MAMista Read Free

the heaving lines as they came snaking down through the air. The sisal mooring ropes came next, their eyes slipped over the bollards in that experienced way that looks so effortless. As she settled snug against the jetty, with three ropes secured and the backspring in place, the accommodation ladder went sliding down into place with a loud crash.
    â€˜Home again,’ said the steward to no one in particular. A steam crane trundled along the narrow-gauge dockside rail to where it could reach the cargo hold. It made a lot of smoke, and a clatter of sound.
    Paz sniffed the air as he picked up his cheap canvas bag to move along the deck. He could smell rotting fruit and the discharged fuel oil that lapped against the hull. He did not like his first taste of Tepilo, but it was better than livingon the charity of his stepmother. He hadn’t come here for a vacation. He’d come here to fight in the revolution: the Marxist revolution.
    As he waited his turn on the narrow accommodation ladder, he looked again at the town. Against the skyline stood a monument surmounted by a gigantic crucifix. He was reminded of the tortured Christ who, with gaping wounds and varnished blood, had haunted his dimly lit nursery. This humid town suggested the same stillness, mystery and pain.
    There was nothing to be done about it now. Angel Paz had burned his boats. He’d deliberately ignored the travel arrangements that his uncle Arturo had made for him. He’d cashed in the airline ticket and routed himself so that the last leg could be done by ship. He’d never work for Don Arturo in any capacity. No doubt Arturo would be furious, but to hell with him. Paz had found people in Los Angeles who could put him in contact with the MAMista army in the south. Not even one of Don Arturo’s thugs would be able to find him there.
    The steward approached him, picked up his bag and accompanied him down the gangway. Paz was the only passenger with whom he could talk real Spanish: ‘Put fifty pesetas into your passport and give it to the little guy in the dirty white suit. He’ll keep ten and give forty to the customs and immigration. That’s the way it’s done here. Don’t offer the money direct to anyone in uniform or they are likely to give you a bad time.’
    â€˜So I heard,’ said Paz.
    The steward smiled. The kid wanted to be a toughguy; then so be it. He still wasn’t sure whether the big tip he had given him was an error. But that was last night and he’d not asked for any of it to be returned. ‘Plenty of cabs at the dock gates. Ten pesetas is the regular fare to anywhere in town. Call a cop if they start arguing. There are plenty of cops everywhere.’
    â€˜I’m being met,’ Paz said and then regretted such indiscretion. It was by such careless disclosures that whole networks had been lost in the past.
    â€˜They don’t let visitors inside the customs area unless they have a lot of pull.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜It’s these guerrilleros ,’ said the steward. ‘They are blowing up the whole town piece by piece. Stupid bastards! Here you are; give fifty to this sweaty little guy.’
    The man thus introduced wore a white Panama hat with a floral band and a white tropical-weight suit that was patched with the damp of nervous sweat. With quick jerky movements he took the US passport and snapped his fingers to tell an Indian porter to carry Paz’s bag. The man dashed away. Paz and the Indian followed him. The huge galvanized-iron customs shed was deserted except for four sleeping blacks. The white-suited man danced along, sometimes twisting round and walking backwards to hurry him along. ‘Hurry Hurry!’ His voice and his footsteps echoed inside the shed. The man kept looking back towards the ship. The four priests had lost a piece of baggage and he was anxious that they should not find it, and get through the formalities without his aid and