McGee pleasant enough. Seemed to enjoy driving. Said he’d been delighted to meet Zwicker when he was up in the States in the fall: delighted. Told McGee how highly Zwicker had spoken of him; said that it was entirely due to him that Zwicker was so eager to get piece on town for supplement (true). McGee offered to help in any way he could. Asked what sort of thing I was after—hotels, restaurants, Easter celebrations? All of it, told him, though supplement particularly interested in food.
He nodded. Said, “We’ll see to it.” Said he would be more than happy to take me around to restaurants, introduce me to important local grower (could give me interesting regional recipes). Said it would mean a lot, good press coverage in the States. Said tourist revenues had fallen off catastrophically in past decade.
Stark landscape; droopy gray sky. Pines. Long, dark, sad hills. Billboards (all Span., of course) advertising herbicides, pesticides, fungicides, etc. Another: Cement Is Progress. Ant-like figure in valley, tiny beyond billboards, giant load of wood on his bent back. Just like ant with giant leaf, or some other impossible burden.
The sight was timeless, stonily beautiful—solitary peasant in the field. The man’s life curved out behind him in a pure, solid arc. Tried to imagine how it felt to have such a life—I mounted the arc, swooped up, then down along it. Atomized on contact with the man at the bottom; shards of my life flew all over the car—son, ex, house in Claremont. Dorm all those years ago in Princeton, bank where I worked for so long, new office at the supplement. Waking in my sunny Cedar Rapids bedroom, sometimes Sarah next to me. Other women I’ve been involved with, movies I’ve seen, opinions I’ve held—a burst sackful of items flying all over the car.
Glanced back at Sarah again to reincorporate myself, but her clear eyes were directed out the window, and her piratical earring gleamed—a signal! Meaning? Sarah’s earring, my son, my office—all signals, incoherent fragments, of which I ought to be the unifying principle; encoded dispatches from my own life! Too loud, too bright to decipher—the urgent, jagged flashing: a messenger shouting across a chasm. A knife lying on the counter. A ditch by the side of the road…
Monday
Was in strange state yesterday. Better now. Odd how that happens—everything completely inscrutable, intractable, portentous; then everything completely fine. Like having two abutting brains, one of them utter chaos; sickening sensation of slipping through some membrane. Perhaps triggered yesterday by psychobiological response to unfamiliar foods? Pollens?
In any case, over. Hotel first-rate, good night’s sleep. Dinner, just Sarah and I, at ex-convent (Santo Tomás, daily except Tues. Spectacular. Must write up, despite food). This morning breakfast in hotel courtyard—flowers, darting hummingbird; fruit, rolls, coffee. Impossible not to feel happy. Sarah clearly blissful. Stretching, reaching over to run her finger along my wrist. Waiter (Ricardo) utterly charmed by her. Had to smile at his expression when she ordered third portion of fruit and rolls.
How could I have doubted, yesterday, it was right to bring her? Of course it was. I think. (Joke.) Ah, so hard to sort out, me and Sarah. What can we really have with one another, ultimately? Occurs to me sometimes that, for all her wildness, restlessness, she wants something more from me than I (obviously) can give.
Have to remind myself always she’s at an odd point in life. Hard to remember the terror—a sort of swampiness, feeling of wandering around in a swamp, while some awful fait accompli is preparing to drop on top of you.
Looked up and saw her watching me—eyes elongated, sparkling. “You’re thinking, Dennis.”
“Not really,” I said. That look of hers! “I was wondering why you picked me up that night at the Three Chimneys, actually.”
“I did that?” Sarah said. “Whoops. Well, gosh, Dennis—I must have thought you’d be fun.”
A bit of pineapple lodged in my throat.
“Cheer up, Dennis,” Sarah said as I coughed. “A lot of men would be thrilled to be considered a sex object, you know.”
“Oh—now, actually, Sarah,” I said. “To be serious for a moment, I know the McGees aren’t the world’s most fascinating people, but it’s by their good offices, really, that we’re here.”
“Yup,” Sarah said, patting her stomach as she glanced at it fondly. “Your point?”
“Well,” I said, “the fact is, there are certain ways in which everyone is sensitive. For instance, everyone can tell when they’re being mocked.”
Sarah burped daintily and looked pleased with herself. “Almost everyone,” she said.
Sarah gone out for a walk. Can just see from window her tiny bright skirt disappearing around corner. processions continue. Men in purple satin (Jerusalemites, McGee says) carrying andas. Takes dozens to carry each one. Sweat streaming down their faces. Occasionally one stumbles on the cobblestones, slight panic in his eyes. Forcefully primitive representations of Adam and Eve, the world; funny little artificial flowers and flamingos, Christ with loaves, fishes. Tourists darting about with cameras.
Extraordinary activity taking place right outside window. People with immense baskets of flowers, using stencils to make a big rectangular picture with the petals, right on the street. Birds, butterflies, a basket of flowers, all made out of flower petals, appearing on the cobblestones outside. Such a poor country, such impassioned profligacy!
Town even more crowded than yesterday. Young Scandinavians, Americans, Germans, tall and vain, lounging in the square, stretching out bare, tanned legs, trading information, chatting up the Indians, selling each other drugs; Europeans on the balconies of posh vacation homes, drinking from glasses of wine or iced tea as the incense drifts up past them.
Amazing sight on the porticoes of the municipal building across from square—huge families spreading out blankets, starting up little fires in front of the Cathedral to cook corn, stockpots. Children running up and down, playing on the steps, lifting one another to drink from the disease-bearing fountain in the square. Confusing, people like these. Hard to tell who’s Indian, who’s Ladino. McGee explains many Indians want to pass (status thing, I presume—should have asked). You cut your hair, stop wearing that amazing clothing, speak Span rather than own languages (of which there turn out to be 22!!!!), and bing! Just like that, you’re Ladino.
Sarah glorious in knot of Indian children. No question they are cute—what eyes, what smiles! Those ragged, princely little outfits, runny noses…Like nesting dolls in series—each taking care of an even tinier child. They play with Sarah’s hair, combing it, fascinated, with her comb (which trust she will wash).
Hotel Flor. Daily 7:00 a.m.—9:30 p.m. After a morning of browsing through town, the Flor is a delightful stop for the weary traveler. A large sala to the rear of the hotel, with its peaceful garden well-hidden from the bustling street, is an ideal spot for a refreshing meal. A “typical plate” is available at lunch or dinner, which includes beef accompanied by guacamole, succulent fried plantains, silken black beans, and chirmol—the favored regional sauce, sparkling with lightly cooked tomatoes, green onions, and cilantro. Or, for the homesick, the menu offers baked chicken, and a satisfying array of steaks.
Others might prefer to settle into one of the generous chairs ranged along the leafy courtyard just within the high hotel walls, to linger over a snack and a frosty drink while listening to the music of a live marimba band, intermingled with the calls of the brilliant red, green, and blue parrots, permanent residents of the huge, gnarled trees in the center of the courtyard. Etc., etc. Mention rooms? Large, airy, clean; waitresses in native dress.
Tried to persuade Sarah to order chicken (always safe), though her plato típico turned out to be O.K., I think. Guacamole looked delicious, but warned Sarah off it when I saw little bits of uncooked green stuff—herbs? chives?—peeking out. Had drinks there later with McGees, though, in courtyard, and they said guac. sure to be safe in a place like the Flor. Watched them polish off two orders of chips slathered with it. Sarah had some, too. Can’t blame me if she gets sick! McGe
es have been down here so long they must have all kinds of protective antibodies.
Was glad I’d had talk with Sarah in morning about the McGees—she was charming with them over drinks. Serious, respectful, asking them how long they’ve been living down here, etc. Dot explained they still kept home in Virginia, to be near son, daughter-in-law. Had come down frequently for work during seventies and eighties, she said. Fell in love with town. Sarah managing very creditable rendition of rapt attention.
Marimba band started up jarringly. Odd sight—musicians in ceremonial (McGee said) clothing, staring straight ahead, the little mallets bouncing all over the keyboards. Played “I Love Paris.” Eerie, uninflected instrument—bit nerve-racking after a time. Band angry about something?
Sarah asked McGee what his job had been. Tactfully avoided word “retirement.” McGee said he had been in government for forty years. “Yes”—he said; looked like he was savoring the memory of a marvelous wine—“I was with the Department of Agriculture.”
Something squawked, causing Dot to heave like a wave. “Oh, look,” she said, subsiding. “Aren’t they fun?”
Loutish parrot fussing in the tree above us. Sarah got up to talk to it. “Say something, bird,” she said. “Something interesting, please.”
Her yellow hair was right next to the bird’s red plumage. Its crazy little eyes were rolling around like beads in a dish. “Be careful,” I said. “They can take your finger off just like that.”
Sarah sighed. Sat back down. Was looking incredibly pretty. Noticed that the courtyard, strangely, was rather lugubrious. All that shade! Marimbas playing “Happy Birthday” over and over—aimless, serpentine version.
Noticed Sarah goggling in the direction of hotel gate. Turned, myself, to chilling vista: line of soldiers marching past, rifles held out at the ready. It took me a long, choppy instant to understand that I was looking at young boys—they were practically children, but their boots and uniforms had transformed them into something toylike and fathomless, and their eyes were hard with rage. “Is there some kind of trouble here in town?” I said to McGee, when I could speak.
“Not at all,” McGee said. “Simply routine.”
“You know, they just don’t get the point down here,” Dot said. “‘Happy Birthday’ has a point. It must have been a request.”
McGee chuckled at Sarah, who was still wide-eyed and greenish. “Not to worry,” he said. “Just a symbolic prelude to negotiations.” Told us that the town is a national showpiece, so army stays away, for the most part. Evidently, though, have been rumors since Feb. about guerrillas in the surrounding villages. But, McGee said, no actual fighting.
Sarah and I had gotten guidebooks, of course, before leaving, and I had tried to tell her whatever I knew about the region. Not easy to remember what’s happening where, though. Who we support and why. All these countries! Veritable stew of armies, guerrilla groups, death squads, wobbly emerging democracies, etc. “A strong military, isn’t it?” I said.
Then—oh, so much. So much. How to remember? Careful—get down just as happened.
“Well, the reports of abuse tend to be sensationalized in the States,” McGee said. “Although it’s true these boys can make a mighty nuisance of themselves. Foreigners are perfectly safe, of course, but the tourists don’t like the look of it one bit,” he added, just as I overheard Dot asking Sarah if she liked to shop.
“Do I like to shop,” Sarah said musingly. “Well, now, there’s a—”
“What are you two saying over here?” I asked hurriedly.
“Girl talk,” Dot said, with a smile to Sarah of pained forgiveness. “I was asking your young friend if she liked to shop. Because, seriously, for those of us who do enjoy such things, this is the town for it. If I were you, in fact, I’d do some collecting now, while it’s still possible. Because they’re beginning to use synthetic pigments and machines. And even here in town the people don’t know what the old things are worth.”
Sarah opened her mouth, but I preempted her. “Sarah will have to budget her shopping time,” I said. “We won’t always be able to count on her company—she’s brought along a lot of reading for her thesis.”
“Thesis,” Dot said. She and McGee exchanged some minute eyebrow work as Sarah made a quick face at me. “I’m impressed.”
“Well, well,” McGee said. “What field?”
“Art history,” I said. “Sarah plans to write about Van Meegeren, the forger.”
McGee picked an insect from his drink. “A subject well worth pursuing, I’m sure,” he said.
Sarah tilted her head modestly, as though McGee had conferred a great honor. “Let me ask you, Cliff,” she said. “Is this army one of the ones we like, or one of the ones we don’t like?”
“‘We?’” McGee said. Sarah’s expression! Poor, unsuspecting McGee. “The United States? Nothing’s ever that simple, is it?”
Sarah smiled at him. “Well,” she said.
“Oh, no—” I said. “That is, do you believe it? They’re playing ‘My Funny Valentine.’”
“You have to remember, dear,” Dot said to Sarah, “the function of the army is to protect people. The army protects the people who own farms from the guerrillas. The army protects the president.”
Sarah nodded. “Except in the case of a military coup, I guess,” she said sympathetically.
“I detest ‘My Funny Valentine,’” I said.
But Dot was gurgling delightedly. “You,” she said, and shook her finger at Sarah.
“Unfortunately—” McGee frowned. “The army is necessary whether we like it or not. This place is teetering on the brink.”
Sarah was gazing at McGee with a terrifyingly detached interest.
“Tired?” I said to her. “Time for a nap?”
“Brink of what?” Sarah said.
McGee looked away impatiently. “‘Brink of what?’ she says.”
“Well, I could use a nap,” I said. “If nobody else could.”
“Listen to me, dear,” Dot said. She leaned forward and looked into Sarah’s eyes. “We may not love the army, but you should understand that everyone hates the guerrillas, now. Even the people they claim to represent. There was a time, of course, when those people put their trust in the guerrillas, but now it’s clear to everybody that the guerrillas only cause misery for innocent people.”
“Misery how?” Sarah said. “Innocent of what?”
“Sarah,” I said.
“After all,” Dot said. “There are bound to be—”
“Well, now,” McGee said. He gestured around the courtyard full of laughing foreigners. “Every place has its problems. All right, then?” He smiled at Sarah. “Enough said.”
“No, Cliff,” Dot said. “I think everybody here should understand that where people are behaving suspiciously—if there’s any reason for the army to suspect that a village or a family has been tainted—there are bound to be reprisals.”
“Naturally. Everyone understands that.” McGee turned to Sarah. “Dorothy’s only…”
“I’m just—” Dot began.
“Dot’s only saying,” McGee said, “that people here have to be more cautious about their affiliations than we at home do.”
“For God’s sake,” I said, much more loudly than I’d intended, just as the marimbas stopped, “what is all that screaming?”
Sarah and the McGees turned; stared at me from under a dome of silence while the parrot screeched and cackled hellishly on its dark branch.
El Sombrerito. Lunch and dinner, Mon.–Sat. Clean, Amer.-owned. Wide variety of steaks, roast chicken. Desserts baked on premises. Pleasant ambiance, rotating shows of local art (paintings, macramé, etc.). Mango mousse a standout—luxurious, satiny, etc.
Tuesday
La Marquesa. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Mon.–Sat. Moderately priced. Dramatic view of volcano, mountains. Courtyard, waitresses in native dress. Eggs, pancakes, steaks. Ice creams (not rec.).
Must look into Sabor de China and Gius
eppe’s.
Sarah and the hotel maid fascinated with one another, despite the fact that they can’t talk to each other at all. María a round, humorous-looking girl. Indian, I surmise (despite maid’s uniform) from the long hair, the measuring, satirical expression, the lofty, graceful, telltale walk (saw her in street yesterday carrying trays of toilet paper stacked on her head). Also, Spanish seems not much better than mine. Surely not her first language. She and I communicate with one another by shouting (procession this morning?!? Yes!?! Nice??! Good!!!).
Since Sarah speaks no Spanish whatsoever, she and María have managed with a much more dignified vocabulary of gestures and smiles. But this morning, as María was changing our bed, Sarah enlisted me as interpreter. “Come on, Dennis. Ask her something.”
“What thing?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Ask where she lives.”
“Don’t you think that’s prying?” I said.
“No.” Sarah looked at me. “Why would that be prying?”
“Well, it isn’t, really,” I said. “But, after all. She may not want to talk about her private life with strangers. Tourists. She may feel sensitive about that sort of thing. She might very well feel she was being patronized. After all, she’s not just a curiosity—she’s as real as you or I.”
Sarah made a loud snoring sound, which caused María to shake with laughter.
So, after a few garbled exchanges, I was able to tell Sarah that María lived in one of the villages outside town with her husband, her mother, and her children, about an hour’s walk away.
“An hour’s walk!” Sarah said. “That’s a big commute. Do you think she really walks?”
“¿Qué dice?” María said.
When I told her what Sarah had said, more or less, she leaned toward me, widened her eyes theatrically, and lowered her voice. “I don’t really walk!” she confessed. “I run.”
“You run?” I asked her. (Wanted to say, Why on earth, something like that, indicating amazement, but couldn’t think how. Surely not literally on earth.) “Why?” I said.
The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg Page 40