Often Dolphineros’s missions ended calamitously. Yet Hrant, relating a lecture by Daedalus, insisted that failures were necessary because they hacked out the paths to eventual accomplishment. Referring to his son, Icarus, who took to the air only to fall into the sea when the sun melted the waxed bindings of his wings, Daedalus maintained that the youth’s fate didn’t deter the generations that followed from trying to fly. And after ages of countless failures, the Montgolfier brothers opened the horizons with their hot-air balloon. Today we fly everywhere; tomorrow we’ll shuttle between galaxies. Thus, in the struggle between Good and Evil, Good’s failures guarantee Evil’s demise.
Belkis and I suffered several failures. One of which, but for the help provided by dolphins, would have floundered irremediably. It occurred in Honduras, one of the most hostile and dangerous countries in Latin America for human rights activists. We were assigned to smuggle out La Paloma, the Dove, Central America’s songbird who, campaigning for the emancipation of the campesinos, had become the bane of the Minotaurs in the corridors of power.
Aided by a band of patriots and assisted by a cameraman, she transmitted, every Sunday, a vlog from secluded locations. Starting with her signature tune, Cucurrucucú Paloma – the classic ballad wherein a woman laments the loss of her beloved – and ending with her adaptation of Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land, she belted out a medley of incendiary songs that urged the people to oust the Minotaurs and their accomplices, the drug-barons, before they devoured Honduras’s future.
In countries where lawlessness is the law, activists have brief lives. Paloma had so far evaded assassination attempts and though commendably no one had yet claimed the substantial rewards offered for her capture, she was running out of hide-outs. Unless smuggled out soon, the barbed noose with her name on it would claim her.
We flew to La Ceiba three days before the Carnival which, on the third Saturday of May, celebrates the city’s patron saint, Isidore the Labourer, and draws some half a million tourists.
We were accredited as ichthyologists attached to Iceland’s Reykjavik University sent to assess the damage to marine life by the vast increase of plastic waste. Professor Ququmatz, dean of Littoral Atlantic University’s Oceanographic Research Centre – and one of Paloma’s most ardent supporters – had volunteered to help us.
Ququmatz is an epithet. Born Antonio Suarez, the name honours him as the reincarnation of the Mayan god who, floating in the primordial sea, created life, the cosmos and water’s salvational qualities.
He met us with typically exuberant Honduran welcome. A chain-smoker informally dressed in shirt and slacks, shortish and corpulent with long hair, a tousled beard and strong indigenous features, his face shone with joviality. His students called him Pato, partly because he walked like a duck.
We fell under his spell immediately.
He informed us there was a change of plan. Normally the Carnival provided the drug-barons with a smokescreen to forward their goods to various destinations in the Carribean by using naïve tourists as drug mules. But, since the recent death of a young American backpacker whose bag of cocaine burst in her stomach, the government had imposed ultra-strict surveillance on all aircraft and boats. Under these circumstances, smuggling Paloma out of the Caribbean – as originally intended – would be too risky. We had to divert to the Gulf of Fonseca where the Oceanographic Research Centre had its Pacific branch. There we would escort Paloma to El Salvador and hand her to a patriotic Honduran cell in exile.
We spent the days before the Carnival sightseeing while Ququmatz made new arrangements with Paloma. Given the secrecy needed to contact her, he conducted communications in Ch’orti, an indigenous language. That in itself presented some problems. In a population of about ten million, Ch’orti, slowly lapsing, was only spoken by about fifty thousand indigenes. This enabled the Security Ministry to monitor all communications, particularly on social media. As latterly many Ch’orti-speakers had been extrajudicially killed by death-squads, those still prepared to risk their lives to support Paloma were small in number.
Finally, Ququmatz arranged to rendezvous with Paloma on the volcanic island of El Tigre a week after the Carnival. The venue albeit not perfect – nowhere in Honduras was safe – had nonetheless some advantages. El Tigre was off the beaten track. Its isolation and small population would enable us to assess the security measures. Most importantly, El Tigre was close to a number of El Salvadorian islands. We planned to sail with Paloma to one of these, called Conchaguita.
Before setting out for the Pacific coast, we mixed with the Carnival’s celebrants. We had brought our peace props. Belkis played the flute; I the harmonica. We joined the marimba players, guitarists and trumpeters, danced with total strangers, shared peace pipes, rotated Tibetan prayer wheels and offered the children beaded bracelets. We received garlands in return.
One incident marred the enjoyment. Ququmatz, showing unexpected skills as a juggler, was entertaining a group of children. Nearby some campesinos, gathered around a small band, were singing folk songs. When we stopped to watch them, a tall, well-dressed man sidled up to us.
‘White gods, I presume?’
Belkis looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s some greeting.’
He responded gravely. ‘That’s how Moctezuma, the Aztec emperor, addressed the conquistadores. He thought white Cortés was the god Quetzalcoatl returning as legends had predicted.’
Belkis jested. ‘We’re of humbler stock. Icelanders.’
‘Good. That might keep you safe.’
I faced the man sharply. ‘Safe, did you say?’
He smiled impassively. ‘Cortés destroyed a great civilisation. Natives haven’t forgotten that. Whites don’t make good gods. Actually they’re no longer white but green – dollar green – gringos.’ One of those Anglicised mestizos that pose like hidalgos. With something crawling in his oily smile.
I retorted brusquely. ‘Moctezuma and Cortés – that was Mexico. Honduras is Maya-land.’
He chuckled. ‘I see you know your history. Still conquests spread. And never leave – like gringos.’
That irked Belkis. ‘Are you suggesting we’re not welcome?’
A big smile this time – a very smarmy one. ‘No. But I think it’s important to ask foreigners what they are doing in this hellhole. Why don’t you stay at home? There you won’t keep looking behind you to see who’s following.’
Belkis riposted brusquely. ‘We consider the world our home.’
I interjected. ‘And a home that needs lots of repairs!’
The man looked surprised. ‘You are here to do repairs? How commendable! I’m Salazar. Businessman. Perhaps I can help. What sort of work do you do?’
Belkis replied coolly. ‘Research! PhD work.’
‘Lucrative?’
My alarm bells started ringing. ‘We make do.’
Salazar pondered a moment. ‘I imagine researchers could well do with some manna from Heaven.’
Belkis quipped. ‘They could certainly do with a magic wand.’
‘Magic wands are what we, businessmen, have …’
I taunted him. ‘Are you offering us a job?’
‘If you want one.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Anything. Courier work maybe.’
‘You mean drug-mules?’
‘Mules – no. More like cranes delivering happiness.’
Belkis fumed. ‘You’ve picked the wrong people!’
‘Did I?’
I snarled. ‘Definitely.’
Salazar shrugged. ‘Pity … Vaya con Dios!’
As he walked away a burly man staggered over and started ranting at Belkis. ‘Woman with red shirt! Go home! Here red shirt is bad sign! Brings fire.’
Belkis humoured him. ‘Like Prometheus? I’m flattered!’
The man pointed at me. ‘You, too, carrot-head! Go home!’
I squared up to him. ‘You’re drunk, man. Just get going!’
My confrontation enraged him even more. He shouted. ‘Red means blood!’
The singing stopped. People looked afraid.
Ququmatz, alerted by the silence, rushed over. ‘What’s going on?’
The man kept shouting. ‘Women easy to kill. Soft. Men more difficult, but not too difficult. So vamoose!’
Ququmatz took him by the arm. ‘Go, hombre, go! Before I call the police!’
Incongruously the man bowed. But as he tottered away, he shouted again. ‘Don’t say Diego didn’t warn you!’
Ququmatz looked troubled. ‘Carnivals – that’s when riffraff creep out. They worry me.’
I was worried, too. ‘We also had someone asking us to smuggle drugs.’
That troubled Ququmatz even more. ‘Oh?’
‘I think we should report them.’
‘No. Most police are in cahoots with drug-barons. Besides, you’re undercover. We don’t want to start an investigation.’ That chastened us. Then Belkis, seeking to recapture the gaiety we had been enjoying, urged the band to resume playing. I caught sight of Salazar across the road. He was watching us with his unctuous smile.
The next day, we set out for El Tigre in a house trailer bearing the Research Centre’s logo and equipped with four beds, a kitchen, a shower and a workable laboratory. The week at hand would give Paloma the time to thread her way to our rendezvous. Bypassing the capital, Tegucigalpa, we drove through the country’s mainly mountainous terrain for four days. We visited Mayan ruins and national parks and proceeded to San Lorenzo.
Having made countless such journeys, Ququmatz had become a patriarchal figure in many villages. Wherever we stopped to buy provisions, people, despite their poverty, refused payment. Ququmatz responded by giving donations to community centres. Most impressively, many campesinos, fascinated by Ququmatz’s work, kept bringing him uncommon riverine fish.
On the afternoon of the sixth day we reached Coyolito, the hamlet that provided the only regular ferry service to El Tigre. Hours later, Paloma texted that she, too, had arrived and was staying with Nahún, the boatman from Playa Negra, whose cruiser Ququmatz had hired.
Early the next day, a Sunday, we parked the house trailer at the Fishing Cooperative where Ququmatz was much esteemed and boarded the ferry to Amapala with a group of tourists. We took the hikers’ route that circles the island and offers slip-tracks to its volcano, fishing villages and beaches. We had decided that trekking in broad daylight would enable us to spot any suspicious activity.
Aware that in the midst of a few hikers, my red hair and Ququmatz’s long ebony hair would be conspicuous, we wore hooded cagoules. So cloaked, we felt safe even when a Coastguard helicopter from the mainland circled the island a couple of times.
We reached Nahún’s cabana in Playa Negra early afternoon. With its secluded beach and crude jetty, the place had a raw charm. But instead of the boisterous Honduran welcome we expected we met an eerie silence.
Moments later a truck with some men firing submachine guns veered from the road and stopped alongside. Five men and the driver jumped out.
I recognised the driver. ‘Diego!’
He wagged a finger at us. ‘I warned you!’ Hidebehind perched on my shoulder.
Ququmatz shouted at the men. ‘Where’s Paloma?!’
A man in smart slacks and shirt, also armed, emerged from the cabana: Salazar, the suave businessman from La Ceiba. He spoke amiably. ‘She’s inside. Come in. Come in.’
Diego prodded us. ‘Move!’ We stepped onto the veranda.
Haughtily, Ququmatz faced Salazar. ‘Now let me guess. You are –?’
Amused by Ququmatz’s tone, Salazar saluted like a soldier. ‘Salazar, Señor. Coke-king. Patriarch. Jefe. All things!’
Ququmatz, maintaining his arrogance, seethed. ‘Paloma – inside you said. Is she hurt?’
Salazar crowed. ‘Not anymore. You see, she shouldn’t have come. Women should know their place.’ Ququmatz ran into the cabana and howled. We rushed in. And froze at the sight of four bodies on the floor.
Raging like a wounded lion, Ququmatz threw himself at Salazar. ‘Demonio!’
Salazar knocked him out with his gun. ‘Also, women shouldn’t interfere in big business. Certainly, never carry guns like Paloma. That begs for tragedy.’
Diego and his men were blocking us. Belkis pushed them out of the way and went to attend to Ququmatz. I heard Hidebehind chuckle. I tried to think of a way to overpower Salazar and his men.
Salazar, enjoying my impotence, identified the bodies derisively. ‘Paloma, the dove. Nahún, the seadog. Itzel, his wife. Esteban, Paloma’s cameraman – probably her lover, too. Mature women like young men.’
I stared at the bodies. Nahún and Itzel – tall with striking Mayan faces. Esteban, bearing the glow of mixed blood. And Paloma, lips twisted as if trying to wrench songs that had stuck in her throat.
Salazar scoffed. ‘Always surprises me why hand-to-mouth people like Nahún choose hard work when money is so easy to get.’
Belkis, cradling Ququmatz, hissed. ‘They’re born good – that’s why!’
‘Good is always a bad choice, Señorita.’
Belkis flared. ‘You’ve killed four saints! Don’t you feel any remorse?’
Salazar sneered. ‘I did Heaven a favour. Not many saints around these days. So, I gifted a few.’
Ququmatz was regaining consciousness. I helped Belkis pick him up and seat him on a chair.
Salazar pointed at some bottles on the table. ‘Take a breath. Have a drink. Honour the dead. Nahún kept a bar for clients. There’s bourbon, rum, tequila, vodka, gin.’
Hoping alcohol might clear my mind to find a way to overcome our captors, I swigged some rum. It produced an idea. I faced Salazar. ‘Before you kill us – as no doubt, you will – can we bury our friends? In solidarity?’
Salazar snapped his fingers. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ He barked at Diego. ‘Àndale!’
Diego signalled at the other men. They picked up the bodies of Paloma and her helpers and carried them out onto the veranda.
Salazar waved a hand. ‘I have something better planned – a surprise. You like surprises?’
Belkis taunted him. ‘Where we come from, surprises surprise the surpriser.’
Salazar smirked. ‘Here’s not where you come from, señorita!’
‘You’d be amazed where we come from.’
Salazar chuckled heartily. ‘You liberals! Always stiff upper lip.’
I sipped more rum. ‘Don’t underestimate stiff upper lips.’
Salazar dropped his bonhomie and turned feral. ‘Look at it this way: Paloma and her sidekicks were at my mercy – as you are. Now they’re travelling from dust to dust. That’s the reality.’
Ququmatz muttered disconsolately. ‘Give me another reality. Who betrayed us?’
Salazar faced him, amused. ‘Who do you think?’
‘Surely not campesinos!’
‘No, not campesinos, Professor. But then they’re stupid. They turn into three monkeys to save Paloma. She’s holy, we don’t betray holy souls, they say. I tell them I’m Jefe – better than holy soul. You live because of me. Because of my gang. I protect you! Make you family! Give you food, shirts, money, guns, drugs, everything! Sometimes I even warn liberals – like Diego and I warned you in La Ceiba. Forget saints, I say. They try to change the systems. But systems can’t be changed. Death-gangs, head-honchos they’re forever! It’s like talking to stucco masks!’
Ququmatz taunted him. ‘Stucco masks know right from wrong!’
Salazar poured himself a drink. ‘Yes, they do. On the other hand, your stucco masks also have canaries. Put gold around their necks, pearls on their cojones, greenbacks to wipe their arses with and they’ll give viaticum to anybody.’
Ququmatz looked puzzled. ‘Canaries … Do you mean somebody abroad?’
‘More than a somebody, Professor.’
Ququmatz, refusing to believe him, shook his head. ‘Why would they? It’s safe abroad.’
‘Dollar is God everywhere.’
‘Even so …’
‘You’ll have a chance to see for yourself, Professor. They’ll be in Conchagüita – where you’re going. They’ll be the choir for the funerals.’
Ququmatz retorted defiantly. ‘Don’t bet on that!’
Salazar pointed to the bottles. ‘One for the road? For my surprise?’ Ququmatz, Belkis and I exchanged looks. Then we – even Belkis – filled our glasses. Salazar became effusive. ‘No doubt, you’re wondering why I’m not killing you. I would have – if, like Paloma, you pulled a gun. But you’re not guerreros. You’re peripheral. Better to let you sail. It saves me the trouble of killing you.’
Belkis was incredulous. ‘You’re letting us go? Are you serious?’
‘I’m always serious! But I want you to promise you’ll hand over Paloma to her canaries in El Salvador. They can build a shrine for her. And eat their greenbacks – shit-scared – hoping that I won’t one day get rid of them, too.’
‘Then what – after the funerals?’
‘Then you go home. Maybe even hang up your boots.’
Ququmatz stood up. ‘You should know I don’t hang up my boots. You might as well kill me now!’
Salazar shrugged. ‘I can vaporise you any time, Professor. Also, with respect, when the authorities hear that you collaborated with Paloma, you’ll be untouchable. They’ll retire you. No one will risk downing piña coladas with you. No more love-ins with fish. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a backyard and get hooked on cocaine or señoritas or catamites.’
Diego shouted from outside. ‘Preparado, Jefe! Too engrossed talking, we hadn’t noticed Diego and his men packing Paloma, Nahún, Itzel and Esteban into body bags on the veranda and hauling them onto the back of the truck.
Salazar finished his drink. ‘Let’s go, amigos. Don’t forget your backpacks.’
By the time we walked to Nahún’s cabin-cruiser at the ramshackle jetty, Diego and his men had laid out the body bags on the deck.
Salazar enthused. ‘Your yacht. From Noah’s time but will get you safely to Conchagüita. Get in.’ We boarded the cabin-cruiser. Hidebehind was still on my back, but I felt more confident about getting us to safety. We had a boat and the sea was our domain. Diego released the mooring line. I started the motor. It fired immediately.
Salazar waved his gun. ‘Vaya con Dios!’ We sailed off as a few fishing-boats were returning home.
Ququmatz scanned the horizon. ‘He’s not letting us go, you realise that?’
We concurred. ‘Yes!’
He pointed at the sun gliding to set. ‘It’ll be dusk soon. They’ll probably attack then. I imagine a Coast Guard will blow us to smithereens. Some stuff will float – that’s why Salazar told us to take our backpacks. News will say we hit an old mine.’
Belkis thought a moment. ‘If we can move out of their sight a bit, we can swim to Conchagüita.’
Ququmatz shook his head. ‘Not a chance. Besides, Conchagüita is out! You heard Salazar. There are canaries there waiting to tell the world we died in a terrible accident. The neighbouring island, Meanguera, also El Salvadorian – that’s your destination.’
‘Our destination?’
‘I’ve been told you’re great swimmers. You should do it! And soon!’
‘Are you suggesting –?’
‘Staying put, yes.’
I protested. ‘Nonsense! We started together and we’ll stay together!’
Ququmatz waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m hardly fit for a long swim. Too old, too fat, plus smokers’ tarred lungs.’
‘We’ll help. I can carry you!’
Ququmatz rummaged through his rucksack and brought out two plastic envelopes. ‘Take these. Specimen bags. I always carry some in case I find something interesting.’
‘What do we need them for?’
‘Maps, passport, money. Tie them round your waist. Now undress. Scatter your clothes on the deck.’
Belkis protested forcefully. ‘You’re coming, too. Oric’s strong.’
Ququmatz shook his head. ‘I’ve had a great life – despite all the ills of my country. I don’t mind leaving it.’
We disagreed vehemently. ‘You won’t be leaving it!’
Ququmatz pointed at the sun. ‘Sunset soon. Undress now. Please!’ We humoured him and undressed. He took off his necklace and gave it to me. ‘Find the Oceanographic Centre in Meanguera. I have an old student there: Xavier Lopez. Rock solid. Go at night when it’s quiet. He always works late. He’ll recognise the necklace – he gave it to me one birthday. St Christopher, travellers’ patron saint. Never forsook me – and it won’t forsake you. Put it on now.’ I did. ‘Tell Xavier what happened. He’ll get you home.’
Belkis held his hand. ‘Your turn to undress! You’re coming along!’
‘I’m staying with Paloma. I haven’t been with her for a while.’ We heard a whirring sound and looked up.
Ququmatz frowned. ‘The helicopter we saw this morning.’ It was flying straight towards us.
‘It’s coming to bomb.’ He rushed into the cabin, came out with two snorkels and handed them over. ‘Nahún’s always wellequipped. Go now! Swim under water!’ As we hesitated, he argued. ‘You must admit, I can’t swim to Meanguera from here. Nor would I let Oric carry me. So that’s settled!’
Belkis and I exchanged looks. He was right.
He kissed us. ‘Go! Now! Please! For Paloma’s sake!’
Belkis hugged him. ‘One last truth. Death is a lie.’
Ququmatz chuckled. ‘That’s good to know.’ Disconsolately, we slid overboard and swam away from the boat.
He waved at us. ‘Tie your bags! Watch out for sharks!’
We donned the snorkels and dived.
Minutes later, we heard the muffled sounds of explosions. We waited a few minutes then surfaced. No signs of the cabin-cruiser. Just an oil slick and floating pieces of wood and clothes. And no remains of Ququimatz or the body bags.
We caught sight of the helicopter returning to its base.
We swam to Meanguera. On the way, sharks appeared.
When they started circling us, pods of short-beaked dolphins, led by a larger one, appeared. They chased the sharks away. Thereafter, communicating with clicks, whistles, postures and acrobatics, they formed a protective ring around us. Occasionally the larger one nudged us to change course.
We realised they were Leviathans led by Hrant. Some, we presumed, were recent ones: Ququimatz, Paloma, Esteban, Nahún, Itzel. We even imagined that one young dolphin who stayed very close was Childe Asher.
We reached Meanguera around midnight. The dolphins led us to the Oceanographic Centre’s pier. There was light in one of the rooms. Assuming its occupant was Xavier Lopez, we went there.
The sudden appearance of two near-naked people astounded him. When I showed him Ququmatz’s necklace and related how he, Paloma and her companions were murdered, he burst into tears. Then he promised that although the Honduran media, fully controlled by the Establishment, would not investigate the destruction of Nahún’s boat, he’d make sure the world would know.
As Ququmatz had predicted, early that morning, Honduran news services reported that the famous Professor Ququmatz, two of his foreign students and four guests – including the superstar, Paloma – had perished when their pleasure boat hit a mine dating back to the dispute between Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador over the Gulf’s islands.
For a week, we hid in a lumberyard – ‘for our own good’ as Xavier put it. We saw him at nights and became great friends.
Early the second week, a Human Rights organisation flew us to Costa Rica’s capital, San José.
The Pinkies are photographing us with their techsets.
Defiantly, I kneel and rest my head on Daniel’s Mother’s shoulder.
She strokes my hair. She’s no longer tearful. There’s hope in her voice. ‘When Dolphineros are killed do they really become Leviathans?’
‘Yes.’
‘And consort normally with people?’
‘Yes.’
‘My son – Danny …?’
‘A Dolphinero, very likely.’
‘Maybe a Leviathan?’
‘Maybe.’
She laughs softly. ‘It would be typical of him.’
I kiss her hand and stand up. ‘Remember that. Always.’
She squeezes my hand. ‘Your Belkis …’
‘A Leviathan now. But by my side.’
‘Maybe she and Danny will meet.’
‘Why not?’
‘And you? Still a Dolphinero?’
‘For now.’
She rummages through her bag, brings out a shamrock and gives it to me. ‘For good luck. With my love.’
I’m deeply moved.
‘I am Esther, by the way.’
‘I’ll think of you as mother.’
She beams. ‘Will you?’
‘What better?’
As I move, she calls out. ‘When you see Belkis, tell her to tell Danny I know he’s alive. That I’m proud of him. Always will be!’
‘I’m sure he’d want to hear that from you – when he visits.’
‘Playing his guitar?’
‘And singing Cante Grande.’
She sighes beatifically, then starts singing Danny Boy softly.
I leave with the song implanted in my mind.