Cave of Little Faces. Aída Besançon Spencer

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      “What we need is some capital.”

      “That’s right and to develop the angle.”

      “But above all,” said Star, “we got to find a sponsor.”

      And that was the moment Ismael Balenzuela, scion of ancient Spain, rose from a first-class seat on an Iberian Airlines flight from Madrid to Santo Domingo and strode regally down the ramp to customs. This was, in fact, his first time in La Republica Dominicana, but absolutely no one watching him would have guessed. As he entered, he sized up the tourist card situation and was among the first in line. He signaled to a porter and had his bags—first-class bags so they came out at once—picked up and carted to customs. He bantered lightly with the female checking his tags, smiled with a self-confident air at the gentleman at the checking booth, and paused at the first set of rental car booths. Within an hour, with a marked map, he was on the road.

      Delighted to see an announcement for Valenzuela gasoline just outside of Santo Domingo, he counted it as a sign of inevitable progress as well as an omen: the natural world and its dead denizens fueling the world of today and tomorrow that Man (he always used the exclusive term) had created.

      As he drove, he gazed with a proprietorial air at everything around him. It was poor, yes, he expected that. But something was stirring deep within him. Some kind of inherited memory, he decided. He had learned about the Tainos and how they were all exterminated by his ancestors, though he laid as much blame on the Italian Cristóbol Colón as upon the soldiers and adventuring third sons, as he was himself. Offered only a place—even if it was a vice presidency—in the family business, while his elder brothers were made president and chief executive officer respectively, he preferred to take a job with another, non-family-based development firm of worldwide resorts—one in which he could prove his worth and rise to the top. The assignment was Barahona and its environs on the western shore of La Republica Dominicana in the Caribbean. The company already was involved in the machinations going on in the Bahia de las Aguilas, and the other stiffly competitive struggles to develop the tip of the peninsula of Enriquillo and, to hedge its bets, it decided to put up something earlier at the entrance to the peninsula. Ismael’s job was to find the locale and set up an all-inclusive resort that would bring in the money to finance the other beach developments. How hard could this be? Confidence he had in fistfuls, born, as he was, with the sense of entitlement that comes with an ancient, moneyed family that saw itself as the heir of the great conquistadores.

      All through the little towns in his several-hour trek to the west, he could not help feeling like a conqueror himself. He had resources at his disposal, a company that believed in him, and the heritage that, to his mind, made all the difference. He noted all the Taino names on the map and in the towns and knew that, by these same culpable ancestors, they had been exterminated and replaced by Africans. It was a shame, of course, but, he defended his forbearers by noting to himself that there is a price to progress—the weak must yield to the strong. It is the way of the natural world.

      This was the confidence that he brought into Barahona and, after driving up and down, surveying the available establishments in town, to the very hotel and casino where the Heitzes were staying. He was, one might reason, a lot like a hornet diving into a spider’s web.

      Basil and Star, lounging in the comfortable reception area, took his measure as he strode in. “Let’s spring for supper in the restaurant,” whispered Basil.

      “Okay, but we’ve got to watch the spending,” warned Star.

      “I think we got a live one here.”

      That night, Star, sitting next to the maître d’s stand in the restaurant, beamed her smile at Balenzuela as he stepped into the room and swept his gaze around.

      He spotted her, of course—how could he miss her? Balenzuela grinned back.

      “Oh, good, another American!” she greeted him warmly.

      “Actually, Madam, I am Spanish from Spain,” he replied in perfect English.

      “Oh, I love Spain,” she cooed. “What a wonderful country. Please, we would be so honored if you would join us. My name is Star. This is my—uh—my brother, Basil.”

      Basil’s eyes flicked at her for an instant, and then he rose courteously. “Yes, dear Star’s brother, Basil. At your service.”

      “I am Ismael Rodrigo Balenzuela Cordoba from Cadiz in España.”

      “We are so honored to share a table with you.”

      “Thank you.” He sat down and a waiter set a place for him.

      “Here on business, no doubt?” said Basil easily. “You are a man of obvious determination.”

      Balanzuela swelled a bit and thought to himself that these are obviously people of great discernment. “Yes,” he said, “I am here on a development mission.”

      “How wonderful,” said Star. “So are we.”

      “You are?”

      “Yes, we are. And what do you wish to develop?”

      “A resort here in Barahona.”

      “Ah,” said Basil, “a beautiful little city.”

      “And you?” said Balenzuela courteously.

      “Our work is of a more spiritual nature. We are here for the magnetic pole.”

      “The magnetic pole? What is that?”

      “It is the eighth wonder of the world,” Star assured him. “But no one here values it. We represent a new and deeply spiritual movement. We call ourselves the Polarians, after the mighty pole.”

      “And what does the pole do?” asked Ismael Balenzuela, intrigued by this charming couple.

      “Let us tell you all about it,” said Basil, warming up. “You see, when Columbus and his”—he paused a moment, studying Balenzuela intently, and then continued glibly—“his liberators came to this lovely land, seeking a new world of opportunity, they did not know that they were actually drawn here by a magnetic mountain, a pole as powerful as the North and South Pole. For us, it is the center of the universe.”

      “Really?”

      “Oh, yes,” said Star, melting him with her eyes and nearly taking his hand. “You see the pole is powerful. It can literally move metal! One can stop one’s car and the magnetism will pull it backward up a hill and over into the valley below. You see, the mountain and the valley form two counterpoints—two poles, one active, one passive. This is the kind of reconciliation we are seeking in Polarism—to adjust the natural magnetism of our lives into a harmonious synchronicity ordered by the natural pull of the earth.”

      “Yes,” tag-teamed Basil. “Just as the north and south poles orient the natural polarities of our world, the magnetic pole in Hispaniola orients the spiritual polarities that we possess within ourselves. The magnetic mountain takes the vehicles which are our lives and pulls them to its own rhythm.”

      A waiter cleared his throat deferentially at Balenzuela’s elbow and asked if they were ready to order. Balenzuela glanced at the menu and looked up instantly. “Sea Bass,” he said, definitively.

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