LITMIR.BIZ

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was amused. “No one.”

      I backed away and eased myself around the guests, headed for Catherine, curious to observe the transformation up close. “Hola,” she said, when I reached her.

      “Are you with someone?” I asked.

      She laughed. “How about do I come here often?”

      “How about what are you drinking?”

      “Papaya juice.”

      “Right.”

      “It really is.”

      We raised glasses to each other. “You look very nice,” I told her, hoping I didn’t sound surprised.

      “Thank you. I thought I’d better clean up for the fufurufus.”

      “The what?”

      “The nouveau riche.”

      We drifted to the edge of a group of about a dozen people dominated by the couple Catherine had been talking with earlier. “Who are they?” I asked. She shrugged. “Cindy and Bob. They’re from Ohio. He sells fertilizer here. Shall we be nice and listen in on the conversation?”

      “You be nice. I’m always nice,” I said.

      Bob and Cindy were telling the story of a couple who had been recently robbed as they were climbing Volcán de Pacaya. “By two masked gunmen muttering something about the gods of the volcano,” said Cindy.

      “It was stupid to go climbing alone,” someone inserted. That raised the question of who was responsible for crime in the country, and everyone had an answer: guerrillas, local police, Indians, and jealous wives. Laughter.

      “We’re okay as long as we stick close to the touristy places,” said Cindy. “That’s what the State Department says.”

      “Well, if you want my theory,” said Bob, “statistically there’s no more danger of being robbed or killed here than in any city in the United States. But the Tourist Commission wants us, and they know one way to get us is to convey just the right sense of danger.”

      Tornquist, who had moved to the group along with Stenning, had a theory too. Since he was “literally from Missouri,” in the ten years he had been coming to Guatemala he had made it a practice never to take at face value anything he heard. “So help me, I swear to God the country operates on rumor and hearsay. Take away rumor and everything comes to a halt. Rumor is the machinery that powers the whole country, okay? It brings international loans, cancels foreign debt, builds hospitals.” He paused, and took a sip of his drink. A wave of cognizance passed over his face, as if he’d just realized he was onto something. He was standing on a rise of ground and it appeared to give him a podium. “You see what that means?” he said. “It means there’s no war. Not here. It’s just a rumor. Okay?”

      “True,” said someone. “The war is over.”

      “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.”

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