Breakfast was served in the courtyard under cascades of fuchsia bougainvillea. During my time by the sea I’d almost forgotten the generosity of flowers, as well as the sensation of being enclosed by architecture. After ordering every vegetarian item on the menu—huitlacoche crepes, quesillo a la plancha, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, fried nopales, quesadillas—my father embarked, finally, on a chronicle of his search. More than once while he spoke my hunger withdrew, but each time I’d pause and lay down my fork he would say, Eat, Luisa, otherwise I won’t continue, although he too paused often, either trying to recall a certain detail—he seemed to leave out very few—or the right sequence of events or, at moments, because it was all too much. And while he spoke a bird kept trilling overhead, insistent yet invisible in the bougainvillea, and each time I felt perturbed I would look up and try to find this bird, the sight of which might have granted some solace, but it chose to remain hidden, sharing nothing but its voice, which punctuated my father’s speech as he described the many highs and lows of his journey, the moments of doubt, and my mother’s insistence that he not give up.
When you didn’t come home from school that day, he began, I wasn’t worried at first. Your mother said you had gone over to Marcela’s house to work on a history project. It was only when you hadn’t returned by dinnertime that we grew anxious, but whenever we tried calling Marcela’s number it was busy. So we drove all the way to her house, beyond Tlalpan. No one answered when we rang the bell so I called out your name, then Marcela’s. Eventually Marcela’s stepfather opened and wasn’t particularly friendly. He said he hadn’t seen you in weeks and had no idea where you were, and closed the door in our faces . . . But just as we were about to leave the door flew back open. It was Marcela, in her nightgown, and she yelled out four words—She’s with Tomás Román—before being pulled back inside.
We recalled you had been out with this character a few times, and had always returned home later than promised. You’d also mentioned to your mother that he’d dropped out of school. But in the same conversation you had supplied her with a useful bit of information: that his mother taught art at the school near the Ángel cinema. The next day we watched through a classroom window as a woman surrounded by her students gave shape to a spinning urn. We waited for what seemed like ages for the bell to ring and, once the students had left, introduced ourselves. Tomás’s mother seemed startled and insisted she had no idea where her son was. Perhaps her husband would know more. She wrote down the address of his office and we drove over. The building had many cracks and hanging chunks of plaster—I told your mother to wait in the car. Juan Román’s name was listed on a board in the lobby and I took the elevator up to the sixth or seventh floor. It was an odd place, with sad-looking offices along a corridor, first a Cuban travel agency, then the deserted headquarters of a defunct magazine called Calambres, and then an office with a plaque that said RAMÍREZ Y ROMÁN. When I knocked no one answered but the door was open so I went in. The space looked a little forsaken, the windowpanes covered in muck, diplomas crooked on the walls, the water cooler empty.
Just as I was about to leave a man entered through a side door. He was wearing a beret and said his name, Juan Román. Perhaps it was my imagination but he seemed nervous; I couldn’t help thinking his wife must have called in advance. He offered me a chair and then spoke one word: Oaxaca. He said his son went several times a year and it was his favorite place. He couldn’t guarantee you would be there but his guess was that his son was in Oaxaca, probably somewhere on the coast. I began to feel dizzy and asked for a glass of water. Mr. Román reminded me the cooler was empty. I asked him to accompany me to the travel agency down the corridor, where a woman sat amid posters of tropical destinations. She was reading Reader’s Digest but put it down when we entered. I inquired into flights to Oaxaca. She said there was one early that evening. I said I wanted to buy two tickets. Mr. Román interrupted and said he was scared of flying. He would take the train and meet me there in two days’ time, at the main café in the square, at five.
Before I set out for the airport I remembered an old acquaintance from years past, someone for whom I once wrote a letter of recommendation; after a failed career in academia he entered politics and was recently elected governor of Oaxaca. I found his card and called him. Not only did the man promise to help me find you, he said he would send someone to collect me at the airport and bring me to my hotel, and not only that, he was going to assign several police officers and a car. He would also send word across the state. And should I think of anything else, I must let him know. That is Mexican generosity, Luisa, state-level.
Your mother helped me pack. We decided she should stay and wait at home, in case you called or returned. I don’t remember much of the flight except that I tried to nap and couldn’t. At the airport in Oaxaca there was someone waiting for me, a man holding a placard with my name misspelled in black letters. After dropping off my bag at the hotel he drove me to the town hall to meet Licenciado Augusto Ardilla, yes, that was his name, who was the governor’s secretary. He asked whether I had any pictures of you. Fortunately I had one in my wallet, taken on your birthday last year. He studied it and then asked whether I had one of the so-called young man. I said no, I had never met him. So I described his father. Ardilla wrote down the information with a Montblanc and then picked up the phone and rang what turned out to be the chief of police of the state of Oaxaca, ordering him to notify his men. He studied your picture and described you. There’s just one thing, I told him once he hung up. If your men should find them, please make sure they treat my daughter with respect. Don’t worry, he said, my men are violent only when circumstances call for it. After this efficient exchange at the town hall, I had dinner at a café in the zócalo. I sat at a table facing out in order to watch the people walking past, hoping that one of the faces that crossed in the twilight might belong to you.
The next morning over breakfast I had an idea: the main bus terminal. Perhaps you had reserved tickets to Puerto Escondido or somewhere else along the coast. Every step of mine would now be shadowed by others—Ardilla had assigned two judicial policemen with instructions to follow me wherever I went, taciturn types who spoke only when spoken to. The driver, Abraham Reyes, was more affable. All three men were waiting for me in the lobby. At the bus terminal I asked an old man at the ticket counter whether I could see a list of the passengers who’d bought tickets to Puerto Escondido over the past two days. At first he regarded me with suspicion. I explained I was looking for my daughter. At the top of the second page there was the name Tómas. Someone named Tomás had purchased two tickets for the next bus to Puerto Escondido, leaving at 11:30 that morning. The policemen suggested I not show myself on the grounds you might hide if you saw me. Passengers began to arrive, mostly Mexicans and a few tourists too. I checked the alley where the parked buses sat warming their engines but you weren’t on any of them. And then the bus filled up, every seat taken, including the two reserved for Tomás. Back at the plaza I treated my companions to lunch.
As we sat eating, a man with a notebook approached and said I looked familiar, that I had the face of someone famous but he couldn’t quite place the name . . . And that I must be very famous indeed if the governor had lent me two policemen and a chauffeur. He asked my name and the reason for my trip. Seeing a window for comic relief, I gave him the name of a well-known and rather pompous novelist, well, you know who. The man’s eyes grew wide, and he then asked the reason for my trip. I told him to return the next day and I would give him an answer. And off he went with his notebook, before I had the chance to ask what paper he wrote for.
Despite this brief moment of comedy, my optimism was on the wane. The possibility of finding you seemed to grow slimmer with every passing hour. I called your mother and said I was starting to lose hope. I would fly back tomorrow evening, after seeing Mr. Román. But she insisted I stay on and not give up. If I didn’t look for you, who would, and did we really want to be sitting at home waiting fo
r the phone or the bell to ring? We couldn’t leave your fate in the hands of others. After breakfast the following day I returned to the terminal to examine the passengers boarding for Puerto Escondido. Only one stood out, a young blond woman carrying a suitcase she could barely lift. Her resemblance to the daughter of a colleague of mine was so great that I went up and asked whether she was Naira Blau from Munich, to which she replied in a French accent that no, she had never heard of this Naira Blau, but could I please help with her suitcase. After assisting her onto her bus I showed her your photograph and asked that should she see you anywhere, to please tell you to call home at once.
Abraham and the two policemen were waiting in the hotel lobby. We agreed to meet in two hours at the main café in the zócalo. In view of the long and difficult journey ahead, Abraham would go to the ministry and exchange his Ford for something sturdier.
Mr. Román was already at the café, armed with his beret and a copy of unomásuno. He stared at me fixedly. I sensed he knew more than he let on. After the waiter brought our coffees he said he’d had an idea. San José del Pacífico. Up on the sierra. Its highest point. He said his son loved the place for the view and the mushrooms . . . And if we don’t find them? Then we’ll drive on to the coast.
He gave a start when Abraham and the two policemen walked up to our table. I explained that these men would be accompanying us. Abraham held up a set of keys and said we now had a nice red station wagon. Half an hour later we were on the highway, Abraham and I in the front, and Mr. Román in the back with the two policemen. Beyond the window lay a theater of green, mainly rocks colonized by moss, you must have seen them too, but Mr. Román asked question after question, making it impossible for me to appreciate the view, and didn’t react when fragments of road broke off and plunged into the ravine alongside us. It is, after all, one of the most dazzling and treacherous highways in the world . . . Only when Abraham pointed up at a peak in the distance, a miniature triangle set against an intense blue sky, and said that was our destination, did Mr. Román fall silent.
Along some stretches the road was too narrow for two cars to pass at once. An abyss with tall trees loomed on either side. Abraham tackled every curve as our station wagon climbed the winding road, deciduous trees giving way to pines. After nearly an hour we reached San José del Pacífico. A thick blanket of fog enveloped the car as we entered the tiny rudimentary village devoid of signs and shops. The place is called San José del Pacífico because one can in principle see the Pacific from its peak. On one side the ocean, on the other the Gulf of Mexico. But that day I couldn’t see to the end of the road. Everyone got out to stretch their legs. A stray dog limped past, and as I watched the fog swallow its scrawny body I realized there was no promise, no trace, of you in this village that floated high above the rest of the world. The thought was soon reinforced by a curious vision: four men in hats and sarapes emerging from the mist, inching toward me along the pebbled road past the skeleton of a tree, travelers to and from some unknown destination for whom San José del Pacífico was no stranger than any of the other villages they crossed. The men’s hats were worn low, hiding their faces almost entirely, and even more than the solitary dog, the image of these men captured the phantasmal atmosphere of small Mexican mountain villages that belong more to the clouds than the earth.
Let’s try Pochutla, Abraham Reyes proposed when everyone had returned to the car. It’s a much larger town, he said, and is on the way to the coast. We rolled down our windows to let in some mountain air. A vehicle came toward us. The driver stuck out his head to warn of two bridges up ahead, both on the verge of collapse. He said to avoid them if we could. Abraham thanked him and continued. We’d gone too far to turn back; we had to take our chances.
The condition of the first bridge was certainly ominous, a rotting wooden serpent stretched over a drop that would scare a dragon. The policemen crossed themselves as our car rolled onto it. A couple of stones and what looked like a plank tumbled off one side. Up and down we bounced, as if the bridge were assessing our weight, deciding whether to grant us passage or let us plummet. I had to force my gaze away from the window. Once we were a few feet away from safety Abraham stepped on the accelerator and we flew over the final stretch.
A kilometer later the second bridge appeared, even longer than the first. This one danced in the wind. It, too, was made of rotting wood, weak and splintered even at a distance. Half of its side rails were missing. Narrower than its predecessor, every feature spoke betrayal. If we turned around we would have to cross the first bridge again. There we were, between Scylla and Charybdis, and we hadn’t even reached the ocean. Abraham let the car roll forward as slowly as possible. No one said a word, in fact we hardly breathed, much less looked down—it was best not to acknowledge the immensity of the drop. A few eternal minutes later, we reached the other side.
But once the challenge of the bridges was overcome a new source of anxiety sprang up. Farther along the highway, we passed a brown car full of policemen speeding in the other direction. Not until the car was a dot on the horizon did Abraham say he thought he’d seen a teenage girl sitting inside, between the policemen. What did she look like? She was wearing an orange T-shirt and had black hair, he said.
Had it been you in the car and, if so, what were you doing there? Were you on your way to San José del Pacífico or beyond? And were you about to spend the night with these men, or what? I said we had to turn around immediately and follow the car. But no one agreed; it was unlikely it had been you, they argued, and even if it had been, we would never be able to catch up unless we flew over the sierra. We would try Pochutla first. And if you weren’t there, Abraham promised, we could consider turning back. Yet the thought of turning around and retracing our route, bridges and all, hung over us like a very poor joke.
Upon arriving in Pochutla, a town perched halfway down the mountainside, we drove straight to see the head of the judicial police. The air had cooled during our descent and before going in I slipped on a pajama top under my shirt. The man looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His voice was feeble. So was his handshake. He told me he’d looked everywhere: cantinas, restaurants, even the prison. Your daughter’s not here, he said, and never was. His assistant poured us each a mug of coffee. Well then, there’s something I would like to know, I said, my mind still fixed on the brown car. What crimes are most frequent in your part of Oaxaca? Homicides, he said. Homicides. And who are the victims? Hard to say, you know violence in our country is so random. And after homicides what are the other leading causes of death? I asked. The surf on the coast is treacherous, he replied, people drown all the time . . . That undertow gets even the best of swimmers. The current is gentle in the morning and turns rough by the afternoon. Tourists drown every year, so do locals. I could feel my face blanching and drank down the rest of my coffee. But don’t worry, he said, I’m sure your daughter is fine. I’ll give you two more men. They will help you find her. He rang a bell and a short policeman walked in, trailed by a teenager in a Black Sabbath T-shirt. This is Juan Manuel and his assistant, Jaime. They will help you find your girl. As I shook hands with them I asked myself how these new additions could possibly bring me any closer to you.
Excuse me, but have you seen today’s paper? Jaime asked. I said no. He ran out and returned with El Sol de Oaxaca, the local tabloid. Blazed across the front page in stark capital letters was the headline NOVELIST’S DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED BY YOUNG EUROPEAN. My mind raced over the people I had seen in Oaxaca during the past few days until I remembered the reporter who approached me at the café. I’d forgotten our appointment but someone else, evidently, had filled him in. The article was brief and laconic. It said that Mr. X, the famous novelist, had flown over from Mexico City to search for his daughter. The governor was lending him a hand. As for the young man in question, he had come to Mexico as a tourist and was known to prey on Mexican girls. His origins, the reporter speculated, were either Swiss or Austrian, and he could be easily identified by his p
asty skin and jagged teeth.
Don’t worry, Luisa, Mr. Román never saw the article. He was waiting in the car. As soon as I’d resumed my place in the passenger seat he said one word: Zipolite. Zipolite? Yes. I think we should drive straight there. But what about the brown car? It wasn’t your daughter. And if it was, we will never find her by driving back over the sierra. I think he’s right, Abraham Reyes echoed, let’s try Zipolite. It’s very popular with the young. Tomás loves it more than anywhere else in Oaxaca, Mr. Román added. That’s what you said about San José del Pacífico, I replied.
And so it was that we finally arrived in Zipolite.
Even in the dark I could discern the long stretch of sand, the rocky headlands, the palm groves, the procession of bungalows and palapas, a cove at one end, towering sea cliffs at the other . . . I couldn’t explain why, but for the first time I sensed we were getting close. Juan Manuel and Jaime advised me to seek out a certain Apolonio Cervantes, owner of a restaurant called El Árbol. He’s like a German Shepherd, they said, nothing slips his attention and he keeps a file on every new presence.
Don’t worry, Apolonio said when I introduced myself, we’ll find your daughter. He grabbed a flashlight and asked the other men to remain at El Árbol, ordering his wife to bring them beer and dried shrimp.
As we began our walk down the beach Apolonio shined his flashlight into every face we passed, catching most by surprise. But none of them was yours. I was starting to feel desperate again. It was then that Abraham Reyes tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a group of young people sitting around a bonfire. I crept over and in the ocher light I inspected every face. There was a boy with a thin mustache, and a girl with a tattoo, and a boy with pointy ears. And, next to him, a girl who resembled you.
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