The Quixote Imbroglio: That Which Remains of the Burden of Honor

By J J Garrett

The spirit of Don Quixote burnishes the six main characters of this novel that begins with the arrival of North Americans Kyle and Carmen Daly in Central America. The two settle within a civilization awash, into a culture termed indistinct even by those who exploit it. Their adventure entangles them. They are trapped between an on-rush of modern values and those of the archaic Maya, whose descendents outcast by the society of which they form the bulwark remain steadfast in chivalric beliefs. As unwitting abettors to religious, social and economic bigotry patronized by U.S. missionaries, embassy staff, cable television ministries and businessmen mateseekers, along with a cadre of Hispanic adoption attorneys and U.S. citizen wannabes, Kyle and Carmen attempt to stand upon the principals of their lineage: Right and Wrong. From this moral basis they try to manage the skirmishes of child theft, adultery, assassination, murder and revenge into which they are drawn. They find themselves within a Quixotic menagerie. Their embroilment, both comic and tragic, becomes, at best, a tenuous legacy.
Through intricate plotting, The Quixote Imbroglio examines the melding of Spaniard and Indian cultures today imaginable as an emerging solidarity at once catalyzed by, and complicated by, that third founding culture of the New World: the dogmatic Northamerican colonist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463478292

J J Garrett

About J J Garrett J J Garrett is a product of Georgia. He is a novelist, a poet, a researcher, and an educator. He holds a Ph.D., M.Ed., and B.A. from various Georgia colleges. He has lived in and traveled most of the U.S. and Central America. He has consolidated his search for lore into six novels and seven chapbooks of poem (now in anthology) with a resolve to return literary fiction back to Planet Earth. He is married; has too many animals around the house.

Book preview

Epilogue

A Village of La Mancha, Spain • The Year 1504

I carry a great secret for your ears tired of words of wills and rites, my faithful squire.

Don Quixote whispered from his deathbed to Sancho Panza.

Speak to me, señor.

The old knight-errant twisted his neck so that his eyes might directly meet those of the trusted companion who reinforced the pillow under his head. He took a slow breath. No sound came as he so-slightly let it go.

Though chivalry has departed us in this domain, he began feebly, that quality survives, my Sancho … in the ways of honor.

What? Oh, señor! But you last said—

I last said the truth. Quixote’s voice came laggardly but deliberately. I said that I renounce chivalry and the books that have carried that ideal to the epitome of fancy in our world—as do I renounce those who read the trash.

Which is to say that chivalry is dead and alive in these days, señor?

No. No. Listen, for once, to what I say. I said—

Yes, master.

"I said that chivalry is dead in this domain."

Here?

Yes.

Then you do not intend another foray against the—

No, no. I die. I go the way of my beloved Dulcinéa. To ashes and dust. To all that is decomposition of enchantment.

Oh, señor!

No matter. Just listen to me before you make me drown myself upon my own words.

Sancho swallowed. The good don continued.

There is a place where chivalry is not known, but where honor is fitting, rife, and waiting … waiting … Quixote’s eyes seemed to brighten, his voice to accelerate. to spread again through the ranks of mankind. And … and to spread with the same ferocity by which it spawned all of the great civilizations that we now remember.

There could be no such other place on Earth, señor. Everywhere is ruined.

Ah! You fail to consider, my trusted: the New World.

Oh! Of the travels of Cristóbal Coronal.

You mean Cristóbal Colón. And, yes—under the direction of the Great King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. And of the writings since his fourth voyage whereby he again confirmed that a new territory exists between Spain and China.

Sancho tightened the blanket to better warm his master’s chest.

Of course. Of course, my honorable.

Quixote eyed his squire curiously.

You doubt me. But I have seen a copy of the map where Colón outlined a great gulf; where he landed in a profoundly deep harbor in a place he has named Honduras. There, he testifies, dwell thousands who imbue nobility—Indians, he wrote.

Indians? Like in the India that his brother, De Polco, reported?

That would be Marco Polo, not De Polco, and that would be two-hundred years ago—even though there does remain some confusion from his accounts as to where India and Indians are precisely located. But what I wish to say to you, dear Sancho, before my strength too greatly wanes, is that the burden of honor must be shifted from our ignoble, fanciful, and masked civilization to that other vague but energetic place.

Whooh, oooh, whooh!

An appropriate response for a functional simpleton, the old man replied irritably. But he let the emotion flee as quickly as had his words arrived. He sent his squire an apologetic smile and rested a hand upon the other’s arm. If you wonder why I laden you with these things, poor Sancho, I do so for this reason: I feel with certainty, in the depths of my soul, that a new world complete with noble and conscientious Indians awaits the Spaniard—the Spaniard who will define for them the stuff of honor—the stuff from which they will enact a chivalric code that will carry the world to new heights of truth, bravery, romance, and gentility.

"But … but dear don! You, yourself, have said that each generation, each civilization, decays in the very face of the one that spawns it. How—"

A spasm of coughs overcame the dying patron. When the blockage passed, weakened by the excitement caused by his own words, he closed his eyes and fought for breath. Sancho clutched him from behind and raised him so that his lungs could better fret for air. Still, the old man went faint. The squire cried out for help barely sooner than Don Quixote’s niece, followed by the housekeeper and barber, rushed in. The niece, wailing, shook the good don in a way that should have revived any person less than three days dead. The housekeeper tossed a cool rag upon the old man’s forehead and the barber, brows raised quizzically, took the pulse at his wrist.

To his benefit, the patient revived. He whispered his appreciation to his troupe of caregivers and convinced them not to worry for him. He motioned them from the room. Sancho, who operated in a state of confusion, trailed the leave-takers—which allowed him to catch the wheezed summons his master sent him. He hurried back to bedside. Tearful but grateful, he dropped to his knees and took the hand Don Quixote extended.

What, master? What?

Go there, the dying man mumbled.

Go there?

Go there.

To the old China you claim to be a new world?

Yes. Fine. Fine. Just sail westward. Lay a foundation of honor for the new order that is to arise from whatever fertile shore you find your disembarkation.

Oh! Señor!

Dear Sancho … my honest; my most dedicated. Go there!

Oh … oh … ! Sancho trembled nervously. "And … if I went … and if I tutored … I … I would do so by what name?

The old man swallowed as if he swallowed something bitter. The volume of his speech dropped to a murmur. He struggled to make sense with his words in the face of some other preoccupation.

The name is not important. Don Quixote no longer is, and soon I will not be. I, to die in his shadow, scarcely known, soon to be forgotten, but to die as … He focused upon a wisp of candle smoke between bed and wall. as I am. Alonso Quixano. Alonso Quixano …

Another pause came. It was the pause that defines the abyss between those alive and those ghostly.

The Good, Sancho whispered into the silence, Alonso Quixano the Good, you are.

He sighed a long sigh. He twisted his head against the knot in his throat. Then he closed the eyes of his master, stilled.

He started to rise, but stopped. He drew himself a last time to the great don’s side and spoke through a hiss, near hectic.

Even if the total of your bequeath to me could pay for such a journey, my grace, I could never use a name as silly as Sancho Panza. It would not be fit for a mission so nobly drawn by one of title and place in history as you.

He peered into the old man’s sightless face and shook his head sadly. He stood.

No. You will never find the name of Panza in that realm you call Honduras, he whispered, Only the good of Quixano should enjoy a start there.

He called for all who waited beyond the door of the candle-lit chamber to assist him in the management of the bier of Alonso Quixano the Good, the great Don Quixote of La Mancha.

Chapter 1

Present Day • The Village of Ojóno, Honduras

The sun launched itself from the glazed surface of the Atlantic and scaled once more the sierras of Honduras. Across the mountain heartland of the reclusive republic winds fresh, almost cold, mocked the slow accession of that daily star to its sky-blue throne. So came it to be that dawn and light breeze—both soon to be quelled by scathing ball—superintended the bustle by which locals prepared for market in the village of Ojóno.

There, to the side of the ancient Cathedral of Ojóno, a battered pickup truck set unevenly upon cobblestones. Near the truck—beside a low stone wall which separated the crumbling cathedral from the street—lay a stack of corn. The petite nature of the ears implied sweetness; the velvety green of their husks, tenderness.

One man stood by the stack of corn and spoke with frantic hand motions to another man who leaned against the truck. The speaker packed a pistol in the back of his trouser belt, the other a razor-edged machete in a worn holster suspended from his hip.

Please, Amádis, Sapo begged, his arms outstretched, his fingers curled in the way of a panicked clutch, I made nine trips by foot yesterday to bring this corn to town. I now beat the market for fresh corn by almost two weeks. If I deliver this load to Las Americas today, I’ll sell it tomorrow for a premium. I’ll pay off my debts. I, me, Sapo! Debt-free at last!

I understand that, Sapo. Amádis, fatigued from resisting Sapo’s pleas, wiped his palm across his sun-scarred face. But my farm work calls me. Harvest starts next week and—

You’re envious, Amádis. You don’t want to see me land this corn at market.

Jesus! Amádis struck the roof of his truck. Sapo, listen to me. You want me to take this corn to Tegucigalpa for you for free—me, a small farmer. Yet, your brother, the largest farmer in Ojóno, who owns three six-wheeled trucks and works nine men, will not transport your corn for you.

Sapo chuckled. His throat cast an ugly laugh that came from a contorted mouth that danced upon a jagged face. On that face grew random warts from which stretched irregular hairs. His teeth protruded crookedly and his skin displayed a sallow quality which an accumulation of Ojóno dust could not hide.

I’ve pledged all I own to Coyote, Amádis. And the bastard child of my father’s whore would like to see me lose this crop so he could add my land to his. Sapo drew his pistol from his belt. If he weren’t of my father’s meat, I swear I’d have shot him long ago.

That’s why they call him Coyote, Sapo. The value of a coyote is to eat field mice and be shot dead. But since he’s your brother and you are not inclined to shoot him, put your weapon back in your belt where it belongs … along with the meat of your family.

Sapo eyed the roughly handsome Amádis and mentally rehearsed what he had said.

Ah! The meat. Yes. That’s funny, Amádis. Sapo tucked his gun into position above his buttocks. Coyote isn’t here anyway.

He spat in mock bravery upon the street.

His companion gestured toward the hill above Ojóno where Coyote lived.

It’s a shame, Sapo. Your brother: an animal who scavenges from the weak. He contrives to make his neighbors sell their produce to him at the price of trash. Then he drives it to Tegucigalpa and markets it for a grand profit. My truck is the one thing that stands between me and every other poor family that scratches the dirt here for Coyote. I would be crazy to put it on the road for nothing. And worse than crazy to waste a prime day before harvest to do so.

Sapo made a face of great pain. He dropped his hands upon Amádis’ shoulders.

Oh, Amádis. We used to be tavern buddies. We used to run the women together. I was there when you married. You can’t let your old friend Sapo down.

That was more than twenty years ago, Sapo. But life got real after that—only you didn’t know it. I put my nose into a row of corn while you put yours into the crack of an open bar door—or into the shadows of any woman’s thighs that would let you."

Amádis!

But your partying and whoring did not kill our friendship, Amádis. Our friendship died when I came to know you—as I know Coyote—as a man empty of principle.

Sapo dropped his head as if moved to weep. He eyed the stack of corn at his feet. Impulsively, he reached down, grabbed an ear, shucked it in a practiced sweep, and jammed it into his mouth. He bit down. Milk of maize spurted from the kernels and ran along his chin. He held out the ear to Amádis as he chewed.

Look at this, Amádis. It’s like gold. And all because I got lucky last April: I ran out of whiskey; I ran out of money; the jitters drove me crazy. I planted corn to keep my mind. And the next thing I know, up came this marvelous early crop. I just didn’t plan for Coyote to turn his back on me. Sapo tossed the ear of corn back into the stack and grabbed Amádis by the collar. Help me free myself from that robber brother of mine, Amádis. Please!

Amádis squinted into Sapo’s eyes. He read that the panic there was genuine. He smelled the succulence of the corn at his feet; he knew that it would quickly spoil. He loved the hard land and what it produced for those that perspired over it. Coyote, though, had never perspired—which meant that the despite Amádis held for Sapo paled against his loathing of Coyote. He smacked his lips decisively.

I’ll make the trip for a percentage of the gross price, Sapo.

Sapo released Amádis and reeled back, a look of astonishment upon his face.

Amádis! You sound like Coyote!

That’s not true.

"It is true! Every centavo extra that I make through your graciousness, I’ll need to climb out of the hole I’m in. That’s why I ask for a favor. A favor! And I come to you, the most noble man I know, and ask it. Sapo slapped his thighs. The dust in his pants spewed into the air. And what do I get? Another Coyote. Ha! I might as well sell this corn to you, hadn’t I? And you’d buy it, too, wouldn’t you? You’d reduce yourself to a Coyote and ruin me, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?"

Shut up, Sapo. I hate Coyote.

But you’d screw me just like Coyote.

And you’d be ugly like your name and eat flies if it would buy you a bottle of whiskey and a whore.

Sapo glowered at Amádis.

You’re not a man of honor, Amádis!

Amádis fought an urge to strangle Sapo. Instead, he met his old friend’s glower until he decided it did no good to stare at a drunk who thought he was right.

Sapo, he said softly. You own a chicken house. I want four hens and a truckload of chicken manure from it. I’ll return to you the first four chicks that the hens make. He raised his view past the old church into the sun as it crested the mountains. For that consideration, you and I will load this truck and take this corn to market.

Sapo jumped up and down, then, cackling, embraced Amádis.

Amádis drove his truck forward to position the bed nearer the corn. In his rear view mirror he saw Sapo put a bottle to his mouth, and quickly hide it in his coat. He got out of his truck and joined his new business partner. The two men loaded the produce.

First you played the women, Sapo. With them you lost all your money. Then you played your wife and your children. With them you lost all your love. Now you play whatever deception you can play to survive until your next drink. And you dared play me today.

Play you, Amádis?

Yes. You played the honor card on me, Sapo. And I plan to play it back on you. Amádis chuckled, but the tone came ominously. Until death do us part on this matter.

Sapo stopped in mid-lift of an armful of corn.

And what do you mean by that?

You know what my brother Osorio did. Of what happened to him. And you know that Osorio carries blood as honorable as any ever pumped through human heart.

Yes. Osorio Quixano. So what? He’s old now. He’s half-crippled—nothing but a gardener up in La Pena.

Still, I hope each day I might come to be as honorable as Osorio. And beginning this day, I expect you to do the same.

And if I fail to live up to the blood of the broken-down don of the Quixano clan?

Amádis said nothing. He loaded Sapo’s corn into the back of his truck, each armful carefully, so as not to bruise it.

- - -

Tegucigalpa, Honduras • Same Day

Again you dawdle in my kitchen, Juca!

Angelina pretended to be unshaken by her aunt’s hateful voice.

I came to nurse Concepción, she replied.

I can see that, Ballena said sharply, You should use those things to make this household some extra money instead of letting a baby gurgle at them all day long.

Ballena grimaced at the sight of Angelina: the girl held her tee shirt above a bared breast pleasingly round and full, but with a child attached to it as if a permanent fixture. Her face showed with soils as intense as those that smeared her baby’s buttocks. Her skirt appeared to have been used as a rag in the tire shop and her feet curled chipped toenails into the dirt of the kitchen floor.

Get out of my sight, Juca. I only want to see you in the bar—unless you want to repair tires—then I’ll tolerate your filthy face in the shop.

Ballena added a piece of wood to the fire. She checked the pot of conch she stewed, found it to be satisfactory, then found that Angelina still nursed her baby.

What did I tell you to do? she barked.

Please, Aunt Ballena. Concepción nurses. I’ll leave when she’s done.

She’s never done, Juca. You keep her stuck to your tit like a leech. Ballena snatched Concepción from Angelina’s lap and dropped her into the nearest of three hammocks strung across the far end of the kitchen. There. That’s what you do with two-month-old babies. Let them learn quickly that the world isn’t a permanent breasting place.

Concepción squealed at the loss of her mother.

She doesn’t like to be without me, auntie! Angelina cried.

Ballena’s knuckles found her niece’s face. She reeled backward. Blood trickled from her nose. She wiped it away with her shirt.

Clean yourself up, you worthless whore. Then get into that bar and lure some business inside. If you don’t, within the hour your Concepción, you with her, will be sucking dust in the street where you belong.

Angelina fled the kitchen to the patio behind the combination tire repair shop, bar, and shack where she lived. She dodged the puddles that remained from the day’s wash and went to the water tank. She removed her shirt and skirt and, with a bowl, threw the cold water from the tank upon herself. From its nail, she removed the rag that served as a towel for all ten members of the household.

As she dried herself, she struggled to visualize the hamlet of La Pena hidden upon the green mountain summit one thousand feet above her. But she could not picture the place. She could only attend to Concepción’s shrieks from the kitchen.

She peered into the mirror fragment that hung from a crossbeam of the tank shed. She gazed numbly at her reflection—a face with large brown eyes and high cheekbones tapered roundly downward toward a tiny, dominant chin. She noted the dark brown hair that fell finely upon her face. She viewed full, firm breasts beneath small, squared shoulders. Her waistline shrunk delicately inward beneath her ribs and her hips curved outward and down into slim thighs and delicate calves.

Nature formed Angelina as a Maya beauty suitable for the envy of women of every culture on Earth. But she realized herself only as Juca, a smelly abandoned waif. She watched herself in the mirror without emotion, like a mechanic who views the same fine engine so many times that to him it becomes merely another piece of metal.

Clean between your legs, Juca, Ballena said behind her.

Angelina jumped, startled. She hastily removed her panties and tossed water upon her crotch.

Dry it and use it, Ballena said, I have two daughters—both with children—who help us make ends meet here. Your step-uncle works in the tire shop with your two oldest cousins twelve hours a day. I feed ten mouths in two rooms, a junk car out back, and a tool shed. And you can only look into the sky while a baby draws at your breast.

Angelina put on the same panties she had taken off. She took a fresh tee shirt and skirt from the clothesline near the tank. She put them on quickly, but remained barefooted.

Use your cousin’s sandals. Men don’t like to see shoeless women.

Ballena pointed to a pair of worn flip-flops under the clothesline. Angelina slipped her feet into them.

Now get into the bar. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a gringo like your mother did and he’ll sweep you away from here—with your Concepción, I hope.

Concepción will always be with me, Aunt Ballena.

That’s what your mother said about you—until she caught herself a gringo and dumped you on the family.

That’s not true!

"It is true. Your mother was a unique whore, but a whore in any case. I only wish you’d learn to be so rare."

I am rare, Aunt Ballena. I am the mother of Concepción.

At best, I believe you’re stupid, girl. We should have called you Hueca instead of Juca. But you’ve always been stinkier than stupid—thanks to your mother. She put all of her efforts into keeping herself clean in order to make men think she took hot showers every night. Ho! I can see her now, bathing in water she tossed over herself like you just did. Ballena glared at Angelina and remembered her beautiful sister. And raise your chin when you talk to me.

Angelina drew back her chin, but did not give in.

You always say I’m dirty, smelly, and stupid, Aunt Ballena. But you, nor any other family member I’ve lived with, ever let me go to school. I’ve lived in the back rooms of bars and tire shops and tool sheds and corner stores and carpenter shops all my life. I’ve never been outside of this city. I’ve never even been in a taxi. But I’ve been in bed with Uncle Juan, Uncle Luis, Uncle Francisco and Step-Uncle Jorge.

Don’t you talk about my husband like that!

Ballena raised her hand. Angelina jumped under the clothesline. Ballena snarled at her instead.

"It’s that smart tongue of yours that saves you from a label of stupid, child. You’ve made it so it moves your speech as if you were Castilian—your mother’s gift to you, I guess. That was the only talent she developed above her waistline—and only to lure vulnerable men into her web. So maybe your stinky disposition doesn’t come from her treatment of you after all. Maybe it comes from the drunken street sweeper who wandered up beside her at some bar in Las Mercedes one night after payday.

Angelina stepped angrily from her hiding place.

My father was a respected bass fisherman at Lago Yojoa.

Like hell, you say.

Like hell, I—

Ballena’s hand slapped Angelina before the girl could think.

Go! she shouted.

Angelina ran from the patio into the kitchen. She pretended she did not hear Concepción’s wails. She stopped at the drape of coarse fabric that served as the door between kitchen and bar. She peered through the drape. Three men entered, beat the dust off their clothes, and sat.

She took a deep breath. She hoped that they dreamed only of drink. She pushed the drape aside and entered the dingy cantina.

- - -

Tegucigalpa International Airport: Same Day

At Toncontín, Yolanda repeated into the receiver.

She leaned forward with a finger plugged into her unused ear. She squinted into a raging sunset reflected beyond the chromed casement of a pay telephone booth.

Why in hell do you call me from the airport? I thought the mother and baby lived in some hovel near San Angeles.

They did. But the girl took the baby to her grandparents’ shack on the South River. The closest telephone was here at the airport.

Well, do you have the baby?

No. The baby’s illness grows worse, I was told. The girl took her to a clinic.

Then go get it.

Nobody knows which clinic. I’ve tried the two nearest. Maybe she went to the teaching hospital.

Then, damnit, woman! Go there and find the girl before it gets too dark for you to recognize her among the trash. Get her and the baby to my office. The missionaries are waiting.

At her end of the line, Yolanda’s black brows furrowed in anger.

If you had allowed me to give her money for medicine, you and the Wrights would be admiring her child this very moment, Barojah.

If I had given her money, she would have disappeared. You know her class: never trust a slum-girl come-up-town with even one centavo more than she needs for local bus fare. So there. Start there: at the bus stops. Find her.

Barojah Moreno, successful adoption counsel, slammed the telephone into its cradle with a force that bounced the fat at his jowls.

He straightened the tie beneath his over-tight collar, then leveled his gaze at William and Jane Wright—his most revered clients—who sat on the leather sofa across from him in his mahogany paneled office.

- - -

La Pena, Community Above Tegucigalpa • Same Day

The gates of Villa Entremédias stood open. All day long the wrought iron monsters had remained opened, leaned askew against their stone columns.

The Quixanos, Osorio and Lópe, positioned themselves near the entry and piddled with yard work for the duration of their shift—and longer. Now, with darkness nearly upon them, they simply waited there and eyed the crimson of the sun as it dropped behind the mountains to the west of La Pena.

The sunset comes best from the back side, Poppi, Lópe said, Here the cottage and trees hide too much of it.

Osorio stared blankly at his sixteen-year-old son who, for no reason but to irritate his father, wore a plastic bucket upon his head.

I know.

He said no more. He chewed a plug of tobacco and spat. He shifted his weight from his bad leg to his good leg and gazed again into the roadway in front of the villa. Lópe removed the bucket from his head and tossed it across the lawn.

Well … They’re still not here, Poppi. Do you think they will come?

I don’t know, son. I only wait.

Are the gringos always late like this?

Yes, I must say so, boy. Lateness is normal for North Americans. I would guess the same for the Dalys. The gringos set a time for everything. They always arrive late. But the earlier arrivals make the later ones feel like asses and the later arrivals make the earlier ones feel like goats, and nothing gets done for the first hour anyway. We call that gringo time. It’s not like Honduran time. Here—

Here, if we’re going to be late, we just don’t go, Poppi.

Spoken like a true Indian, son.

Lópe cocked his head and eyed his father. He squinted so that he could see Osorio’s rough, tanned face shadowed under the brim of his nearly collapsed hat.

Are gringos really that much different than us, Poppi?

What remained of Osorio’s three front teeth showed in his smile. The tooth of solid gold glistened most brightly in the waning daylight.

To be my child, you don’t know much of anything, Lópe. When I was sixteen I’d already worked two years with the gringos in the North Coast banana companies.

You’ve told me, Poppi.

I worked with them in the gold mines and in the mahogany sawmills, too. Fifty years of work with the gringo—all of it with perfection—and you can’t even trim a patron’s lawn without branding his grass with the blade of your machete.

Alright, Poppi. I’ll admit it. I’m stupid. Lópe retrieved the plastic pot and, again, put it on his head. He flashed Osorio an imbecilic grin. Now will you tell me about the gringo?

Osorio ran his fingers through his hair, then re-positioned his hat. He spat again. He wondered about his son, a slim boy of Indian stature, though already taller and stronger than he; a boy with a quick mind, yet to be filled by anything more substantial than nonsense; a practical joker who talked at the velocity of an old widow and whose few talents leaned toward the artistic like the poet after whom his mother named him; his oldest son who carried the noble looks of a Maya male, and who had yet to taste a woman. Osorio sighed.

Take that pot off your head, boy, and I’ll tell you about the gringo.

Lópe tossed the pot away and leaned against one of the stone columns of the gates. Osorio made a practiced study of the horizon while he gathered his thoughts.

The gringo, Poppi.

Yes, Lópe. The gringo: you’ve seen plenty of them.

Yes. They’re big, strong, with light colored hair. And they wear glasses because they were made to read a lot in school—like the Chinos.

More or less. And they talk a lot—even more than you. And mostly they complain.

About what, Poppi?

Who knows. I’ve guessed they complain about machines more times than not. They can’t do anything without machines. But their machines are never fast enough for them. And they don’t know how to fix them when they break. They require themselves to wait for a specialist. And nobody hates to wait more than a gringo. So between the time they turn a machine on and a specialist arrives to repair it, they hold a list of complaints long enough to make any sane man want to shoot them.

Oh?

Yes. And, too, they think they’re the best people in the world. For that, when they come here they try to make our country into their country, and try to make Hondurans act like them.

But we don’t act like them.

Many Hondurans do. And with great success.

How?

They learn the English language and copy the gringo customs.

Are gringo customs bad?

Oh, no. For instance, most take showers every day. For that, no cholera poisons their country.

I don’t believe that, Poppi. A cold water bath every day? How can they do that?

They heat their water at great expense. And I know. For people like us it’s a practice impossible to follow.

Of course. Neither gas nor electricity comes to our house. We don’t even get water.

That’s what I mean.

We probably couldn’t operate a single gringo machine in Ojóno.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you.

But I could learn English one day, Poppi. Maybe that would get me a job that paid enough to put electricity in my house.

You would take English lessons and still buy beans and rice for your family? Humph.

Maybe the Gringo Dalys will teach me English when they arrive.

They won’t have time, Lópe. That’s another trait of North Americans. They never reserve time for anything. They plan everything out. A time is assigned to everything. As a matter of fact, if it doesn’t require a time, they usually don’t do it.

That’s not right, Poppi. How do they go to the bathroom?

Osorio was not one to fail in a challenge from his son. He rolled the ball of tobacco around in his mouth and thought. Finally, he answered.

What makes you think all of them do, son? I never have known a North American who traveled without medicine for hemorrhoids.

Ooh, Lópe wheezed.

Yes. So forget about them giving you lessons.

Perhaps I could teach them Spanish in exchange for English.

They have no interest in learning Spanish. I’ve never heard a gringo speak our language any better than that man who lived with the apes.

You mean Tarzan?

Yes. And they always challenge each other to see who can speak like Tarzan the fastest.

But are they honorable like Tarzan?

Lópe’s question captured Osorio by surprise.

You, my son, Lópe, would ask such a question?

Sure. Why not?

I thought the closest you’d come to an idea of honor was to change your name to that of your Uncle Amádis.

You make me use the name of a poet who wrote silly poems, Poppi. But my other name is Amádis, Amádis Quixano—a fighter like my uncle. He walks with the honor of the great knights of old.

Honor comes in many forms, Lópe. My brother, your uncle, still in his younger years, recognizes only one. But for me … for you … Osorio ran his palm along his cheek. Well, you must learn to walk with the honor of a poet before you face the brutality of the warrior, young man. At that less fortunate time, I give you permission to change your name. Meanwhile, you should learn a few things from the gringos who come to live here—whether that’s how to take baths, work machines or, even, speak with an English tongue.

You still haven’t told me if the gringos are honorable, Poppi.

Like the jungle man, Tarzan? Like your Uncle Amádis? Like Lópe the great poet? I don’t know, boy.

But you said you knew the gringo, Poppi.

Osorio glared at Lópe. Then, his face mellowed.

The honorable are everywhere, my son. So are the dishonorable. Of that, you need ask no more.

- - -

Tegucigalpa Office of Barojah Moreno: Same Evening

Well, it looks like we’re on Honduras time again. Jane Wright stood from the couch where she had tarried since mid-afternoon. Wait and wait and no one shows. We might as well leave, William.

I wish you could stay just a little longer. Yolanda might find them and call at any moment. If only the baby hadn’t contracted pneumonia, and if the mother—

Jane groaned audibly. Her husband stood beside her.

It’s dark. Nothing will happen now, Barojah.

Yolanda won’t be able to see her hand in front of her face on the streets, Jane added.

Barojah sprang from his chair as if he had arrived at a certainty. Alright! As the dedicated adoption counsel for your fine ministry, I will promise you … He stepped from behind his desk. I will promise you that by this weekend all papers will be signed, the baby will be removed from its mother, and you will hold it—ready to sell it for a glorious sum.

We simply trust in the Lord that the child will be delivered from its horrible destiny, Barojah, William answered. At this very moment, up in the heartland of the United States, a loving couple have paid their deposit and now extend their arms in prayer that they might save this poor child.

They’ll save it, Barojah said confidently.

Jane adjusted the lace stitched to the collar of her denim dress and checked the elastic band that held her ponytail of graying hair. William passed his hand around her.

Just call us when Yolanda brings the girl and her baby. We’ll drive in immediately to sign the papers.

Sure, William. As you say. Barojah shook the hands of his clients. He did not wince as the smell of garlic commingled with William’s sweat and the aroma of Jane’s donated cologne wafted around him. I would only ask that the new parents wait a few days before flying down. The baby will need antibiotics and time to get over the pneumonia.

Another delay, Jane muttered.

William responded to his attorney, an edge in his voice.

I recall when we received that donation of school buses from Kansas for use in our indigent hospital transportation project, Barojah. I remember how you arranged for us to bring the vehicles in on our duty-free permit, then sell them to the commercial bus lines. That was service well performed. We earned incredible profits on that transaction.

The Lord did that for us, William Jane said mindfully, We simply served as his instruments.

William lifted his head for a quick prayer and returned to his attorney.

But those funds have evaporated. You must remember that our witness for Christ through the Wright-Way School of Motherhood Development costs dearly. Our unwed mothers—our Dulcinéas, Jane with her high literary insight sometimes calls them—demand much care. Jane and I might never make our school operate profitably if …

Self-sustainably, Jane corrected.

If we can’t meet the demand our ministry generates for babies. William lifted his voice a notch. Yet what wondrous things might we do, Barojah, if we capably serve our Lord and completely filled our stables …

Our nurseries, dear.

With fine young heathens destined for a United States visa and a life in Our Lord Jesus Christ.

We could place two, even three, babies this very day. Jane’s tongue rattled menacingly as she breathed out her displeasure. We’ve maintained a beneficial relationship with you, Barojah. You’re one of the few Hondurans we’ve met who doesn’t act like he slipped off a banana boat.

Fell off a melon truck, William whispered.

And I trust your Spanish nature will continue to operate over your … Jane cleared her throat. more indigenous nature.

It will, Jane. I swear to you that this baby will be adopted without further problem. What’s more, I will instruct Yolanda to double and triple her search for others. Barojah assumed an aggrieved facade. And let’s not forget: none of us expected your contract with God’s Only Truth cable television ministry. The newborn demand they generated has come incredibly fast. But don’t worry. You’ll see a matching surge in babies soon.

Jane raised her eyebrows. An almost genuine smile grazed her lips. Barojah stepped forward, planted a kiss upon her cheek, then threw his arms around William.

His clients left satisfied. Along the corridor toward the reception area William tugged at his knit shirt streaked with garlic-laden perspiration and Jane, finding an imperative to adjust her lace collar, lowered her nose to smell the fragrance of her newest cologne.

Barojah went to his desk, removed a bottle of aerosol freshener, and sprayed into the air.

- - -

Remote Outskirts of Tegucigalpa • Following Week

Now, finally! Finally!

The void of an early morning sky—screwed down upon the valley like a lid—bore the shout for an instant before the baffles of mountainous landscape sucked it from the air.

Kyle Daly grinned at his wife. His eyes twinkled.

I wish you could be like this all of the time, Kyle. I like to see you like this.

Like this?

Kyle surveyed himself—his shirt a patchwork of stains from bean grease, sour cream, and hot sauce—the same spread across the thighs of his khakis. His tennis shoes appeared as earthen clumps upon the powdery turf that coated them. He pushed his glasses upon his nose as she stepped to him, ruffled his hair, and kissed him.

She wrinkled her nose.

Your shirt stinks. And you should have washed your hair this morning. She kissed him again. She drew her cheek away. And you need a shave.

My shirt was clean yesterday. I stuck my head in the water tank at the hotel this morning. And I haven’t seen another shaved man … or woman … since we crossed the border into Mexico.

He turned her to the view. She peered across an expansive mountain valley that held at its heart the central district of a city. The buildings protruded from the earth in a most humble manner compared to those of Savannah, Georgia, where they had lived. The irregular construction stretched box-like above the treetops, the monotony of their whiteness broken only by a central hill. A blue and white flag capped a monument upon that crest.

At the base of the hill a soccer stadium squeezed itself onto a button of level ground. Further below, a riverbed, which transferred little more water than a slow stream, worked through the city. From this cluster of downtown landmarks, residences swaddled by fruit trees spread in every direction outward toward the rim of the valley.

Tegucigalpa, Honduras, Carmen Daly whispered.

Kyle inhaled grandly.

Finally! he shouted again, Dr. Kyle Daly. Genius. And brilliant theorist of human change … is here!

He threw his arms upward. Carmen yanked her Polaroid camera from her waist bag and photographed him. Kyle twisted at the sound of the camera as it churned out the photograph.

Did that merit a picture?

The sun caught the platinum of her hair.

I last saw you as a joyous egoist seven long, long years ago—the day you earned your doctorate.

Kyle dropped his hands into his pockets.

"Should I appreciate that or resent that, Carmen? You know that to earn a doctorate in counseling psychology is no more societally significant than to land a job as a mail