Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [11]
“Uhhh—”
“John Blair,” Kara prompted.
“Mr. Blair, absolutely. I’m afraid your situation is rather problematic. There are laws”—he looked to Kara for confirmation—“apparently there are laws here in Colombia which prohibit private citizens from engaging in kidnap negotiations. Am I correct on that, Kara?”
“Unfortunately yes, sir.”
“‘Aiding and abetting a kidnap negotiation,’ I believe those are the words. We’re to avoid any action that could be construed as aiding and abetting a kidnap negotiation, those are our strict instructions from the State Department. Which I know must seem rather harsh to you—”
Blair had groaned.
“—but I’m sure you can appreciate the bind this puts us in. Much as we’d like to help you, our hands are tied.”
Blair wanted to hit this fool, or at least shake him hard enough that some air got to his brain. “Look,” he said in his most determined voice, “they keep threatening to kill me, they say I’m a spy. They could take me out and shoot me as soon as you leave.”
“I’m certainly aware of the seriousness of your situation.” Señor Spasso, someone called from across the room. “Believe me, I am most sympathetic. But any goodwill we foster here today will redound to your future benefit, I’m sure.”
Señor Spasso, we’re ready.
“Be right there! People are working for your release, I can assure you. Top people, extremely capable people. So hang in there, and God bless.”
Spasso joined the general push of people toward the door. “I am so, so sorry,” Kara said. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a handful of Power Bars. “Here, take these,” she said, thrusting them at Blair. “I’ll talk to you before we leave.”
Kara melted into the crowd. Blair allowed the flow to carry him out to the gallery, where he leaned against a column and closed his eyes. He could not comprehend what was happening to him, but it had something to do with the casual cruelty of people who’d never missed a meal or had a gun stuck to their heads. Out in the yard the press was forming ranks for another photo op. Spasso and company gathered around the microphone; while they made the same speeches as two hours ago Blair ate his Power Bars and discreetly wept, though after a few minutes he pulled himself together and resolved to make one last plea for help. He scanned the yard and gallery for Kara, then entered the building, where he found her in the big concrete room. She and the other two Americans were sitting with Alberto and one of the senior comandantes. They were speaking in quiet, reasoned tones, their chairs so close that their knees almost touched. Blair was struck by their visible ease with each other, the intimate air which enclosed the little group.
“Oh, John!” Kara cried. “Maybe John can help,” she said to the others, waving Blair over. “John, we’re having some trouble with the language here, maybe you can help us out.”
The blond American stood with his legal pad. “All those years of high school Spanish,” he chuckled, “and I don’t remember a thing.”
“John’s American,” said Kara. “He’s in graduate school at Duke.”
“Super!” The man pulled Blair close. “Listen, we’re trying to finalize the numbers here and we can’t seem to get on the same page. I’m offering thirty-five hundred per fifty unit, fifty thousand board feet in other words. Think you could put that into Spanish for me?”
Blair eyed the scribble of numbers on the pad. “Thirty-five hundred…”
“Dollars, U.S.”
Blair kept scanning the pad, the numbers teasing him; it seemed important to make sense of the mess. “Board feet…”
“It’s the standard unit in the industry. One square foot by one inch thick.”
“Of board,” Blair said. “You’re talking about lumber.”
“You bet.”
“Who are you?”
The man stuck out his hand. “Rick Hunley, Weyerhauser precious woods division.”
“You’re going to log this area?”
“That’s the plan, if we can close this thing.”
Blair turned to Alberto, who gave him a squirrelly, sullen look. The honks and woofs of the press conference drifted through the door, and that, Blair realized,