To the Ends of the Earth

Now the band was playing Weber. I decided to sit on a bench and give it my full attention; I took an empty seat next to a couple who appeared to be chatting. They were both speaking at once. The woman was blond and was telling the man in English to go away; the man was offering her a drink and a good time in Spanish. She was insistent, he was conciliatory—he was also much younger than she. I listened with great interest, stroked my mustache, and hoped I was not noticed. The woman was saying, “My husband—understand?—my husband’s meeting me here in five minutes.”

In Spanish the man said, “I know a beautiful place. It is right near here.”

The woman turned to me. “Do you speak English?”

I said I did.

“How do you tell these people to go away?”

I turned to the man. Now, facing him, I could see that he was no more than twenty-five. “The lady wants you to go away.”

He shrugged, and then he leered at me. He did not speak, but his expression said, “You win.” And he went. Two girls hurried after him.

The lady said, “I had to hit one over the head this morning with my umbrella. He wouldn’t go away.”

She was in her late forties, and was attractive in a brittle, meretricious way—she wore heavy makeup, eye shadow, and thick Mexican jewelry of silver and turquoise. Her hair was platinum, with hues of pink and green—perhaps it was the plaza light. Her suit was white, her handbag was white, her shoes were white. One could hardly blame the Mexican for making an attempt on her, since she bore such a close resemblance to the stereotype of the American woman who occurs so frequently in Tennessee Williams’s plays and Mexican photo-comics—the vacationer with a tormented libido and a drinking problem and a symbolic name who comes to Mexico in search of a lover.

Her name was Nicky. She had been in Veracruz for nine days, and when I expressed surprise at this she said, “I may be here a month or—who knows?—maybe for a lot longer.”

“You must like it here,” I said.

“I do.” She peered at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Growing a mustache.”

She did not laugh. She said, “I’m looking for a friend.”

I almost stood up and walked away. It was the way she said it.

“He’s very sick. He needs help.” Her voice hinted at desperation, her face was fixed. “Only I can’t find him. I put him on the plane at Mazatlán. I gave him money, some new clothes, a ticket. He’d never been on a plane before. I don’t know where he is. Do you read the papers?”

“All the time.”

“Have you seen this?”

She showed me the local newspaper. It was folded so that a wide column showed, and under PERSONAL NOTICES there was a black-framed box with the headline in Spanish URGENT TO LOCATE. There was a snapshot with a caption. The snapshot was one of those overbright pictures that are taken of startled people in nightclubs by pestering men who say, “Peecha, peecha?” In this picture, Nicky in huge sunglasses and an evening gown—radiantly tanned and fuller faced—sat at a table (flowers, wineglasses) with a thin, mustached man. He looked a bit scared and a bit sly, and yet his arm around her suggested bravado.

I read the message: SEÑORA NICKY—WISHES URGENTLY TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HER HUSBAND SEÑOR JOSÉ—, WHO HAS BEEN LIVING IN MAZATLÁN. IT IS BELIEVED THAT HE IS NOW IN VERACRUZ. ANYONE WHO RECOGNIZES HIM FROM THIS PICTURE SHOULD IMMEDIATELY CONTACT—. There followed detailed instructions for getting in touch with Nicky, and three telephone numbers.

I said, “Has anyone called you up?”

“No,” she said, and put the newspaper back into her handbag. “Today was the first day it appeared. I’m going to run it all week.”

“It must be pretty expensive.”

“I’ve got enough money,” she said. “He’s very sick. He’s dying of TB. He said he wanted to see his mother. I put him on the plane in Mazatlán and stayed there for a few days—I had given him the number of my hotel. But when he didn’t call me I got worried, so I came here. His mother’s here—this is where he was headed. But I can’t find him.”

“Why not try his mother?”

“I can’t find her either. See, he didn’t know her address. He only knew that it was right near the bus station. He drew me a picture of the house. Well, I found something that looks like the house, but no one knew him there. He was going to get off the plane at Mexico City and take a bus from there—that way he’d be able to find his mother’s house. It’s kind of complicated.”

And kind of fishy, too, I thought, but instead of speaking I made a sympathetic noise.

“But it’s serious. He’s sick. He only weighs about a hundred pounds now, probably less. There’s a hospital in Jalapa. They could help him. I’d pay.” She looked toward the bandstand. The band was playing a medley of songs from My Fair Lady. Nicky said, “Actually, today I went to the office of death records to see if he had died. He hasn’t died at least.”

“In Veracruz.”

“What do you mean?”

“He might have died in Mexico City.”

“He doesn’t know anyone in Mexico City. He wouldn’t have stayed there. He would have come straight here.”