truck (sometimes
with Mexican license plates); the small farm truck with halfmaked men standing
in the back, sometimes waving or making other gestures to Valerie; and every
once in a while a chrome' gleaming hom'honking high'Speeding closed'windowed
big American car with Belize plates, transporting some government official
between the nation’s capital and the nation’s city.
Certainly
the nation’s capital was no city, when they reached it an hour and a half
later. Invented in self-defense in the 1960s, after one hurricane too many had
leveled the original capital, Belmopan has so far failed to become very real.
Official efforts to force-breed a city tend to be more official than human, and
that’s what happened in Belmopan. Whenever buildings remind you irresistably of
the artist’s rendering, something has gone wrong somewhere.
The
driver, who had been very uninterested in conversation (Valerie eventually
having become quite nostalgic for yesterday’s chatterbox), also had no idea where
Innocent St. Michael’s office might be found. “Maybe there,” he said, pointing
vaguely either to the structure that looked like a prison camp’s administration
building or possibly at the outsized World War II pillbox beside it.
The
pillbox was too intimidating; in the other building Valerie found many people,
some typing, some talking, some reading, some chewing thoughtfully on various
kinds of food, all in many small offices to both sides of a central corridor. A
woman darning with tiny stitches a boy’s white school shirt, the shirt almost
completely covering the typewriter on the desk in front of her, said, “Oh,
Mister St. Michael, that’s Land Allocation, that’s upstairs.”
Upstairs
another woman, this one leafing through a recent issue of Queen, directed
Valerie to an office where a slender young black man stood up from behind his
desk and said, “Oh, yes, Miss Greene, you have an appointment with the Deputy
Director.”
“Yes,
I have.”
Glancing
at his quartz watch—perhaps flashing it a bit more than necessary—the young man
said, “I’m afraid you’re a bit early.” “Actually,” Valerie said, looking at the
large white-faced clock on the wall, “I’m three minutes late.”
“Yes,
well,” the young man said, with a here-and-gone smile. “The Deputy Director isn’t
quite here yet.”
“Oh,”
said Valerie.
The
young man looked bright-eyed, saying, “I’m the Deputy’s deputy, as it were, his
Senior Secretary. Vernon is my name; perhaps I could be of help?”
Wondering
if Vernon were his first or last name, Valerie said, “Well,
I did want to talk to Mr. St. Michael about exploring some land.”
“Oh,
yes, Mayan temples,” Vernon said, nodding, patting his palms together, silently
applauding one or the other of them, perhaps both. “I recall replying to one of
your letters. Fascinating things, computers.
I
have a great interest in them myself.”
“It’s
mostly the Mayan temples I care about,” Valerie said.
“Yes.
If you could tell me the area of your interest, I could have the proper
surveys, maps, whatever you’ll need, out of the files and on tap when the
Deputy Director arrives.”
“Oh,
that’s fine,” Valerie said. Opening her attache case on his desk, she brought
out her own maps, first the large one of the general area, then the smaller one
with the specific target site. She pointed, describing this and that, and he
nodded, frowning, moving the maps slightly by grasping their very edges between
the tips of thumb and finger. “Right there,” she said at last, pinning down the
putative temple beneath her
with Mexican license plates); the small farm truck with halfmaked men standing
in the back, sometimes waving or making other gestures to Valerie; and every
once in a while a chrome' gleaming hom'honking high'Speeding closed'windowed
big American car with Belize plates, transporting some government official
between the nation’s capital and the nation’s city.
Certainly
the nation’s capital was no city, when they reached it an hour and a half
later. Invented in self-defense in the 1960s, after one hurricane too many had
leveled the original capital, Belmopan has so far failed to become very real.
Official efforts to force-breed a city tend to be more official than human, and
that’s what happened in Belmopan. Whenever buildings remind you irresistably of
the artist’s rendering, something has gone wrong somewhere.
The
driver, who had been very uninterested in conversation (Valerie eventually
having become quite nostalgic for yesterday’s chatterbox), also had no idea where
Innocent St. Michael’s office might be found. “Maybe there,” he said, pointing
vaguely either to the structure that looked like a prison camp’s administration
building or possibly at the outsized World War II pillbox beside it.
The
pillbox was too intimidating; in the other building Valerie found many people,
some typing, some talking, some reading, some chewing thoughtfully on various
kinds of food, all in many small offices to both sides of a central corridor. A
woman darning with tiny stitches a boy’s white school shirt, the shirt almost
completely covering the typewriter on the desk in front of her, said, “Oh,
Mister St. Michael, that’s Land Allocation, that’s upstairs.”
Upstairs
another woman, this one leafing through a recent issue of Queen, directed
Valerie to an office where a slender young black man stood up from behind his
desk and said, “Oh, yes, Miss Greene, you have an appointment with the Deputy
Director.”
“Yes,
I have.”
Glancing
at his quartz watch—perhaps flashing it a bit more than necessary—the young man
said, “I’m afraid you’re a bit early.” “Actually,” Valerie said, looking at the
large white-faced clock on the wall, “I’m three minutes late.”
“Yes,
well,” the young man said, with a here-and-gone smile. “The Deputy Director isn’t
quite here yet.”
“Oh,”
said Valerie.
The
young man looked bright-eyed, saying, “I’m the Deputy’s deputy, as it were, his
Senior Secretary. Vernon is my name; perhaps I could be of help?”
Wondering
if Vernon were his first or last name, Valerie said, “Well,
I did want to talk to Mr. St. Michael about exploring some land.”
“Oh,
yes, Mayan temples,” Vernon said, nodding, patting his palms together, silently
applauding one or the other of them, perhaps both. “I recall replying to one of
your letters. Fascinating things, computers.
I
have a great interest in them myself.”
“It’s
mostly the Mayan temples I care about,” Valerie said.
“Yes.
If you could tell me the area of your interest, I could have the proper
surveys, maps, whatever you’ll need, out of the files and on tap when the
Deputy Director arrives.”
“Oh,
that’s fine,” Valerie said. Opening her attache case on his desk, she brought
out her own maps, first the large one of the general area, then the smaller one
with the specific target site. She pointed, describing this and that, and he
nodded, frowning, moving the maps slightly by grasping their very edges between
the tips of thumb and finger. “Right there,” she said at last, pinning down the
putative temple beneath her
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