Ghost Lights by Lydia Millet

few moments Hal sat back, feeling superfluous.
    The wife reached out and took his hand, squeezed it briefly and let go.
    “We went swimming in the river,” she said, smiling. He noticed her white teeth and the youthful, sun-kissed sheen of her skin. Her hair was caught back in a golden-brown braid. He could picture her in a blue and white dirndl, gaily performing a folk dance.
    Too bad he couldn’t have sex with her. But he was not an old lech. Not quite yet. He wouldn’t wish himself on her even if she would have him.
    “Aren’t there caymen? Or piranhas or something?”
    “Sure, crocodiles,” she said, and laughed lightly. “But you know, very small. The water was so refreshing! We didn’t see the crocodiles. Too bad. But we saw beautiful herons.”
    Germans always thought water was refreshing. They ran down to the water and plunged in boldly, welcoming the bracing shock of it as some kind of annoying proxy for life.
    “Here, see here, Mr. Lindley?” asked the husband. Hal was surprised his name had been remembered. He leaned over the map, obliging. “Here is where Mr. Palacio says his brother would usually start the hikes. You see? There. I marked it with the pencil. Back at the Grove you can make a copy of this.”
    “Thank you,” said Hal a little faintly.
    Once they were back on the powerboat, the boys hunched over and pushing buttons on their handheld games again and the German couple became caught up in the momentum. They were enthusiastic.
    “You must contact your embassy in Belmopan,” said the husband. “They have military forces! Maybe they would help you.”
    Germans. They thought you could just call in the army.
    “My understanding is, the U.S. embassy there is a very small facility,” protested Hal, but they were already shaking their heads at this trifling objection.
    “This is what they are here for,” said the wife. “To help the citizens!”
    “Technically I think they’re here to prop up the Belize Defence Force,” said Hal. He had skimmed a passage on the local military in his guidebook. “Which boasts about six soldiers.”
    “But also humanitarian assistance,” said the husband, and the wife nodded in affirmation. They believed in the logic of cooperation, the good intentions of everyone. That was clear.
    “They must have, what do you call it, Coast Guard,” said the wife. “To do rescues in the ocean. Like Baywatch .”
    “ Baywatch ,” said the husband gravely.
    “Exactly,” said the wife.
    He had no idea what they were talking about. Possibly it was some kind of wholesome Krautish neighborhood-watch thing. He nodded politely.
    Would he like part of a granola bar, asked the wife, with peanut butter in it? She divided one into three parts and they shared it.
    The husband was some kind of electrical engineer, he learned, and the wife was a kindergarten teacher. They were living in the U.S. recently for some job of his. Their names were Hans and Gretel. He hadn’t caught that at first. He asked if they were joking and they gazed at him with wide eyes and shook their heads.
    He told them he worked for the IRS and they were practically admiring. That was a new one on him.
    • • • • •
    I n the hotel business office, his third whiskey in hand, he composed a fax for the clerk to send to Susan. It was in telegram style, though he had a whole blank sheet to write on.
    RAISING AN ARMY WITH GERMANS.

5
    H e woke up in the morning with a splitting headache once again. Thankfully the drapes were closed and he was safe in dimness.
    His bedside telephone was blinking, a red message light. He did not want to reach out and touch it so he lay there, long and heavy on the hotel bed. Susan and Casey had both visited him. He hadn’t dreamt much but he remembered them both spinning around him like tops or bottles, either angry or worried, with white and yellow ribbons streaming from their hands. Now he had the taste of peanut butter and iron in his mouth . . . the peanut butter