“I won’t. And thanks for the advice.”
“Thanks for giving them a ride,” I said to Steve. We were alone in the truck. Ines, although there was now plenty of room, preferred to sit in the back.
“No problem. They’re not much older than my kids, you know. My son’s in college, and my daughter is just finishing high school. I know this puts me solidly in the camp of male chauvinist pigs, but I particularly wouldn’t like to think of my daughter in that place.” He glanced over at me. “By the way, I saw what you did.” I feigned innocence. “Feeling flush, are you?”
“No,” I replied. “Actually, I’m feeling broke. But it’s all relative. You’re going to see that there’s a roof over my head, and you’ll feed me. I’ll manage.”
He sighed. “I don’t much like the idea of their staying at that place,” he repeated.
“They’ll be okay,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. “Is there something other than their general comfort you think they need to worry about?”‘
“Not really,” he replied, just a tad too quickly. “Have I conveyed to you how absolutely delighted I am that you accepted this position?” he went on, changing the subject. I smiled.
“Really, I mean it,” he said. “I’m a field man, not a businessman. I’m itching to be out there at the site. But there’s so much to be done, just to keep this project running, and I’m second on the totem pole. Hilda, Dr. Schwengen, is the head of this project, really, although she and I are called codirectors. Have you heard of her? No?” he said, looking at my blank expression. “She’s the high priestess of field archaeology in this part of the world. Austrian, originally, but she emigrated to the States when she was very young. Done some wonderful work on Inca sites, cleared a whole city up in the mountains almost single-handed, fighting off banditos in the process. Something of a legend, is our Hilda. She’s now turned her attention to the Moche. So far, though, we’ve come up dry.”
“Is this your first year here?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Fourth,” Steve replied. “Fourth and last unless we can come up with something spectacular. The grant I got for this dig runs out at the end of this season, and unless we can bring in another sponsor or two— we’ve got one small one to help out this year—we’re done here. I’ve talked to a couple of the Peruvian banks, but sponsors look for something a little more exciting for their money than what we’ve found so far. The stuff we’ve found is all really interesting; we’ve uncovered a workers’ cemetery and what was probably a village populated by craftspeople.”
“But that sounds fascinating,” I interrupted him.
“Oh, it is,” he replied. “But it’s not glamorous. We’ve learned a lot about early Moche times, but sponsors want something more exciting than that, and they know it’s possible. There have been terrific finds a little north of here. Sipan, for example. Those tombs were just spectacular. I’m biased, of course, but I think they’re the New World equivalent of King Tut’s tomb. Enough gold and silver to keep a Croesus happy. That’s what sponsors want. I’m still convinced, though, there’s something big here, and so’s Hilda. I have a feeling in my bones this is the season we’ll find it. All the signs are right. Hope so, anyway, as much for Hilda as for myself.”
“That’s terrific,” I said.
“It is. I should warn you about our sponsor, though. One Carlos Montero. He’s the mayor’s brother and owner of one of the few big businesses in town. This is essentially a one-factory town, by the way.”
My ears pricked up. Steve went on. “As you can see, there isn’t much here. Fishing certainly, some farming. And Carlos and us. As for Carlos…” He paused for a second or two. “Let’s just say that political correctness has not reached the northern coastal desert of Peru. Carlos and a lot of the local men around here think that if a woman is out on her own, she’s fair game. I wouldn’t take in any of the local bars at night without a guy present, if I were you. The women on the project find Carlos a bit of a pain, I should warn you, always hitting on them. We try to make sure you women aren’t left alone with him for long.”
“So what does Carlos do, if anything, when he’s not bothering women and being the mayor’s brother?” I asked.
“Owns the local factory, one with the rather amusing name of Fabrica des Artesanias Paraiso, which means paradise as you probably know, the Paradise Crafts Factory,” Steve said. “They make reproductions of Moche artifacts, and ship them all over the world.”
Now this is interesting, I thought to myself.
“Montero supports our work here,” Steve went on. “I’d be hard-pressed to make ends meet without him. He makes a donation of some substance every year, and lends us tools and workers from time to time. I rent the truck from him, and he gives us a good rate. It’s generous of him, but not a bad deal for him either. Let’s just say we have a rather symbiotic relationship. He helps us financially and in kind. We agree to let him see whatever we find before it’s shipped off to Lima, and we kind of turn our backs while he photographs it in some detail, so he can make reproductions later and be first on the market. Most of the souvenirs of Moche objects that you find around here are manufactured in his plant.”
“Is yours the only dig he does this for?” I asked.
“The only one this year. He supported a dig the Germans did south of here for a few years. Got some lovely stuff from there. Montero usually does ceramics. He’s got a mold maker who can do a quick mold right from the photograph, and then the factory churns them out by the hundreds, if not thousands. He’s got a chain of little dealers that sell it for him. They hang around the tourist sites and flog the stuff. You know the sort: Wanna buy a watch, mister? That kind of thing. They look like independent dealers, but they’re just as often as not Montero’s people. He’s doing very well, and thinking about branching out into gold and silver reproductions, because the Germans found the tomb of a Moche priestess, lucky sods.” He paused. “Do we detect a hint of professional jealousy here, you’re wondering?”
I laughed. “Maybe just a whiff. But go on.”
“Okay. Some of Montero’s stuff is kind of tacky, I’m afraid. It offends me slightly to take his money, but not enough to stop taking it. The Germans pulled up stakes last year and didn’t come back this season, so now we’re the recipients of all of Montero’s largesse. There’s a little work still going on way down south, but essentially we’re the only project in these parts this year.”
“Does Montero make replicas too? In addition to reproductions, I mean,” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.
“I suppose he might. Anything to make a buck. He’s just a bit obsessed with being big man about town, biggest house, biggest car, that kind of thing. Probably competing since childhood with his brother, the mayor,” Steve replied. “But replicas are high ticket items, really expensive to make, as I suppose you know. I kind of see Montero as the mass producer of cheap merchandise, junk, dare I say it.”
I didn’t probe further, even though I wanted to. The flared vase that was supposed to have originated from Campina Vieja hadn’t looked like junk to me, but I decided I’d asked enough about Montero and his Fabrica Paraiso for the time being. If Carlos Montero really was a bigwig in town, I was going to have to be careful with my questioning.
“Why didn’t the Germans come back again this year?” I asked out of mild curiosity.
“The weather, I expect,” Steve replied. “You’ve heard of El Nino?” I nodded. El Nino was the name given to a periodic climatic event that caused changes in the currents in the Pacific. The phenomenon is named El Nino for the Christ child, because the warm currents associated with it tend to come around Christmastime. When, for a number of reasons, the warm currents stay around longer than usual, they cause tremendous changes in water temperature, and therefore weather on land, not just in Peru, but all over the world.