“Georgetown,” Taylor replied. “My university. Universidad.”
“Ah… César collect T-shirts.”
Better than collecting heads, thought Brodie. He suggested, “Swap T-shirts.”
Taylor said to César, “I’ll give this to you later.”
He smiled. “Gracias.”
Well, thought Brodie, César seemed to be what he said he was: the chief tour guide. And probably any connection he had with Mercer and the camp was one of mutual convenience. César owed no allegiance to Kyle Mercer or to the government in Caracas, or to anyone except his own people. And most probably César had no idea why the American had set up an armed camp nearby, nor did he care, so long as they didn’t bother him or his people. In fact, Mercer’s camp probably provided some sort of employment for the Pemón who had been left adrift by the central government. And maybe Mercer paid for use of their land, as the American military did in Iraq and Afghanistan. Kyle Mercer knew how to live in tribal territories, and rule one is: Be a good neighbor to the locals. Rule two is: Buy whatever you need from them—food, manual labor, and silence. Rule three: Pay the locals to report what they see and hear. And that’s what César would do. Nothing personal. Just business.
César looked at Taylor and asked his new friend, “You stay in Caracas?”
Taylor replied, “Yes, and we will return tomorrow.”
César had no response, and Brodie wondered what the indigenous people thought about Caracas and civilization in general. Probably not much.
César suggested, “You pay now. American dollar or euro. Okay?”
“Okay.” Brodie took out his wallet and gave César a hundred dollars. “Two deluxe rooms for one night, outdoor shower, meals included, and a view of the tepui.”
“Sí.” César put the money in his pocket and said, “Park fee. Five dollar.”
“Right. Here’s a ten. Keep the change.”
“Gracias.” César also informed them, “You go jungle or tepui, you need guide.”
“Let me get back to you on that.” He asked, “What is the name of this river?”
César replied, “It has name in Spanish. Pemón people call it River.”
“That’s very clever.” Not unlike Brodie calling his dick, Dick. In Spanish, it would be Ricardo.
Taylor asked César for the Spanish name, but he seemed to have forgotten it. He did remember, however, to tell them, “Pilot bring permit.”
“No problemo.”
“Okay.”
Taylor spoke to him in Spanish as she took her tablet from her overnight bag. She pulled up the Helm book, which had photographs, and turned it toward César as she scrolled and narrated.
He stared at the screen, but he didn’t seem to think it was magic or witchcraft, and Brodie guessed that he’d seen a few of these before, and maybe wanted one for himself, though he’d need a very long extension cord to charge the batteries.
Brodie said to César, “We’re especially anxious to see a scarlet macaw.”
“Señor?”
“They mate once a year. Like American wives.”
Taylor actually laughed, though César seemed confused. So, they’d established a little rapport with César and reinforced their cover, and César said, “I see one time bird-watcher here. American.”
Brodie took the opening to inquire, “Do you see many Americans here?”
César hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No. Long time. No come here.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Sí.” César stood. “Breakfast. You wait.” He left the dining pavilion and walked off.
