The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg

by Deborah Eisenberg

  The child stared back.

  Suky yawned. “Qué hay?” she said.

  “Frijoles,” the child said, already wandering off. Pleased, Rob wondered, because he could offer them beans, or because he could offer them nothing else?

  The pavilion sat on a rise overlooking the muddy road, and beyond that, the lake. In front, just next to each of the poles that supported the thatch, a soldier stood, aiming a rifle at the shabby ladinos walking below, and the soundless Indians, in their elaborate, graceful, filthy textiles. From town, the lake had seemed blue, and the air over it tonic, a pure ether in which the volcanoes and the hills presided, serene and picturesque. But on this side the air was green, heavy with a vegetal shedding, sliding, with a dull glint, like scales. The water, the volcano, the dense growth, and the crust of tin-roofed shacks that covered the hills all appeared to be discharging skeins of mist that made everything waver, as though Rob were under the lake, here, looking up.

  “A gourmet paradise it may not be,” Mick said. “But you’ve got to admit it’s beautiful.”

  Incredible. Was Mick aware of his callousness? Even if you were to succumb to some claim of the dark and protean landscape, you could hardly ignore those soldiers. Their faces were smeared with anarchic black markings, and their eyes glittered red with exhaustion or hatred, or illness.

  Of course, Rob was not unprepared for some kind of unpleasantness. The other day in town, when Mick had pointed across the lake to the village, Rob’s insides had registered a violent but incoherent response. He’d heard vague but alluring mention of the area—its unparalleled weaving and embroidery, its ancient indigenous religions. He had the impression of an iridescence. But someone had referred to guerrillas, and someone else had told him about the people, Indian peasants, who had been untouched by centuries of change but who now, during planting and harvest seasons, were taken off to labor on the eastern plantations under military guard. “It sounds really interesting,” Rob had said politely to Mick.

  “Interesting,” Mick said. “It’s sensational. Very dark, very magical.”

  Suky sighed then, Rob remembered. And he had said something about how he’d like to get there one day, and then Suky had said, “So why not come with us? We’re going Wednesday.”

  Wednesday. Rob stared at her while she rooted around the bottom of her drink with her straw. “Why not?” she said. She looked up at him and pushed her drink aside. “This is a great time to go. Some general’s up in the States, lobbying Congress for more aid, so the army’s making kind of a point these days of not killing gringo tourist college boys.” She had smiled then briefly, showing her funny little sharp, uneven teeth.

  Shame (as though Rob were on the brink of doing or thinking something unworthy) abruptly presented him with another memory: his parents, with boxes of slides, resulting from various travels, which they showed on a screen in the living room to himself and his sister, and sometimes to others in the community who were considering similar adventures. His parents were vigorous and inquiring—much more energetic, physically and intellectually, than he was. There had never been any place, as far as Rob knew, they hadn’t wanted to go. And although they had made a show of disapproval about the casualness of Rob’s plans this summer, Rob could feel their pride, their eagerness to see new places through his eyes. If only he had their stamina. Bad weather seemed only to intensify their interest in the way other people lived. And bad food, and bugs. Only two or three times, as Rob remembered, had their trips worked out badly. Their sunny temperaments seemed damaged on those occasions, when they had come home plaintive and baffled. Which trips had those been? Haiti? The Philippines? Rob was no longer sure—the slides had stayed in their boxes.

  The infant waiter reappeared, shoving three plates of rice and beans onto the table and dropping a plate of tortillas into the center so that it buzzed. “Dos más, Pablo,” said a voice from over Rob’s shoulder. Then, “Welcome, welcome.”

  The owner of the voice was probably no more than thirty, just a few years older than Mick and Suky, but his weighty graciousness insisted on a wide margin of seniority. He held one hand out to Mick, and with the other he decorously reached a chair for the sphinxlike Indian girl who accompanied him. “Y, Pablito,” he called to the child, “dos cervezas.”

  Drugs, most likely, Rob thought. Rob had seen men like this in towns en route. But usually they kept to themselves, hanging around in clumps, or with various counterparts—burly, scarred Latins, or older good-for-nothings from the U.S., ’60s casualties with greasy, faded ponytails, whose clattery frames and potbellies would have devolved from bodies as supple and powerful as this man’s.

  Rob started with dismay—his plate had been washed! A universe of disease trembled in a droplet of water on the rim. Think sick, get sick, was what Mick said, and that was probably true in some way, although the corollary—think healthy, stay healthy—seemed less of a sure thing.

  “Rob, Suky, hey—” Mick was poking Rob on the arm, pointing to the beers Pablo was setting down in front of the newcomers. “Now this is smart. See what Kimball is doing?”

  Kimball who? Who Kimball? Bad, Rob thought, not good—he had failed to control his attention. He channeled it now, with effort.

  Despite the impression he made of size, this Kimball person was not tall, Rob saw—just rather broad, and well put together. Although his features were somewhat sharp and his dark blue eyes small, there was a suggestion of largesse, or costliness, possibly, about his creamy skin and loose black curls. And Mick had certainly fallen in behind him with disgusting alacrity. Astonishing, really. Lofty Mick, dignified Mick—but sensitivity to rank, evidently, was fundamental to this aristocracy of wanderers.

  “People don’t realize how easy it is to get dehydrated,” Mick was saying showily to Rob. “Listen. The juice here is great. If you don’t want to drink beer, you should have some juice, at least.” But Kimball could obviously care less, Rob thought, who was a beer drinker and who was not; even though all the other tables were empty, he kept craning around as though he were expecting someone.

  “I’m not thirsty,” Rob said.

  Suky’s eyes were closed, though Rob thought he saw a mocking little smile flicker across her mouth. So what? He wasn’t thirsty; he could wait—he had three safe bottles of water back at the hotel, in his pack, the weight of which had given Mick occasion to marvel, satirically, as they’d climbed into the car.

  “Suky?” Mick said.

  “Beer,” she said.

  “Well, I’mna have beer, and I’mna have juice,” Mick said with infuriating cheer. “Pablo—” he called.

  Was that really the child’s name? Rob wondered. Or some demeaning generic business. And what was this Indian girl’s name? Had she even been introduced? Her expression hadn’t altered by a blink so far as Rob had observed, since she’d sat down. “Señorita,” he said, “vive usted aquí?”

  Kimball turned to contemplate Rob. “She don’t speak Spanish,” he said. He put his arm around the girl and said something into her ear in a language full of sh and z sounds. The girl laughed—a tiny, harsh glitter. “But, yeah—” Kimball turned back to gaze at Rob. “She wants you to know. She does live here.”

  The girl’s eyes passed over Rob with a smoldering chill, like dry ice. She was even more terrifying, Rob thought, than Kimball. What was it about her? If only he’d asked Meredith along. She’d had the summer free; she’d hinted. And if she were here, she’d know what was upsetting him—she always did. Sometimes, as Meredith pointed out, it was nothing more than beauty. “Rob, that’s beautiful, don’t you see?” she would say. Or: “That woman’s not weird-looking, she’s beautiful.” Then Meredith would laugh and rub her head against his, and he would see: whatever it was, was only beautiful.

  He sighed and put down his fork—he had tried to eat something, but both the rice and the beans had a scorched, compost taste. Suky glanced at his plate, at him. She took a sip of her beer, and stretched her arms high over her head. It was
appalling, the way so many girls traveling around here dressed. With grimy bits of underwear showing, or worse, like Suky, with none, Rob observed as she adjusted the strap of her sluttish camisole, to show. What did people think about their country being turned into a private beach? What could the Indian girl, for example, be thinking? When Meredith traveled (Rob knew, though they had never yet traveled together) she took particular care to dress respectfully. Especially if she were going to some Third World country, where, as she’d said to Rob, the inhabitants had little to offer one another aside from courtesy.

  Rob brought his mind to the table again, and found Mick entrenched in a boast-fest—the places he and Suky had gone hunting textiles to sell in the States, the foods they’d survived, the dangers they’d faced…Still, if he were to be honest with himself, Rob thought, he would have to admit that Mick and Suky had an effect on him even now. From the moment he’d met them, he’d contorted himself into all sorts of ridiculous postures—misrepresenting and stifling reactions, even exaggerating. And even now, when Mick was evidencing worm-like, sycophantic tendencies of his own, Rob couldn’t control a desperation for their good opinion. Pathetic, but true.

  He’d seen them as soon as he disembarked in town from the bus. There they were, at a food stand, joking with the proprietor in Spanish far too advanced for Rob. They were clearly Americans, and he was pining for the sounds of American English, but really, it was something about their appearance that had stopped him—the way they looked together; their slightly feral, miniaturized quality, fastidious and carnal at once.

  Although he’d been able to see from where he was standing the hotel recommended by his student guide book, he lingered near them, waiting to ask for their advice. When they finished their conversation, they directed him, without interest, to a hotel in the opposite direction from the one he was facing.

  Their indifference had been disorienting. His sincerity, his good nature (and his looks, he conceded uncomfortably) generally made people attentive. But these two! It was hard to tell if they were even listening. Most people made an effort to show by their faces that they understood, were interested in, what one was saying. An unwelcome indignation branched quickly through Rob as he remembered this first encounter, clearing a path through which embarrassment then shot treacherously; he’d just been tricked by his own brain into thinking something distasteful—that the facial expressions displayed by most people, by himself, were social signals, like clothing.

  The town was small, and over the next several days, Rob had seen Suky and Mick a number of times. They would nod from the sanctum of their unwashed majesty, and Rob was reminded, each time more keenly, that although they were the largest and most vivid figures in his small universe here, he was no more than a mote, for them, in a vast swarm of tourists.

  But Sunday, they’d appeared at an overcrowded restaurant where Rob was sitting, and stood for a moment in the doorway. Rob gestured, more out of civility than hope, to the empty chairs next to him, but they made their way over and sat down without surprise or thanks. And when Mick put a leaf of lettuce and a slice of tomato—both virtually leaping with microbes—right onto his hamburger, Rob, giddy with happiness, had thrown caution to the winds and followed suit. How pure the lake had looked from that side, Rob thought again. He had a perfect view of it from their table, and had noted, he remembered, the way its surface reflected with such certainty the volcano and the little hills—the hills where he sat sweating, now.

  Bali, blah blah blah—Mick was still going on; hill tribes, Panama, opium, blah blah—Rob had heard this all not three days before. Though no question Mick was a better performer for a worthier audience.

  Worthier, but possibly less impressionable. Kimball merely rubbed his chin, frowning distantly. Only at one moment did his expression change. One of the soldiers had turned slightly; he seemed to be glancing up at Kimball. Did Kimball nod? It seemed to Rob he’d lowered his eyes a fraction of a second. Had something happened? No, there was only a young Indian walking quietly along the road below. Suky was squirming restlessly, her peculiar yellow eyes fixed on the lake, as she twisted a strand of her springy hair. Jealous, probably, Rob thought, for Mick’s attention, and he was taken unawares by a harsh little clout of sympathy.

  “We’ve come across a couple of times now,” Mick was saying. “But we haven’t had a whole lot of luck. Hard to find quality these days. Old stuff’s in shit condition, new stuff’s just plain shit…”

  Kimball rested his fingertips together, indicating the Indian girl with a movement of his head, and Rob became fully aware of the fine, even stripe running through her clothing, the softness of the fabric, the yoke of her blouse, where flowers and jungle animals—jaguars, monkeys, snakes—bloomed and sported in a heavy embroidered wreath.

  “I was noticing,” Mick said.

  “Made it herself,” Kimball said.

  Mick eyed the blouse sideways, then reached out and rubbed an edge of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Family does great work,” Kimball said.

  “Great piece,” Mick said. “Yeah.” He stared at the girl smokily.

  Kimball leaned over to the girl and they spoke in low voices, as if, Rob thought, anyone else could possibly understand the preposterously arcane language they were speaking. “Listen,” Kimball said. He pushed his empty plate aside. “She says when are you leaving? Because this is it—we could go check out her family’s stuff, and then she and I could catch a ride with you back into town.”

  “Ideal,” Mick said.

  “Except we’re sort of tight,” Suky said.

  “We can fit them,” Mick objected. “No problem.” He glanced at Rob.

  “Sure,” Rob said. “Of course.”

  “We’ve got a lot of luggage,” Suky said, looking at Rob evenly. “Why don’t you take the mail boat?” she said to Kimball. “It would probably be a lot more comfortable.”

  Rob felt himself flush. However comical Suky and Mick had found his pack, it would hardly prevent Kimball and the girl from sitting in the back seat with him.

  Kimball was emitting a fog of absentmindedness. “Problem is,” he said, “we got a business appointment—we got to get all the way to the capital by morning.”

  “See, so we couldn’t help you out in that case,” Suky said. “We’re not going back to town until tomorrow.”

  “Huh,” Kimball said. He reached over to the Indian girl’s plate and wrapped a spoonful of her beans in one of the sour, hay-flavored tortillas. “Well, no sense our taking the boat anyhow,” he said. “We’d get to town too late to go straight on. So we might as well spend one more night here, then squeeze in with you tomorrow.”

  “What about your appointment?” Suky said.

  Kimball scooped up the remainder of the girl’s meal. “Appointment’ll just have to wait one day, because we’re sure as shit not going to do the road from town to the capital after dark.”

  “After dark!” Mick said. “Hey, guess who we saw this morning. On this road. In broad daylight.”

  Kimball put his beer bottle down on the table and looked at Mick. “Who?” he said.

  “The muchachos,” Mick announced.

  “You know this?” Kimball said, and only then did Mick appear to notice his unwavering stare.

  “What he means,” Mick said, turning to Rob as though it were Rob who’d committed some kind of faux pas, “is that around here you’re never sure. Army dresses up like the guerrillas, guerrillas dress up like the army…”

  Kimball was looking from one of them to another. “They didn’t stop you?” he said.

  “They were gone,” Mick said. “They were there, and then they were gone, vanished.”

  Really, Rob thought, there really couldn’t be any question of who it had been, standing mere yards from them this morning. Oh, anyone could put kerchiefs over their faces, but who could learn to become invisible? Only people who had lived in the mountains. Only people who had been hunted in the mountains lik
e animals. “See, look at Rob,” Mick said. “He still looks like he saw a ghost.”

  Rob turned to Kimball, disregarding Mick’s witticism. “Are they stopping people? You know, I heard they were, some places. I met a kid in San Cristobal who told me they stopped him, I don’t know if it was here, really, and took his last fifty dollars. He said it was the worst experience he ever had. Not the money, obviously, but when he felt the gun, sort of rubbing against his hair, he said it was like a switch on his head, and everything lit up with this strange, glowy light and became completely lucid, like one of those little glass things.” Rob remembered the kid’s voice, his white, wondering face. “He said his life had always been all dark and confused, but right then he could see how it all fit together, and his whole life made perfect sense. And the sense it made—the sense it made—was that it was completely, totally pointless.”

  The others looked at him. Then Suky smiled and slid a cigarette out of her pack.

  “Of course,” Rob said, “he was glad it wasn’t the army.”

  “Excuse me, dear,” Kimball said to Suky. “You got extra?”

  She inhaled luxuriantly, then handed Kimball her cigarette. “By the way,” she said to him. “How did you happen to know we came by car?”

  Kimball gazed at her in sorrow. “How else could you have gotten here before the mail boat came in?” he asked reasonably. “Besides,” he added. “I saw you drive up.”

  “Hey, lookit,” Mick said. “No soldiers.” And in fact they had disappeared from in front of the restaurant.

  Kimball squinted down at the lake. “Yup, and the mail boat’s coming in,” he said. He glanced at his watch—an incongruously expensive one, Rob saw. “On the dot, give or take.”

  “Fabulous,” Suky said. “Hours of Pantsuits before we’ve got the place to ourselves again.”

  Kimball twisted around in his chair to look full at her. “You know what?” he mused. “You kids are nice kids. You got a sense of propriety, and that’s something that appeals to me. So what I’m saying is, if you’ve got to stay over tonight, I want you to do me this favor. I want you to take care of yourselves, and stay inside.”