takes a deep breath. She’ll call the sheriff’s office as soon as she lands. Meanwhile, she makes herself think of Isabel and Balmis, wandering the waters not far from the island where Alma’s plane has just landed.
THE AIRSTRIP SEEMS DESERTED, the sunshine blinding. The few planes out on the tarmac look unsafe in their odd colors, a huge pink airbus with a flag that could be a T-shirt logo for a reggae band, a lavender plane with propellers.
Only their own and another American carrier seem trustworthy with their silver wings and bully flag and blond, noli me tangere pilots, who come inside the terminal briefly to buy cheap rum at the duty-free shops and use the airline’s premium-club-members-only facilities.
As she descends the rolling stairwell—the jetway is not working—as she follows the other passengers down a long outdoor corridor, Alma is hoping against all hope that Richard will be just around the corner, tapping on the glass partition, craning his neck to get a glimpse of her.
But no, he is not here, he is not there. Instead, pictures of him flash in her head: Richard driving the pickup over snowdrifts, Richard and the boys laughing on the deck, Richard falling asleep, his body curled around hers as she reads in bed. How will she ever sleep in that bed again if Richard is killed?
Her heart starts that jumpy rhythm that makes her feel as if she’s going to faint, her head pounding with stupidities that convince her she is going to go mad unless she takes a deep breath.
Suddenly, a picture, not of Richard, hangs before her. That famous Munch painting of a terrified face, hands over her ears, mouth ripped open in a mute cry. Now Alma knows what that poor waif was screaming about: the loss of her beloved.
JUST INSIDE IMMIGRATION, Starr Bell is waiting for them. “I flew into Miami last night,” she explains. “Got here about an hour ago.” She doesn’t look a bit tarnished by the long journey, blonde and tanned and a head taller than the contingent of about a dozen men who stand by while the señorita greets her friends. Half of the men in the group are dressed in street clothes, undercover guys must be, with their dark glasses and slick look of professionals. The other half are military men with gold braid and heroic glitter on their chests. They give the group a semiofficial air as if they are receiving representatives from somewhere not important enough to merit more fanfare.
One man doesn’t seem to fit either bill, a pudgy, Baby Huey–looking guy with soft brown skin. Before Starr even introduces him, Alma guesses this is Bienvenido. What’s he doing here? Why wasn’t he taken hostage? Probably the same reason that Bienvenido got to call his wife while Richard couldn’t come down the mountain to call her. Maybe the guy is in league with the kidnappers?
“I am so sorry about what is occurring to your husband,” he assures Alma, taking her hand in both of his. He has a lazy eye, which keeps wandering off. It gives him a sly look, as if he doesn’t trust his own sincerity. “As you know,” he adds, “this type of situation is a very rare occurrence in our country.”
Alma’s eyes fill. Our country. Not hers, not anymore, not if they hurt Richard. As for rare occurrence. This type of situation is going to start happening more and more everywhere. The perks and privileges are going to go up in flames like so much paper fortifications.
Their passports and papers are collected by one of the plainclothesmen who goes off to get them stamped by Immigration. Meanwhile, Emerson and his group are escorted into a VIP room to be briefed about what has been happening on this the second day of the seizure of the Swan center.
“We are very unaccustomed to this type of occurrence,” one of the men in uniform says, echoing Bienvenido. “In our country, we are not radicals, we are not revolutionaries. There is no tradition of such movements on this soil.” With his overdecorated, puffed-out chest and declamatory lift of the hand with each sentence, he reminds Alma of an opera singer with a minor but nevertheless critical part.
“These people, they have no electricity, no schools, no medicines,” the military spokesman continues. “But they come down to the barras with the cable TV, and in the news they see all over the world these terrorists. They get ideas.” His colleagues, plainclothes and in uniform, are nodding agreement, as if the speaker has set a whole shelf of little figures with springs in their necks bobbing.
So the kidnappers got the idea from cable TV. “But what do they want?” Alma feels impatient at the bureaucratic wheels she sees turning in rhetorical revolution. “Have they issued a statement?”
“Señora.” The military man shakes his head sadly at her. He is doing all the talking, so he must be in charge. Probably some big general, Alma guesses; at any rate, best to call him that. She remembers one of her cousins telling her that years back. Always address an official with a higher title than the one you think he has. It makes for smooth handling of the situation. A tip also helps. “You mean a bribe,” Alma had corrected him. Her cousins stopped giving her pointers when they realized she was always coming down with ideas on how to improve things. “These are boy terrorists, local kids, they do not know how to read or write. How can they issue a statement?”
“But they must have said something about why they’ve taken over the center?” Alma looks over at Emerson for help. “Didn’t you say the kidnappers were asking for their own clinic for the community? No more AIDS vaccine testing?” Emerson looks over at Starr and Bienvenido, who nod in agreement. Emerson nods back. What is this? Alma thinks angrily—a convention of nodding people?
“Ah
… You are referring to those matters.” The general seems to be drawing out his answers as if to remind Alma that she must speak with more calm and consideration herself. “Yesterday they say they want a termination to testing. They say they want a clinic for the community. That was yesterday. Then they saw the cable TV. They heard the radio. All the publicity. Today they add more things.”
“Like what?” Alma gasps. She feels like the dog in that Goya painting, its head poking out of a sloping mass of—is it quicksand?—that will shortly swallow him up. Dog Drowning, it was called. Alma feels like she is drowning, like she can’t get enough air in her lungs.
“Señora, it is not clear to me what these individuals want.” The general says with showy regret. He doesn’t want to talk to her, Alma can tell. She is being a nuisance. Get out of the way. Dad’s last words keep running through her head. “We will review this matter with the troops on-site.”
Troops. That doesn’t sound good.
“But you must understand,” he continues, addressing his remarks now to Emerson. “Our government’s policy is like yours, we do not negotiate with terrorists. We are trying to reason with them. What will they gain if the center is bombarded?”
Alma’s mouth drops. She looks over at Starr and Emerson, shocked when they don’t immediately protest. They both understand Spanish, so it can’t be that. And Jim has been sent down as Swan’s rep, so one would hope he knows the language. Don’t they realize what this guy is suggesting? “What do you mean bombard the place?” Alma challenges when no one else does. “My husband is in that center.”
“Señora,” the general reminds her, “there are forty-six patients and personnel in there, along with your husband, and three women who clean and cook and their children who help them. All these lives are very valuable to us.”
Alma feels rebuked. Of course, all these lives are valuable. But she doesn’t like hearing him say so. This is the kind of platitude that will allow him to give the signal to bomb the center because none of those fifty or so lives are the one life he cannot bear to destroy, his own beloved child, his beautiful mistress, his old mother whose hand he kisses when he visits her for Sunday dinner.
The room is frigid—the air conditioner must be cranked up to top dollar—and unnerving with its heavy drapes and fluorescent lighting, a place where a shady deal is being brokered. She can’t stand to listen to this guy talk. Any moment she is going to lose control, reach over and yank off his medals, call him corporal, tell him he can’t go bombing innocent people.
Take a deep breath, she coaches herself. Make believe you’re Isabel. (This is slowly becoming her mantra.) You’ve brought the vaccine across an ocean without a single casualty. You saved the day in Puerto Rico. Surprisingly, she does feel calmer.
“Emerson, can I talk to you a second,” Alma says, standing. The group falls silent. Emerson follows her to the far side of the room, where there is a bar with stools. A waiter in a tuxedo is preparing a tray of cafecitos. He looks up; Alma shakes her head. No, there is nothing he can get for her. Behind her, the men continue their discussion.
“Emerson, do you realize they’re talking about bombing the place,” Alma explains, just in case he didn’t understand. “You’re not going to let them do that!” It’s not a question. She hopes he knows it’s not a question.
“Nothing like that is going to happen,” he assures her. But he doesn’t flash her his customary smile that seals his words with confidence. “These guys have to talk a hard line. They’re not going to do something stupid.”
Alma is not so sure. Everything is taking too much time! “So when are we going up there?”
Emerson gives her one of his long, assessing looks. No doubt he can see right to the heart of her terror. “I’m going up now with Jim. And Starr knows these people, the ones in the village, and maybe even some of the guys involved. But Alma, it might be best for you to stay until we assess the situation. Don’t you have relatives in the capital?”
“I’m going!” she cries out angrily. The room again falls silent. The men sitting in their circle of chairs and couches look over at her. She doesn’t care what they think of her. They’re not going to usher her away to her old aunts with a sedative and a pat on the head, while they go wreak their havoc. She is going up there! If need be, she is going to stand guard in front of the clinic and let cable TV catch the footage of how her country treats the lives of innocent people! “Why do you think I came all this way? Richard is up there.”
Emerson puts a calming hand on her shoulder. “I know this is difficult, Alma. We’re not going to leave you out of anything. I promise. Okay?” He gives her a kindly Ah, come on now, give us a little smile look. She hates herself for letting go of her anger, for nodding meekly yes. But she better run with the pack. Who else is there to trust? Everybody seems suspect, including herself. This is what it means to live in a fallen world, she thinks. If only she’d been paying closer attention when she read to Helen from Paradise Lost.
That, too, seems laughable here. The idea that literature would have made her live her life any differently than she has. And besides, she doesn’t have the luxury right now of being an individual. Setting herself apart. The same broad brush is painting over everyone. She feels the invisible bristles moving over her skin. She shivers as if to shake it off.
“Can you believe how cold it is in here?” Starr has left the group of men just as Emerson is returning to them. Was there an invisible nod between them, Alma wonders. Your turn to try some female mollification. Starr is holding on to her bare arms, which are covered with goose bumps. Alma has to bite her tongue to keep from saying something mean. Why take it out on these people just because they’ve been spared instead of Richard?
“You smoke?” Starr asks, digging around in her purse, a little leather knapsack with nifty brass fittings. “You mind?” She lights up, when Alma shakes her head. “One thing I love about this country,” she begins, and then, as if recalling the situation, she gives Alma an Oops, sorry about that smile, before adding, “You can smoke anywhere you want here.”
“So do you know what else these terrorists are now asking for?” Alma returns to the point everybody seems to be avoiding. All this verbal red tape is making her even more afraid.
“Terrorists? Oh please, Alma. Like he said, they’re kids. They’re probably starting to have second thoughts and want to be sure they get amnesty when it’s all over.” Starr twists her head to exhale her smoke away from Alma. “I know all those guys, Moncho and Rubio and Tomás and Salvador. They want attention. And just remember, the last thing anyone wants is a … tragedy.”
Alma can tell Starr considered and discarded a word or two before landing on the literary and elegant-sounding tragedy. She probably knows Alma is a writer with a big imagination. Better not use a word that calls up blasted bodies, severed limbs, bloodied faces, the casualties that come when you bomb a place. “You know the guys who are doing this?”
Starr needs a drag before answering. She pulls on her cigarette; smoke pours from her nostrils, her mouth. It is an ugly habit, Alma thinks. And Starr is not just pretty, but beautiful. The classic features, the good cheekbones. Plus she is tall and big eyed and pouty-mouthed. Maybe the kidnappers all want to sleep with her. Alma remembers a Southern woman at a party recounting how Savannah was saved from burning during the Civil War. The place was surrounded by Union troops, and the city fathers, trying to ward off the impending tragedy, sent out twenty volunteer beauties to give the soldiers whatever they wanted in exchange for sparing Savannah. It worked. It’s even been done in the Bible. Negotiate for salvation with a beautiful woman. Alma would offer herself if she could. But she’s fifty years old. And face it, even when she was Starr’s age, she didn’t have the goods.
“I’m not sure who all is in on this,” Starr explains. “But I can take a good guess.” She leans in closer for a confidence, holding the hand with the cigarette as far as possible from Alma and waving the smoke away with her other hand. “On
e thing I can tell you is these guys are not the ones in charge.” She indicates the men behind her, who are, unbelievably, laughing at something. “They’re like the welcome wagon.”
Alma feels like a lucky ten-year-old befriended by a cool teenager. She listens, impressed, and vaguely hopeful. Starr will get Richard out. She’ll drive up with her pickup full of goodies and a negligee in her purse. “So who is in charge?”
“Of the guys inside, probably Salvador. And outside, I’d say the United States of America.” She laughs at Alma’s surprised look. “Seriously, nobody here’s going to do something unless Jim tells them to.”
“Isn’t Jim with Swan?”
“Yes and no,” Starr says, but before Alma can get an explanation, the plainclothesman comes in with their stamped papers and passports. The vans are waiting outside. Alma tries to stick close to Starr and Emerson and, God knows, Jim, but at the last minute, the divvying up lands her in a black sedan. Inside, she finds a woman journalist, who has gotten permission to cover this news item discreetly, so as not to encourage the situation; a plainclothesman who drives; and two of the military guys, including the one Alma thought of as the general in charge, who is calling his wife on his cell phone to say he won’t be home for his daughter’s quinceañera rehearsal. So much for Alma’s native ability to read her culture.
One good thing about her car: nobody seems to be a smoker. They ride into the interior in sealed, air-conditioned comfort. The general lectures for a while on the continuing theme, his two cohorts chiming in: This situation is a rare occurrence. It all comes of this cable television. Alma says nothing. Globalization be blamed. Everybody wants to wash their hands clean of what is wrong in their corner of the world. But they might be right, like those viral infections that Emerson mentioned, that start somewhere else but spread everywhere and end up bringing the suffering world together.