Backward-Facing Man (25 page)

The heavyset man with thick glasses and olive-colored skin made his way through this once-upon-a-shanty-town toward the docks. On his way, he crossed and recrossed the crowded streets, avoiding pushcarts, bicycles, barefoot children, and stray animals looking for food; he paused in the shade of a store awning and again under a scrawny palm tree. In this part of town, the streets are narrow and oriented toward or away from the water. From almost anywhere, you can feel the pull of the river with its marshes and mangroves, mosquito bogs, canoes and log rafts, and you can sense the presence of the ocean, which has pounded this peninsula since before the British came with their quinine and their man-made reefs. Scowling, he removed a misshapen fedora and pressed a stained handkerchief to his face. Although it was only nine thirty in the morning, the rayon shirt he'd bought in one of the shops that cater to the cruise lines was ringed with perspiration. In front of the Bank of Belize, he paused beside a fruit stand, where he bought a container full of papaya slices. He closed his eyes and sucked the pieces down as the sun rose over the squat buildings, juice dripping onto his chest.

A month earlier, the man had gotten off the plane from Havana, walked into the small airport, gathered his beat-up suitcases, and presented himself to Belizean immigration as Alejandro Preston, a businessman from Cuba. He'd written “vacation” as his reason for entering the country and scribbled the words
Hotel Mopan,
just as Jim, the strange man who'd suddenly appeared on his doorstep in South Philly, had instructed him to. Outside, he stood facing an old British airplane mounted on the grass, bag in hand. With his Coke-bottle glasses, his wide girth, and his short stature, he looked like an ugly, overgrown child. A few minutes later, for thirty dollars U.S., he hired a taxi to take him downtown to the part of Belize City where tourists, reaching around their big bellies and into their bulging pockets, wandered among the natives and the young hustlers.

After finishing the papaya, he spit on his hands and rubbed them together. Despite Jim's advice to keep a low profile, the fat man spent two full days interviewing banks and solicitors, inquiring how he might go about cashing a large bundle of securities and bonds. On the morning of the third day, he established a weekday routine from which he had rarely deviated over the past four months.

The first thing he did when he woke was let his hand drop to his side and feel for his money belt underneath the mattress. Once he confirmed the outline of the key that opened the safe deposit box that held his fortune in cash, gold, bearer bonds, and securities, he opened his eyes and looked around. Slivers of light entered the wooden slats and exploded on the floor at the base of his bed. In time, he'd reach for his glasses and look over at the chair propped up against the door, the fresh towels on the rattan chair under the window, and then up at a satellite map of the world he imagined in the imperfections of the stucco ceiling, picturing Belize, his adopted home, a little crook in the elbow of Central America.

After dressing, he descended four flights, grabbed the English-language paper, had coffee and some bread, and then shuffled down to the bank. After conducting his business, he walked to the ocean where the seawater lapped at a concrete retaining wall that rimmed the city, bringing scum and residue from fishing skiffs, cruise lines, and smugglers' boats. “Belize City is a hub of illicit activity,” Jim had told him when the fat man said he wanted to disappear to a place where nobody asked questions. “You'll fit right in,” Jim assured him. “There's no such thing as a foreigner without a past in Belize.”

On the street, the man with the chickens passed on his bicycle. The truck that delivered baked goods arrived at one of the hotels. There was a release of greasy fuel from the one postal service truck that took mail to and from the airport. Behind the window, Beulah Johnson, the smartly dressed officer, stood next to the security guard as he opened the doors to the Bank of Belize, Belize City branch. Slowly, the guard removed the two padlocks, disengaged the electronic alarm, and then unbolted the top and bottom locks. Every day, they opened five minutes late. You could set your watch to it.

The fat man watched from across the street, his bald head up in the air. He might have been hungry again, impatient, weary, or preoccupied with some story in the paper about corruption or electrical blackouts or delays in opening a toll road. According to Lydia O'Rourke, the owner of the Mopan, Belizeans were neither punctual nor competent, which is partially why he liked being the bank's first customer. There was less time for them to fuck up, for things to go wrong, less chance of a long line or frustrating delays. Besides, what else did he have to do? By seven
A.M.,
he'd already spent almost an hour lying on his bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, measuring the time of day against spears of sunlight that jutted through the broken wooden window slats, estimating the number of gulls in the print over his bed—a harbor impossibly crowded with pleasure boats—or counting the clicks of the windup clock he'd bought on his first day in Belize, his own watch, a Timex, having failed somewhere on the long journey—perhaps on the long bus ride to Miami, or when he was lifting his luggage out of the plane to Cancun, or on the bouncing boat ride to Havana, or in the little propeller plane to Belize. In the distance, stray dogs barked, roosters crowed, reggae music blasted, doors slammed shut then open again. He breathed in car fumes, the smell of meat cooking, wood burning. On this particular day, he had with him his alligator-skin suitcase, which appeared to swing easily from his hand.

Since his first night on the run, the fat man had slept fast and deep. There had been no close calls, no regrets, no bad dreams, and no nagging urge to call home. And he had an even higher degree of confidence in his safety, thanks to Jim, an old college acquaintance of his brother's—now estranged—a man so well connected, so familiar seeming, and so knowledgeable about the ways of the world, especially travel, that on the night of the accident, after only a few drinks, the fat man told him not only about his desire to leave Philadelphia, but about the money, too. In less than six hours, Jim had arranged everything—passports, contacts, even flights—asking only 10 percent for his trouble.

 

The building that housed the bank was old, with stone walls, narrow windows, and wooden floors, as if, over the years, hurricanes and heavy humidity had caused it to swell and then return to its original dimensions so many times that it was now bent and wrinkled like an old person. From across the street, the fat man waited as the guard turned on the lights and a young woman set the numbers in the window that advertised today's exchange rates. He crossed, approaching windows with travel posters advertising the Cayes and the Mayan ruins just as the guard pressed a button that started the fans spinning overhead.

Beulah Johnson had a handsome, well-tended brown face. She wore a gold cross over her blouse and her skin was smooth and uncreased. She asked him the same questions every day, in her British English. “Is the weather agreeing with you, Mr. Preston?” “Have you sampled some of our fine cooking?” Her manner was professional and polite, neither interested in nor bored by his presence or his routine. In her opinion, she was as kind and as pleasant as God intended her to be to a stranger, a fine representative of the Bank of Belize, and a good Christian.

Together Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Preston walked a dozen steps to a wooden card catalogue, withdrew his card, and then filed into a small room. In the center of the room was a table and a little stool. She accepted his key and inserted the one that hung around her neck into the locks. His eyes fluttered. As she opened the little door, he lifted slightly off his heels and moistened his lips. Mrs. Johnson hoisted the safe deposit box onto a small wooden table. The fat man's odor filled the room.

When the banker left, and he was alone with his stink, he spent as much time as necessary to conduct his ritual—to feel the presence of his fortune, to count and calculate, to calibrate and make himself feel secure. Underneath a photocopy of his passport was a stack of papers loosely bound—bearer bonds uncashed, all negotiable. He touched the pile, feeling the raised ink and, underneath that, the starchy surface of hard currency: hundred-dollar bills, both Belizean and U.S. Toward the back was another stack of dollars—U.S. currency, thousand-dollar bills. In total, well over half a million. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and slid it into his jacket pocket. He deposited $22 that he hadn't spent yesterday in a cloth bag, then he lifted a tiny ledger from underneath the bills, and scribbled what he'd done, adjusting his balance—plus $22, minus $100. He drew a line underneath and made the calculation: $615,914, including the bearer's bonds and negotiable paper. From that he subtracted 10 percent of the total, the amount he'd agreed to give Jim for arranging his getaway. $61,591. Pursing his lips, he exhaled. It suddenly seemed like a lot for advice.

The fat man sat for a moment, his hat in his hand, his head leaning back against the wall listening to the usual sounds outside—someone tapping a calculator, muffled voices, someone talking into a phone. Now that he was in Belize safely, he could afford to make a counteroffer. What choice would Jim have but to accept less?

 

If Beulah Johnson was surprised that Mr. Preston, the English-speaking retiree from Cuba, was converting approximately $30,000 in U.S. securities to cash, she didn't show it. Theirs was a relationship of nods and curtsies, of discreet banking gestures that reflected the assumption that at least while Mr. Preston was a customer of the bank, all transactions would be confidential. The fat man handed her his alligator-skin suitcase. It took nearly an hour for the securities to be logged, valued, stacked, and the cash presented. While the tellers worked, the fat man sat on a wicker chair with his hat on his belly and his eyes closed. At one point, Beulah Johnson asked if he would be going away for the holiday.

“I thought that a man in your position, sir, would be spending the holiday out of town.” He accepted the suitcase, which was now loaded with mostly small bills. “Friday is Baron Bliss Day,” she said, smiling. “Why don't you ride the bus out to San Ignacio. Spend a few days there. I know a couple of people who can take you to church with them.”

“Th-Th-Thank you,” the fat man said, grimacing. This country has too many fucking holidays, he thought, stepping outside. Handsome black-skinned men and women in dress shirts and tight-fitting slacks and skirts pushed past him, carrying parcels. Laborers in casual clothes lifted boxes into trucks, carried packages into stores, and pressed against each other. His eyes moved from the hand-painted signs that advertised attorneys, customs houses, and insurance companies to the Arab standing outside the electronics store, his arms folded, a brown cigarette burning down, his dark eyes watching traffic. The temperature had risen at least ten degrees. The buildings in this city seemed to lean inward, trapping heat and fumes from cars that made their way, inch by inch, honking steadily. Anywhere there was metal or asphalt was too hot to walk, even at this hour.

Alejandro Preston crossed to the shadier side and waddled up Main Street, past modern buildings and squalid shacks, past jackhammers in buildings that were under construction one day and abandoned the next, only to be swarmed over by work crews the following weekend. This was a city unaccustomed to steady schedules, reliable electricity, and safe travel after dark. A man with an apricot-colored kerchief sitting on the balcony of a partially built apartment building drinking coffee watched impassively. Nobody does an honest day's work around here, he imagined his father saying. He missed the old man.

A young African man without a shirt or shoes started walking beside him. He remembered Jim's advice from when he first got here. Stay home after dark. Stay in a crowd. Don't wander. “Gimme a cigarette, man,” the African said. The fat man gripped the suitcase handle tighter. Ever since he'd arrived, he wanted to get himself a gun. The African pressed. “C'mon, man, gimme one, gimme one.” He'd asked Jim once he'd settled into his routine, but Jim said a gun was a bad idea. Although the fat man hated being told what to do, he was out of his element here. Besides, everything Jim had told him so far had turned out to be right. Eventually, the African drifted away.

Alejandro Preston took the steps to his hotel slowly. “Why Belize?” he'd asked Jim the morning after the accident. “You wanted a place you can disappear. In Belize, you can drink the water. There's no banking reciprocity. And everybody speaks English.” And so far at least, no detectives had tailed him, no bounty hunters or federal agents had shown up at his door. The bus ride to Miami, the flight to Cancun, the cruise ship to Havana, the Cuban passport—Jim knew what he was doing. And for that, he was entitled to a fee. Not the full 10 percent—that was just his asking price—but some amount that two fair-minded people could agree was reasonable.

Alejandro Preston's shoes made a clunky sound on the wooden steps. He removed his hat and wiped his brow. He didn't like being sweaty or winded when Maria, the pretty young desk clerk, presented him with his key.

“Will you be having lunch with us today, Mr. Alex?” Maria asked.

“Yes, me and a guest,” he managed to say. “Mr. Jim.” He moved his face in close to hers, forcing her to look down.

“You asked me to tell you. The young man who checked in last night, Mr. Alex. He's from Colombia. A student, I think.”

He nodded and slid a coin across the counter. “Thank you, my d-d-dear.” As she reached for it, he put his hand over hers. She leaned away, but he held it there—her fist trapped like a small bird.

“Thank you, Mr. Alex,” she said, tugging slightly.

“Would you like to visit with Javier tonight?” he asked.

Maria nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Alex.”

The fat man released her hand and ambled toward the stairwell, climbing slowly, pausing on each landing to catch his breath. In this new place, in this new phase of life, without a television, without his mother to talk to, he was lonely, his contact limited to the people who ran the hotel. He walked the length of his balcony to the very end and leaned over. Here in Belize, detached as he was, he couldn't afford to make mistakes or act out in the ways he had back home. He inserted his room key and let the door open a crack, till it touched the chair. “Arthur Puckman,” he said softly, as if looking for his old self.