Steve Erickson - Rubicon Beach

The miners looked at each other.

Now that you understand the situation, Coba said, we’ll call it a night.

Not so fast, said the miners.

If any one of you touches me, said Catherine, I’ll bite his thing off and spit it down his throat.

She said something! the miners shouted, though they didn’t understand the dialect. A river plea, Coba translated; she says she tires of her wild ways and longs for the hand firm enough to break her of them.

What do you want for her, sailor? said the miners, getting control of themselves. For several minutes the air was filled with offers: gold found, gold yet to be found, younger sisters in Bogota, sisters yet unborn, cocaine and marijuana and exotic strains of peyote, anything the miners could think of that a stupid white European might want — offers including guest privileges, leasing arrangements, escape clauses. To all this the sailor became heated and indignant. I don’t sell her — his voice rose as theirs fell — I’m not a bloody slaver. The miners said nothing and Coba peered around furiously. He wiped his chin and straightened the front of his shirt. He said, I’m a gambler. I scratch out a living making respectable wagers. I may not be good at it, my luck may be bad an inordinate amount of the time, but don’t insuIt me with bullshit about buying a girl. This is the damned twentieth century.

The miners grumbled among themselves and apologized.

Coba said, If you want to propose a wager, then propose it. She’s worth more than twice what you have. But I’ll settle for twice what you have. Match every coin you’ve won from me with a coin of your own, there’s a wager for you. If that’s unacceptable, then good night.

The miners watched him and watched her. Something went tight in their bellies and dry in their mouths. They watched his resolve, they watched her hair black as the earth they plundered for gold (they looked at it beneath their feet). They each knew that no other woman any of them ever saw again would have a face of her own after they had seen this face, and the idea of spending their lives with women they had to hide from the light appalled them; it was as though learning they had only moments to live.

They whispered, Deal.

Once Coba had won back his fortune as well as that of the miners, he excused himself from their company with haste, took Catherine and made his exit. They were still a hundred yards from the boat when they heard the miners coming after them. We’re lucky these men are so stupid, Catherine thought to herself as she ran with the sailor down the side of the mountain for the river. But sooner or later he’s going to get his throat slit, which he deserves, and something worse for me, which I don’t. Near the base of the mountain her feet went out beneath her and she tumbled the rest of the way, lying face down in the riverbank trying to get up, her bound wrists making the effort impossible in the slick of the mud. Coba took one look at her, chewed his lip, considered the horde of swindled men coming down on him, thought of the money to be made at mining towns all the way up the river. He ran to Catherine and yanked her to her feet by her black hair and out into the river, where they climbed aboard their boat to the music of guns.

By the third such town their escapes were becoming more hairbreadth. Catherine understood more and more each time that one night she would fall in the mud and he would look at her and leave. It’s a race, she told herself, between his stupidity and the stupidity of the men he cheats: one day he will be stupider than they are. My only hope, she said almost out loud, is that the day he becomes that stupid, l will get him before they do.

The fourth town was far down the river, after which this river that ran west among all others that ran east would curl even more westward into a denser, more foreboding jungle than either Coba or Catherine had known. In the time between the third and fourth towns their supplies dwindled; they’d gotten out of Town Three so quickly they’d taken nothing with them but loads of gold. Loads of gold, she said to him, and nothing to eat or drink. There’s enough food and water until the next town, he said, I’m taking care of things. Sooner or later, she thought, word of mouth will catch up with us. She didn’t say this out loud because if the sailor were to intelligently appraise the risks, he might intelligently conclude his scam days had run out on the river, which meant Catherine was no longer of value to him. In a floating context of finite supplies, one eats better than two. My survival, she thought, now rests on the arrogant indifference to danger this sailor has for brains. For the moment he must continue believing he’s smarter than he is.

The day Coba discovered he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, Town Four was in the distance, a rim of dirty white lying on the green of the river. He watched the town with satisfaction and brought out from the cargo hold the last couple of pieces of fruit, saved for the moment when it was certain more food was on the horizon. Catherine sat at the other end of the boat watching in the other direction. You’re looking the wrong way, he called to her, and pointed to the town; she glanced at it briefly and silently turned back. He shook his head, relishing the day he wouldn’t have to put up with this crap anymore. He took out a sharp knife and cut the fruit, and tossed her a piece which fell on the deck at her feet. Someday this business will be over, he said to her, and you can have the long siesta on the fucking riverbed you want so bad. He feIt satisfied saying this because by now he was sure she understood him.

About this time he heard another voice.

He spun around to face in the direction of the town, which had now grown nearer. There, just a few feet from him, was another boat, somewhat smaller. Three men were in it. Two of them sat watching Coba idly while the third stood at the front of the boat, smiling broadly underneath a comic bushy mustache. Coba was confused; he looked at them and looked at Catherine and then back at them, wondering if he should rush to the girl and throw the cloth over her. Hi ho, said the man with the mustache to Coba; he tipped his hat to Catherine and called her señorita. Been on the river long? he asked cheerfully. Since the last town, Coba said; he laughed his laugh. Is this a welcoming party? he said, a bit more uneasily than he had planned.

Yes, that’s it, said the man with the mustache. A welcoming party. I’m sort of the town’s diplomatic service, let’s say. Trying to fix things before they get broken.

Uh huh, said Coba, still confused.

That’s it, said the man emphatically. Trying to fix things before they get broken, save everyone a lot of trouble. You, for instance. I’d like to fix you before you get broken, save you a lot of trouble. Give yourself a chance to take yourself out of the hand before it’s too late.

Coba did not like the gambling metaphor.

Now you can do one of three things, the man with the mustache explained with great joviality. You can sail into town, where a more formidable welcoming party is waiting for you and where you’ll find yourself put in a small jail and kept an undetermined period of time until it’s decided what’s to be done with you. Or you can sail back to the town from where you just came, at which place you might be given similar treatment if you’re very lucky. Or you can continue to sail downriver where it narrows, and where the jungle thickens so as to blot out the day, and long living vines throttle men slowly, and there are fast rapids, fanged serpents, fierce wild cats, mosquitoes the size of oranges with malaria that runs like juice, and natives the size of children that eat men the size of you. How’s that sound?

Coba said nothing.