The Whispering Land

From somewhere under the seat she hoicked out* a handbag the size of a small cabin-trunk and proceeded to repair the damage that the night's sleep had done to her face. This was little enough, as far as I could see, for her complexion was as perfect as a magnolia petal. Satisfied at last that she was not going to let her sex down,* she put away her bag, resettled her bulk, and turned her bright, kindly eyes on me. Wedged as I was there was no escape.

"Where are you travelling to, señor?" she asked.

"Jujuy, señora," I replied.

"Ah, Jujuy?" she said, opening wide her dark eyes and raising her eyebrows, as though. Jujuy was the most interesting and desirable place in the world.

"You are German?" she asked.

"No, English."

"Ah, English?" with again the delighted surprise, as though to be English was something really special.

I felt it was time I took a more active part in the conversation. "I do not speak Spanish at all," I explained, "only a very little."

"But you speak beautifully," she said, patting my knee, and then qualified* it by adding, "and I will speak slowly so that you may understand."

I sighed and gave myself up to my fate; short of jumping out of the window* on my left there was nothing else I could do. Having decided that my knowledge of Spanish was limited she came to the conclusion that I would get a better grasp of her conversation if she shouted, so now the whole plane was party to our exchange of confidences* Her name, it appeared, was Rosa Lillipampila and she was on her way to visit her married son in Salta. She had not seen him for three years, and this was to be a terrific* reunion. This was also her first flight in a plane, and she was taking a childlike delight in it. She kept breaking off her conversation with shrill cries (which made the more nervous of the other passengers jump) in order to lean over me, enveloping me in scent and bosom, to peer at some landmark passing below. Several times I offered to change seats with her, but she would not hear of it. When the steward came round with morning coffee she fumbled for her bag to pay, and when it was explained that it was free she was so delighted that you would have thought the rather grubby paper cup full of gritty liquid was a magnum* of champagne which the benevolent air company had bestowed upon her. Presently the red lights went on to tell us that we were landing yet again at some obscure township to refuel, and I helped her struggle to get the safety belt round her enormous girth. This was a strenuous task, and her shrieks of merriment at our efforts echoed up and down the plane.

"You see," she panted, between gusts of laughter, "when one has six children and one likes to eat, one loses control over the size of one's body."

At last, just as the plane touched down, we got the belt hitched round her.

We clambered out on to the tarmac,* stiff and crumpled, and I found that my girl-friend moved with the grace and lightness of a cloud. She had obviously decided that I was to be her conquest of the trip, and so, with a courteous, old world* gesture I offered her my arm, and she accepted it with a beaming, coquettish smile. Linked together like a courting couple we made our way towards the inevitable small cafe and toilets that decorated the airport. Here she patted my arm, told me she would not be long, and drifted to the door marked "Señoras", through which she passed with difficulty.

While she was communing with nature I took the opportunity to examine a large bush which grew alongside the little cafe… It was about the size of the average hydrangea,* and yet on its branches and among its leaves (after only a cursory inspection) I found fifteen different species of insect and five species of spider. It was obvious we were nearing the tropical area. Then I spotted a very old friend of mine, a praying mantis,* perched on a leaf, swaying from side to side and glaring about with its pale, evil eyes. I detached it from its perch and was letting it stalk its way up my arm, when my girl-friend returned. On seeing the creature she let out a cry that could, with a following wind, have been heard in Buenos Aires, but, to my surprise, it was not a cry of horror, but a cry of delighted recognition.

"Ah, the Devil's horse!" she cried excitedly. "When I was a child we often used to play with them."