Free The Penalty by Mal Peet Page A

it?”
    “Sure. They also used to call it the Land of the Colonels, is that right? Because plantation owners liked to pretend they were military commanders?”
    Bakula emptied his glass and put it down on the table. His smile was a thing of the past.
    “Sugar,” he said. “Such a soft word. Such a good word for something full of sweetness. Something so
white
, when it is refined.”
    Faustino concealed a sigh inside a stream of cigarette smoke.
    “In fact,” Bakula continued, “the Cane Country is a place where a slow holocaust took place. At a low estimate, one million slaves died producing sugar for the colonels. Sugar cane also destroyed the forests and exhausted the soil. So even after slavery was abolished, people continued to die in huge numbers, of poverty, hunger, disease. And alcoholism, of course.”
    Faustino tapped Bakula’s glass with a fingernail. “Another?” he asked innocently. “I rather fancy one of those myself.”
    When the waiter had come and gone Faustino said, “It’s still pretty rough up there in the Cane Country, isn’t it? Cheers, by the way.”
    Edson Bakula hesitated briefly, then chinked his glass against Faustino’s. He said, “You could take a taxi to San Juan’s new multi-million-dollar airport, and in less than an hour be flying over what looks like one of the most desperate parts of Africa. You probably wouldn’t believe it.”
    “And would I be right in thinking,” Faustino said, getting there at last, “that up there Veneration isn’t all nice touristy white ceremonies dedicated to the healing ancestors like Amalu and Ochandja? That other ancestors have a little more, er, influence? Like Maco, for instance?”
    Bakula sat back and studied Faustino’s face for several moments. Eventually he said, “Yes, perhaps. So tell me, Señor Faustino – Paul – what is the nature of your interest in these matters? Are you writing something?”
    “No.”
    “Ah.” Bakula smiled ironically. “So it’s a personal interest? A spiritual quest?”
    “Hah!”
    “No? You have no interest in spiritual matters?”
    “No, thank God,” Faustino said. “Fortunately, the religious gene in my family seems to have skipped a generation. My mother suffered badly from it. I am, happily, a sensualist. The real world is quite enough for me.”
    “Some would describe such an attitude as superficial.”
    “Oh yes,” Faustino agreed. “I am undeniably a superficial person. I like the surfaces of things. I have yet to see a car that looks better without its paintwork, or a woman who looks better without her skin. Have you?”
    Edson Bakula seemed to consider the question seriously. But he said, “So why are we having this conversation?”
    Faustino sipped his drink. Then he told Bakula about Maximo Salez, and about the knife. The guide listened without interrupting, staring at the surface of the table, running the backs of his fingers through the moisture on the outside of his glass.
    When Faustino had finished, Bakula said, “And you imagined that I might be able to cast some light on this business? That I have, what, inside information about the cults in this city?”
    Faustino lifted his shoulders, a defensive gesture. “I didn’t have anyone else to discuss it with. And you seem like a very well-informed person.”
    “And I am from the heartland of Maco worship.”
    “Well, yes, although I didn’t know that until…”
    Bakula looked up at Faustino now. “I can’t help you,” he said.
    “Can’t, or won’t?”
    The guide’s expression hardly changed, but it was clear that he wasn’t used to being challenged. He ran a finger over his disfigured lower lip, then said, “I dare say there have been white people killed in the name of Maco. Considering the history of this place, it would not be surprising. But the knife means nothing in itself. You can buy them in tourist shops, I’m sorry to say.”
    He stood up.
    “Right,” Faustino said. “Well, thanks for your