The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg (45 page)

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 de
test
‘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.

Tuesday

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.

She lowered her voice even further.
“Cafetales!”
she said, and launched into a confidential torrent of chatter.

“What’s she talking about?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“But what’s she
saying
?” Sarah said.

“I don’t
know,
” I said. “Her Spanish is peculiar. All I can tell is she’s saying something about someone
being
somewhere. In the coffee plantations she goes through to get here. I don’t
know.
”

Just then María took it into her head to ask if Sarah and I had any children. “
¿Qué?
” I said. “No.”

“No, what?” Sarah said.

“No, nothing. No, you and I don’t have any children.”

Sarah laughed. “Relax, Dennis,” she said. “Ask her how many children she has.”

But María seemed to have anticipated the question. “Tell the señora,” she was already saying, solemnly and proudly, “I have seven children. Four of them are living and three of them are dead.”

Rest of morning very nice. Sarah hauled me right back into the bed María had just made. Then the market for about an hour with the McGees, after which they dropped us off for lunch at La Mariposa, introduced us to owner. Place very agreeable, will be able to write up nicely. (Daily except Sun., 12 p.m.–10 p.m.) Gardens, fountain. Very popular with Americans, like ladies at table nearby wearing outfits made from native textiles. “Have you ever
seen
anything so beautiful,” they kept saying to one another.

Perhaps can find tactful way to suggest house wine less than ideal. Also meat. (Sarah’s baked chicken might have been nice, but somewhat raw, alas.)

Sarah began very funny imitation of the beauty-loving ladies at the table near us. Had to shush her—probably friends of the McGees. Owner cruised by to talk with us for a few minutes. Said how hard things are for restaurants now, prices increasing geometrically, value of currency plummeting, everything grown for export. Told us that price of black beans (“the traditional food of our poor”) has almost doubled in recent months. Sarah: “So, what are your poor eating now?”

Couldn’t help smiling. Owner smiled, too—with hatred. “I really wouldn’t know,” he said.

Actually, town might be most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen myself. Gets more beautiful as eye adjusts. So high, so pale, so strange. Flowers astonishing—graceful rococo shapes, sinuous, pendant, like ornamentations on the churches. Every hour of the day, in every changing tint of air, new details coming forward. The ancient stillness. All the different ancientnesses—Spain, Rome, themselves so new compared to the Indians. All converging right here in the square. Concentrated in the processions, in every dark eye.

Sarah, for all her snootiness to Dot about shopping, can’t resist stopping at every corner and every market. Our room now draped with astounding textiles, bits of Indian clothing—crammed with flowers and little orchid trees. (María shakes her head, amused, all indulgence with Sarah.)

Early this evening processions of costumed children all over the place. Sarah enthralled. Flower-petal pictures appearing everywhere—
alfombras
(carpets) McGee tells me they’re called. Put down only to be trampled within hours by the processions—celebration of the suffering of Christ.

Saw a man lifting a mesh sack of mangoes about twice his size. Bent way backward over it, slipped its strap around his forehead, then drew himself forward so that the mangoes rested on his back, as though he were a cart. Sarah stopped in her tracks and stared.

I put a comforting arm around her, tried to move her along. Think it must be particularly humiliating to be stared at if you’re doing uncongenial work. “It certainly does look awful to us,” I said. “But it must be different for people who do it every day.”

“Sure,” Sarah said. “The difference is that they do it every day.”

I held Sarah away from me and looked at her. “Sarah?” I said. “Are you angry at me?”

“No,” she said tentatively.

The group of ladies from the table near us at lunch walked by and waved as though we were all old friends. One called over to us: “How are you enjoying it? Gorgeous, aren’t they, the processions?” Shaded her eyes, flashed a toothy smile. “
Thought
-provoking!”

Sarah waved absently, then frowned and nestled against me. I stroked her hair, and the perfume of incense and flowers rose up around us. “Dennis,” she said meditatively, “don’t you like me?”