“Shall I announce you to Mr. Edward?” she asked.
“You have a lovely office!” She allowed her gaze to scan beyond the planters and spotlighted artwork. On the far wall, two wide corridors bore signs identifying them as entrance and exit. Between, in brass lettering upon the wall was spelled out: The Edward Collection The Peoples of Limon, their past, their plight and their future. That was it. “Unless he’s waiting for me now,” she replied, “perhaps I have time to see The Edward Collection.”
It seemed the correct response because the woman instantly smiled. “The galleries are an important first for a clear understanding of Mr. Edward’s charities,” she explained and enthusiastically invited Sylvia to explore.
The cubicles transported the visitor, via collected artwork, handicrafts, well-written captioned photographs and documents, through the history of the province and the peoples of its population: native Americans and Africans imported as slaves. The first was devoted to pre-Columbian Native American culture. The second depicted the original culture of the African people before they were chained as animals and brought to the Caribbean. With the exception of those first two galleries, the tour was a sad one, portraying a dismal history of repression, genocidal disease and a relentless succession of natural disasters. Remarkably, despite all the suffering and hardship, a light spirit was reflected in the people’s art throughout all of the time represented and cultural traditions, dance and religious festivals were kept alive.
The exhibits carried Sylvia to the history of the early 1800’s when the racial makeup of the province experienced its first changes, as black fishermen of turtles settled the coast and intermarried with the native Indians. Later in the century, more Blacks, these from Jamaica, were brought into the country to build a railroad into the interior that would connect the port of Limon with San José. They worked under deplorable conditions. Four thousand succumbed to yellow fever, malaria, and snakebite during the construction.
New industries came to Limon as coastal lowlands were cleared for banana and cacao. The plantations continued to grow in number and size, eventually employing thousands, typically, at slave wages. People in coastal villages like Chauita lived a better life as subsistence fishermen, working the rich waters along the reefs.
In the 1930’s, a devastating blight struck. United Fruit Company solved the problem by establishing new plantations on the Pacific coast where the disease hadn’t struck, abandoning Limon. Black workers from the Limon fields were prevented from following their jobs by a racial protection law forbidding them to enter the interior of the country, leaving thousands unemployed.
More recently, tourism became a major industry for the province and brought new life to the economy, competing
each year with bananas for first place. In April of 1991, a major earthquake measuring 7.2 on the Richter Scale and with its epicenter directly below Limon Province jolted the land, laying waste the works of man. Virtually every bridge linking Limon with the capital was destroyed. Many, particularly those to the profitable resort area south of the city of Limon, remained collapsed. Access to the area was limited to four-wheel drive vehicles: only they were able to navigate the diversion down the banks, crossing rivers axle-deep in water. The province’s thriving tourism industry was all but eliminated in the scant forty-five seconds it took the Earth to shake off the strain along the fault. Resorts and restaurants all up and down the pristine Caribbean beaches closed, bankrupt.
In August of the same year, a hurricane dumped torrential rains in the mountains, swamping the low-lying towns still reeling from earthquake damage. Rivers overflowed their banks, contaminating water supplies and bringing waterborne illnesses to communities beyond the reach of water trucks. Another hurricane repeated the devastation in 1995. Time and again, the poor people of the coast suffered yet another of Nature’s furies, but Nature wasn’t their only source of trouble.
The banana plantations eventually returned to Limon Province. They brought jobs back to the province, but they
came using new agricultural methods that visited yet another disaster on the province. The plantations’ ever-greater reliance on pesticides and chemical fertilizers polluted the Estrella River. The harm to workers’ health by repeated and prolonged exposure to the dangerous chemicals became a contentious issue. The companies insisted that stories of sickness were greatly exaggerated, and repeated so often that even the peons who invented them believed. Another newly introduced improvement to agriculture was the use of plastic bags to wrap the ripening bananas. At harvest, they were tossed into the river by the million and together with the run-off of agricultural chemicals flowed unimpaired into the coastal Caribbean. Trapped in the water volume between coast and barrier reef, the deadly brew and choking plastics were continually washed over and against the coral. The result, as a gallery of spectacular underwater pictures clearly demonstrated it was largely dead coastal reef, which collapsed the food chain, depleting or eliminating entire fish populations. So few remained that commercial fishing from dugout canoes, practiced since man first settled the region, was all but extinct.
Sylvia read on, learning that the natural disasters, so bad for tourism, were no kinder to the plantations. Each new hurricanes and its subsequent flooding caused millions of dollars in damage. Additionally, international politics dealt the plantations and the province’s economy another serious blow when the European Community imposed taxes on Costa Rica’s bananas in favor of their former African colonies, making them impossible to sell. There were photographs of mountains of bananas left to rot in the streets of Limon.
Poverty areas are always the worst affected by drug addiction. Limon was no exception to this sad rule of sociology, as Sylvia’s journey through the following gallery clearly demonstrated. Marijuana had long been in common use with the native people, and the Blacks from Jamaica had brought Rastafarianism, which encouraged and even glorified its use.
However, the 1980’s saw the use of cocaine as a recreational drug dramatically increase from almost zero. Shortly following this, the province was swept through by widespread crack cocaine use. Whether the practice began in San José or Limon was unclear, but it spread to affect all of Costa Rica, burglaries and muggings, practically unknown before, becoming common and increasingly violent. Clippings from the national newspaper were shocking for their obvious lack of objectivity and racist slant, leaving would-be tourists with the conviction that only in Limon was there danger, black muggers lurking in alleys waiting to slice their throats.
When she strolled out again into the reception area the secretary greeted her with brochures on several charities. The full color glossies described their founding by Mr. Edward and depicted some of the projects they supported or accomplished entirely on their own. There was a hospital and an affiliated series of local clinics, drug rehabilitation centers, job training and an emergency response center. The leaflet claimed that Mr. Edward, who appeared in every photo, paid every administrative expense as part of his personal contribution. By so doing, the brochure underlined, the charities are able to boast that an impressive one hundred percent of a contributor’s donations go to their actual work.
A concluding page was devoted to an historical depiction of the political battle
Mr. Edward had waged against the federal government, which clearly had long engaged in systematically slighting the province and ignoring its citizenry. A chapter illuminated this fact by offering comparisons between the levels of public works funds the central government disbursed following each natural disaster visited upon Costa Rica. In each case cited, Limon was the province awarded the least assistance – if any was given at all – although it was the one hit hardest in each instance.
She was in awe. Gone were any concerns Olger may have planted. In retrospect, she could only say that with the bad came the good because, if the mess she found herself in that morning was the price to be paid for meeting Gordon, it almost seemed worth it. Despite Olger’s admonition to be careful, she admired him immediately and caution was thrown to the wind.
She couldn’t wait to see him. Eleven o’clock, only a half hour early. To hell with Olger, he was probably a racist like the rest of them.
“Excuse me,” she called to the secretary. “You may tell Mr. Edward that I’m here now for our appointment.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Henderson,” Gordon Edward said, rising from behind an enormous desk. Sylvia smiled,
appraising the thickly carpeted office and plush decorating. “How good of you to arrive on time,” he continued, confident that her wandering gaze would approve. “So many foreign guests fail to understand Costa Rican lifestyle. However, a traditionalist, I consider local custom important.” He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, charcoal, of a soft rich fabric, over a white shirt and red silk tie.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Edward. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I consider it an honor.” Sylvia smiled broadly and extended her hand across the wide expanse of desktop. They exchanged a firm handshake as she admitted to being half of an hour early. She worn a tailored designer label pantsuit in navy. Below was a crisp white blouse with starched collar and pearl buttons open to cleavage. It was a look she preferred: professional without sacrificing sensuality. She took the chair offered, in front of and slightly below his desk and sat with hands crossed over a knee, waiting for his opening.
“An honor? Well, thank you.” he responded, leaning over on the heels of his hands. He spoke in baritone with the confidence of a practiced politician and carried himself with comfortable composure. His gestures were few and his smiles frequent.
Sylvia arranged the pleat of her pants suit then looked directly into his eyes. “May I speak frankly with you, Mr.
Edward?” she asked.
“By all means, however it’s entirely possible that you will be the first person to occupy that chair and do so,” he said, flashing a smile of perfectly shaped teeth.
“I’ve just completed a tour of your galleries and despite expectations to the contrary, you have won my admiration.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Henderson. I’ve known Olger since my first days in politics and I’m afraid his opinions represent the consensus of San José’s political climate. Rather than ask what was said, I think how you see me now is more to the point.”
Never had a man fallen closer to her ideal. He was a revolutionary and courageous battling the power brokers single-handedly, and on top of that, he lived in style. “I see you as strongly motivated to improving the conditions that Limon and her people find themselves living under. You stand up against an entrenched system, struggling for basic human rights and a sense of belonging to a country that would rather you and your people didn’t even exist!” The idealistic zeal of college days spurred her on. “Your people have suffered an entire history of abuse and exploitation, and the only concern the central government shows is that you produce a great deal and require nothing. Our country has the same problem, of course, and precious few have had the strength of character, stamina, and dedication to affect any noticeable change. Well, you seem to be one and that, Mr. Edward, is why I consider it a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” he said, smiling like a black Cheshire cat. “I so often feel that my efforts go unnoticed.”
“I’m really quite embarrassed: I came to offer five thousand dollars, simply to achieve my own goals, but now…”
“Ahem, um. Mrs. Henderson,” he said, holding his hand up and suspiciously eyeing the intercom. “I’d rather save the fine details for later.”
How could she have forgotten? “What I meant was that I applaud the work your charities are doing and, in particular, your personal devotion that brought them to life in the first place. Allow me to clear my conscience by offering not five, but ten thousand. How should I make that out?”
“Why thank you again, Mrs. Henderson,” he replied, beaming continually as it was filled out.
“Mr. Edward,” she said, sliding it towards him, “It is a pleasure to offer this to so worthy a cause, I hope that I will be able to repeat it soon. And please, I’m not Mrs. Henderson. I’m a single woman.”
“Thank you, this is exceedingly generous,” he responded scanning the check. “Shall I call you Ms. Henderson?”
“That would be fine if we are to remain formal, but I’d rather you call me Sylvia and consider me your friend,” she said as provocatively as circumstance permitted.
“Well then, Sylvia it is. Please, call me Gordy. Usually, I avoid allowing such intimacy. Maintaining formalities works best, I find, because it is often their breaking down that opens the door to outright disrespect. However, by all means, call me Gordy, and I should apologize about this desk. As you can see, it’s a bit of a throne. I had it built with political rivals in mind, not personal friends.” He stood as he spoke, sliding his chair to one side. “Yes, it will be very comfortable for us to know each other by first name. So, let me get down from my throne so I can, without props, welcome Sylvia, my friend, to whom I hereby extend an invitation for lunch.”
“Thank you, Gordy. I accept! A throne, huh? Well done, I’d say particularly when considering the manner in which I’m sure San José politicians would undoubtedly prefer to deal with a man such as you. A nice touch might be a dress flag of Costa Rica on one side of your window and Limon Province on the other.”
“The flag of Limon? We don’t happen have a provincial flag. Why don’t we discuss possible designs in the
restaurant?” Sylvia slipped her hand comfortably over his offered elbow and, as they walked arm in arm to the elevator, the secretary stared in silent stupor.
Over lunch, Sylvia spoke of La Hacienda and her dream of creating a time-share triangle of hotels. She wouldn’t blunder again: the horses wouldn’t be mentioned until he brought it up. She laughed and made light of the frustrations she suffered with her son’s mismanagement. “He is getting better,” she was quick to add. Then, without mention of the subject, he passed a large envelope to her and asked that she examine its contents: duplicate shipping documents – official in every way, he assured her – for the boat sitting off the coast of Charleston. Everything was in order, complete with all the necessary seals and stamps to show that the vessel left Limon with but one horse on board.
It left by overnight courier, arriving the following morning in Charleston at the home of a man whose name Sylvia received from the Charleston yacht club. Three hours later, it was in the hands of the captain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
With Sylvia so often in the States pursuing other business interests, Caroline’s work with the horses was transacted through Mike. He wrote the checks for the purchases, paid her and made all the shipping arrangements, something she used to do but, with her commissions unchanged, who was she to complain about having less to do? Previously, she had avoided Mike as much as humanly possible while maintaining an amicable relationship with his mother. But, with his lusting after her so blatantly obvious, she thought to take advantage of the situation by allowing a friendship - and nothing more - to develop and as it grew, it afforded her ample opportunity to manipulate things such that she was able to use La Hacienda as her personal resort as freely as did he. The fact that the place was a business failure without paying guests suited her perfectly and she influenced Mike’s thinking to keep it that way. With a key of her own to the front door, she came and went as she pleased. La Hacienda became a favored hideaway where she and her most privileged friends would engage in games of pleasure that could last an entire uninterrupted day or two.
She appeared alone and late one night and discovered to her disappointment that Mike, his Boston friends and some San Jose bargirls were in the midst of a poolside party; not exactly her cup of tea. Their crude humor, roughneck game of tossing one another into the pool and, in particular, the hideous laughter of one of Mike’s ‘buddies’, a thin and rather nervous man with a tasteless tattoo on his cheek, quickly bored her. She was about to leave when it came to her attention that the sugar bowl on the bar was filled to the top not with sugar, but cocaine and that the cigar box contained rolling papers, a pipe and some of the finest light-green, sweet-smelling bud she had ever encountered. After sampling both, the poolside games seemed more like fun and she actually found herself laughing along with the weirdo. A bag of charcoal was tossed onto the barbecue and the subsequent grilling of steaks and hamburgers attracted her attention, not for the aroma or fine cuts of meat but for the hunk with the build of a fullback who was doing the grilling. He was Kevin, who enjoyed a reputation among the group as a man to fear. When the Mick had departed Boston abruptly to live in Costa Rica, it was Kevin’s reputation for brutal strength that held the gang together and kept intact the chain of authority, with Mike on top but with himself firmly established as number one in Boston. Caroline smirked, snorted another line then sauntered over to offer her help with the grilling. Soon, the new couple was cuddled on a chaise-lounge, sharing marijuana, cocaine and conversation that continued for hours into the night and in private intimacy even as the party rollicked about them.
* * *
The following day, Caroline invited her new friend for a horseback ride on what she was sure he envisioned to be aromantic romp with his new girlfriend, something on the order of Sir Lancelot and Guinevere. Unfortunately, he wasn’t comfortable with the image he would present upon the horse she chose for him to ride, a gentle mare fully three hands shorter than Caroline’s huge snow-white Andalusian. That wouldn’t do, he insisted. He needed something more macho - suitable to his stature - like the chestnut thoroughbred stallion that stomped and snorted in a nearby stall. That was more his style, at least that one had a dick, a big one that hung down like a fire hose.
Caroline could see from the moment he climbed into the saddle, that Kevin had no idea of how to control a horse, let alone an animal the likes of which he had demanded. She trotted her stallion and watched in silent delight as Kevin struggled to keep his bouncing bottom centered. Tiring of that, she galloped her steed at a fast, distance eating pace for the pleasure of
seeing the terror in Kevin’s eyes when his mount rose to the challenge and raced alongside on the inclined and weaving trail.
His voice was interrupted with each impact of his bottom nevertheless Kevin, while clinging desperately to the horn and with his reins hanging slack and useless, managed to assume a masculine and in-command tone as he came alongside to suggest they stop for a rest.
“Okay,” she shouted merrily, reined her horse in abruptly and dismounted quickly so as not to miss the show. Kevin came close to flipping over his mount’s head as the stallion, without direction from his rider, suddenly reversed then danced nervously sideways as he tried to dismount, kicking his animal and tugging at the reins. She stood with her horse between them, watching over its back to hide her smirk as she explained, in a voice that conveyed no awareness of Kevin’s plight that they should loosen the saddles while they rested. Much to her amusement, he clutched at the saddle in desperation when his feet found earth and his wobbly legs would barely hold him. “Are you all right?” she asked in her most caring of tones.
“Fine, fine,” he answered, blushing. “Just a stone in my shoe, I think,” and sat in the grass – ever so gently – and pulled off a shoe.
On the return ride, the spirited thoroughbred knew exactly where they were going: they were retracing their steps and at the end of the trail waited its cozy stall with a feed bin full of fresh grain. Even as Kevin attempted to mount, the stallion completely ignored the confusing series of tugs he applied to the reins, and tossed its head to slacken them, spinning in tight disobedient circles. Caroline loved every moment of it, but exercised phenomenal self-control and demonstrated nothing but sympathy. Kevin eventually gained the saddle, and she began along the trail at a walk, but his mount, aware of his rider’s ineptitude, continued its disobedience, prancing sideways. She called out that perhaps he could gain better control if they trotted and, without another word, signaled her stallion to increase its stride while her hips picked up the rhythm, moving as one with the animal. She knew what to expect next, but maintained an expression that revealed nothing. Kevin’s bottom, treated so tenderly during the break, was immediately attacked with a firm, swift swat from his saddle as his mount also broke into a trot. “Wait! Slow down!” his voice called in interrupted bursts with such desperation that it almost cost her self-control.
“I can’t, the horse won’t obey,” she panted, certain he would empathize. “Oh my God, look, Kevin!” she announced hastily. “Get ahead of me quickly, before this next turn, there’s room for only one horse at a time. We’ll get our legs crushed against the tree trunks if we try to go through side by side. Let up on your reins and kick hard with your heels. Hurry!” She reined in to better watch the show. He kicked the horse’s ribs – then again.
“Shit!” he grunted as the stallion beneath him flexed its great hind legs and he was thrown back in the saddle, his head snapping to horizontal, looking skywards. “Fuuuuuuck!” he shouted as the horse’s front legs drove into the earth on a sharp angle to gain traction needed to round the tight corner. It leaned into the curve and its rear legs caught again to thrust it sharply uphill. Astonishingly, and certainly unfortunately for Kevin in view of what happened, he stayed on, but only because his desperate dive into a bear-hug around the neck of the run-away beast came in time. Actually, from the moment Caroline’s mount began to trot, everything that followed was inevitable: Kevin lost even the faintest hint of control, and under him was a powerful and lightning-fast horse receiving no guidance. With no one to tell it otherwise and having been kicked for speed, the beast took off, every muscle maximizing for a headlong dash up a rutted, inclined and twisting trail towards its comfortable stall where feed might possibly be waiting.
* * *
page 151Mike caught up with her at the stables. She’d seen him coming. How could she not? He’d fishtailed down the
hairpin turns, throwing showers of gravel over the cliff as he accelerated through each. He grated to a halt, scanned the building until he saw her and jumped purposely from the big four-by-four, slamming the door behind and stomping across the exercise yard. He seemed to have something on his mind. She leaned her arms over the top rail of the gate, rested her chin on a wrist and watched.
“Jesus, Caroline!” he shouted. “What the fuck, huh?” She smiled and tossed her hair. Her eyelids drooped to closed, then reopened as she lowered her chin again onto her hands. “You bitch! You did that shit on purpose!” At the conclusion of each sentence, he snorted.
She smiled warmly.
“You knew what would happen. Don’t fucking look at me like that, this ain’t funny! Wadd’àya fucking mean telling Kevin to kick his horse outta a trot going up that fucking hill? Huh, Caroline? I mean, shit! You knew he was fucked!” He looked directly into her eyes. Nothing moved save her lips, which she pursed then returned to the smile. “Have you seen what you did to that poor bastard? You know his fucking shoulder’s dislocated and his arm’s busted in two places?”
“Oh lighten up, will you!” she retorted, combing her hair with her fingers. “He’ll heal. You’re just mad because you weren’t there to see it. I wish you could have, though, it was priceless!” He readied to say something. “Mike really,” she silenced him with a dismissive wave of her hand, “if you could only have seen…”
She began to mimic a beleaguered Kevin bent over in the saddle to where the horn was punching his stomach clear
through to his backbone while trying to get a good grip around the stallion’s neck. “Pull him in, Kevin,” she screamed, claiming that thus was her shout as Kevin’s horse took off. It sounded like a convincing cry of desperation, when she reenacted the scene. But Mike imagined that, just as the poor bastard realized he’d lost control, with the reins torn from his grip and his legs flailing from the stirrups, he’d heard a much less authentic cry of alarm followed by the sound of Caroline’s unrestrained laughter ringing in his ears because, according to Caroline, it was just then that her composure broke and she sagged into her saddle, weakened by peals of laughter that the unfortunate oaf couldn’t have missed.
Overcome by laughter, her head sagged onto her arms.
A semblance of composure regained, she wiped away her tears, began anew and finally, extracted a wary chuckle soon followed by Mike’s full-blown hilarity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A week after meeting him, Caroline could hardly remember his name, but there was little doubt that she remembered well her conversation with Kevin while at the party, snuggled on the chaise-lounge and chain-smoking joints. They spoke of what they had in common: drugs, Mike and La Hacienda. They, Kevin said, had been ‘like this’ (holding crossed fingers aloft) since childhood and he worked for the Mick ‘from the start’. He related stories of gangs, fights, stolen cars and the hijacking of a truck, as he tried to impart a sense of how it had been, growing up as Boston ‘Southies’. Neighborhood was everything, he explained and if you were the sort of kid to take to the streets, you hung tight with the guys from your neighborhood and fought the gang from the next or you didn’t hang out at all.
“It sounds like West Side Story or something,” she answered. “I grew up in Ottawa Canada where we didn’t have gangs like in your American cities. It sounds pretty scary though, especially for a young kid.”
“Yeah, well you’re right it was, but you grow up fast on the streets, you know? It’s a matter of survival. You learn how to make a quick buck too. Shannon and I, we started selling grass when we was still little kids. Used to steal the shit from his old lady’s stash then go down on the Commons and sell to college kids. If we could, we’d get their money in our hands before handing the shit over, and then just take off running.”
“Which one is Shannon?” she asked, and then stiffened in resentment as he laughed at her.
“Hey, relax,” he said “it’s okay; how could you know? But shit, ‘Who’s Shannon?’ That’s a rip! Who’s Mike is more like it. Mike ain’t his name, you know; he just started calling himself that when he come down here, but don’t worry: half the fucking guys don’t know nothing for Mike or for Shannon either, all we ever called him was the Mick.”
“You do? I know that he hates when his mother calls him a Mick. Well, how old were you boys back then?”
“Oh hell, I don’t know, maybe eight, nine, ten. Sumpin like that.” Using the edge of a coin, Kevin reduced a piece of cocaine to dust atop a wallet calendar, rolled a one hundred Colon banknote into a tube and passed it to her. “Here, take a hit, but go easy, that stuff’s pure,” he cautioned. “Maybe you’re used to it, living down here, but I’m not. Back home, when we get it from the wop it’s already cut and I like it better that way. How about you?”
Caroline sniffed up half of the dust, wiped her nostrils and sniffled before returning the rolled up bill. “Nope, I prefer this. You get a great hit and besides, if it’s cut, you never know who’s been cutting it, or with what. This is far better even if it does make your nose bleed sometimes.”
“I seen you before,” he said, running fingers through her hair. “You was riding a big white horse, right through the center of Puriscal. Looked like some kind’a goddess: this red hair’a yours and the horse’s white mane blowing in the wind. I have to tell you; you made quite an impression! Everyone was staring, especially me. When I told him about it, the Mick bragged that you were his friend, but I never figured it was true.”
“Oh yeah, how long ago was it that you saw me?”
“Oh jeez, that was a long time ago, back when Mike was still putting us up at this resort down on the Gulf of Nicoya.
I came up here with him one day to help with construction and that’s when I seen `ya; definitely more than a year ago.”
Caroline looked at him blankly. “Let’s see, what was the name of that place? Oh yeah, Hotel Playa Tambor. You know it??