A Quiet Flame

“I told you before, Gunther. I’m not the type who sits at home darning your socks. I didn’t get to be a lawyer without outsmarting a few dumb cops.”

“For a lawyer you don’t seem to have much in the way of caution.”

“I never said I was a good lawyer. But get this straight. I started this case and I intend to see it through.”

“You know something? For a lawyer, you’re a pretty nice girl. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Do all Germans treat women like they’re made of porcelain? No wonder you lost the war. Come on. Let’s get in the car.”

Anna and I drove southwest out of the city. Soon we were on a narrow, pitted road that was bordered on both sides by the parted waves of a Red Sea of sugarcane. This was green on top, and an impenetrable wooden thicket below. There were miles of the stuff, almost as if imagination had failed the earth’s creator.

“Sugarcane. It’s just a lot of giant grass,” said Anna.

“Sure, but I’d hate to see the lawn mowers.”

From time to time I was obliged to slow down as we passed little walking thickets of cane that, on closer inspection, revealed themselves to be loads on the backs of mules, which elicited cries of pity from Anna. Every few miles we came across a shantytown of concrete-block houses with corrugated iron roofs. Half-naked children chewing lengths of sugarcane like dogs gnawing bones observed our arrival and departure from their villas miseria with wild, gesticulating enthusiasm. From the metropolitan comfort of Buenos Aires, Argentina had looked like an affluent country; but out here, on the plantations of the humid pampa, the eighth-largest country in the world seemed one of the poorest.

Several miles farther on, the sugarcane receded and we came to some fields of corn that led down to the River Dulce and a wooden bridge that wasn’t much more than a continuation of the dirt road. On the other side, I pulled over and took another look at the map. I had the Sierra rising in front of me, the river on my right, fields of maize on my left, and the road leading down a long incline immediately ahead of us.

“There’s nothing here,” said Anna. “Just a lot of sugar and a lot more sky.” She paused. “What exactly does this place look like, anyway?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “But I’ll know it when I see it.” I tossed the map onto her lap, shoved the jeep in gear, and drove on.

A few minutes later, we came to the ruins of a village. A village that didn’t appear on the map. Small, white, roofless shacks lined the road, and a derelict church was home to a number of stray dogs, but there was no sign of anyone living there.

“Where have all the people gone?”

“I suppose they were moved by the government. This whole area will be flooded when they dam the river.”

“I’m missing it already,” she said.

At the bottom of the street, a narrow alley led off to the right and, on a wall, we saw the faintest outline of an arrow and the words LAGUNA DULCE—Sweet Lagoon. We turned down the alley, which became a dirt track leading into a narrow valley. A thick canopy of trees covered the track, and I switched on the headlights until we were in sunlight again.

“I’d hate to run out of gas here,” observed Anna as we bounced from one pothole to another. “The middle of nowhere has its depressing moments.”

“Anytime you want to go back, just say the word.”

“And miss what’s just around the next corner? I don’t think so.”

At last, we came to a clearing and a kind of crossroads.

“Which way now?” she asked.

I drove a little farther on before reversing to the crossroads and choosing another direction. A moment or two later, I saw it.

“This is the right way,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I slowed down. In the bushes by the side of the track was an empty wooden roll labeled GLASGOW WIRE. I pointed to it. “This is where the Scotsman delivered his wire.”

“And you think it was for a refugee camp?”

“Yes.”

That was what I had told her. But already I was beginning to realize that if a refugee camp had once existed out here, it didn’t any longer. The whole valley was deserted. Any refugee camp would have needed supplies. Supplies needed transport. There was no evidence that anyone had been down that red-clay road in a while. Our own tire tracks were the only ones visible.

We drove on for almost a mile until I found what we were looking for. A thick line of trees and a barbed-wire gate in front of an anonymous dirt road that led farther down into the valley. Behind the tree line was an equally high barbed-wire fence. There was a sign in Spanish on the gate. Translated, it read:

PRIVATE PROPERTY OF THE CAPRI CONSTRUCTION AND HYDROELECTRIC COMPANY. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN BY ORDER OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT. KEEP OUT. DANGER.

There were three padlocked chains around the gate, and as it was about ten feet high, I hardly saw us climbing over it. Moreover, the padlocks were of a type that usually resisted picking. I steered the jeep off the road and into a small gap in the tree line. Then I cut the engine.