Ask for Me Tomorrow

“Harry Jenkins... You are wanted, Harry Jenkins.”

“Juanita Maria Placencia, come here, Jua — ni — ta!”

“Sandra Boyd, if you please... Sandra Boyd... Sandra Boyd.”

“Amelio Gutierrez, answer to your name.”

When Aragon’s turn came he presented his credentials to the uniformed man at the information window. After consulting with his colleagues, the man sent a runner to summon the assistant to the assistant to the warden himself.

The new arrival introduced himself as Superintendent Perdiz. “These two Americans you are asking about, I never heard of them. It would be better for you to come back later when the warden is here.”

“How much later?”

“Wednesday. He works very hard and needs long weekends to recuperate at his beach house.”

“Who’s in charge when the warden’s away?”

“The assistant warden. He’ll be back tomorrow, Tuesday. He doesn’t need such long weekends because his responsibilities are not so great.”

“He’s got a beach house, too, I suppose.”

“No. He likes to go to the mountains. The air is more invigorating. Here in Rio Seco we have bad air. Do you smell it? Phew!”

Aragon smelled it. Traffic odors, people odors, jail odors, exhaust fumes, sweat, garlic, urine, cigarette smoke, antiseptic.

“Phew,” Perdiz said again. “Don’t you think so?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand the need for long weekends out of town?”

“Of course.”

“So now we are in complete agreement. A man, even one in a lowly position like mine, needs a country house for a breath of sea or mountain air on the weekends. I’d like to buy such a place but my salary won’t allow it.”

“Would ten dollars help?”

“A little more might inspire me to go and search the files personally. What do you think my personal attention is worth?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

Perdiz accepted the bribe with solemn dignity. After all, it was part of the system, paying a mordida to influyentes, and he was an influyente. “You wait here.”

Aragon waited. He watched the soccer game some more and bought a wallet from the loser of the fistfight, a can of ginger ale and a doll made of two withered oranges with cloves marking its features and dried red chiles for arms and legs. He didn’t know why he’d bought such a ridiculous thing until he held it in his hand and studied it for a while: it looked like Pablo, round-eyed and vacant-faced, untouched, untouchable.

The shouters were still at work. At least one of them had brought results — the American couple were talking to a pale stringy-haired young woman wearing a ragged poncho that reached almost to her ankles. The man was doing most of the talking, the older woman was crying, the younger one looked bored.

Perdiz returned. Nowhere in the files was there any mention of B. J. Lockwood.

“You should have some record of him,” Aragon said. “He was arrested.”

“How do you know he was arrested?”

“I was told.”

“Who told you?”

“A priest.”

“A priest. Then it’s very likely true that he was arrested. But maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he didn’t do anything wrong, so they let him go. If we kept records on everyone who never did anything wrong, we’d have a jail full of paper. A paper jail, isn’t that a funny idea?”

“A real rib-tickler,” Aragon said. Gilly was now an unofficial contributor to a beach house or maybe a mountain cabin, but she wasn’t any closer to B. J. “What about Harry Jenkins?”

“I could find nothing concerning him either. Truthfully — you want truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“All right, truthfully. We don’t like to keep records on Americans. It’s bad for international relations. Consider which is more important, a few pieces of paper or a great war between nations.”

“I don’t think anyone would start even a very small war over Harry Jenkins.”

“One never knows. Peace today, war tomorrow.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for your trouble, Perdiz.” And may your beach house be swept away by a tidal wave and your mountain cabin buried under an avalanche.

He began pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of the main gate. When he passed the American couple he saw that both the man and the older woman were now crying, but the girl hadn’t changed expression. She was absently tying, untying and retying a couple of strands of her hair. On impulse Aragon handed her the dried orange-and-chili doll that looked like Pablo. She immediately picked out the cloves that were his eyes and popped them in her mouth. Nobody said anything.