To the Ends of the Earth

But he had boarded the plane and vanished. In nine days of searching, Nicky had not been able to find a trace of him. Perhaps it was the effect of the Dashiell Hammett novel I had just read, but I found myself examining her situation with a detective’s skepticism. Nothing could have been more melodramatic, or more like a Bogart film: near midnight in Veracruz, the band playing ironical love songs, the plaza crowded with friendly whores, the woman in the white suit describing the disappearance of her Mexican husband. It is possible that this sort of movie fantasy, which is available to the solitary traveler, is one of the chief reasons for travel. She had cast herself in the role of leading lady in her search drama, and I gladly played my part. We were far from home: we could be anyone we wished. Travel offers a great occasion to the amateur actor.

And if I had not seen myself in this Bogart role, I would have commiserated with her and said what a shame it was that she could not find the man. Instead, I was detached: I wanted to know everything. I said, “Does he know you’re looking for him?”

“No, he doesn’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m back in Denver. The way we left it, he was just going to go home and see his mother. He hasn’t been home for eight years. See, that’s what’s so confusing for him. He’s been living in Mazatlán. He’s a poor fisherman—he can barely read.”

“Interesting. You live in Denver, he lives in Mazatlán.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re married to him?”

“No—what gave you that idea? We’re not married. He’s a friend.”

“It says in the paper he’s your husband.”

“I didn’t write that. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“That’s what it says. In Spanish. He’s your husband.”

I was not Bogart anymore. I was Montgomery Clift playing the psychiatrist in Suddenly Last Summer. Katharine Hepburn hands him the death certificate of Sebastian Venable; Sebastian has been eaten alive by small boys, and the mutilation is described on the certificate. It’s in Spanish, she says, believing the horrible secret is safe. Montgomery Clift replies coldly, I read Spanish.

“That’s a mistake,” said Nicky. “He’s not my husband. He’s just a beautiful human being.”

She let this sink in. The band was playing a waltz.

She said, “I met him a year ago when I was in Mazatlán. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown—my husband had left me. I didn’t know which way to turn. I started walking along the beach. José saw me and got out of his boat. He put his hand out and touched me. He was smiling …” Her voice trailed off. She began again, “He was very kind. It was what I needed. I was in a breakdown situation. He saved me.”

“What kind of boat?”

“A little boat—he’s a poor fisherman,” she said. She squinted. “He just put out his hand and touched me. Then I got to know him better. We went out to eat—to a restaurant. He had never had anything—he wasn’t married—he didn’t have a cent to his name. He had never had any good clothes, never eaten in a good restaurant, didn’t know what to do. It was all new to him. ‘You saved me,’ I said. He just smiled. I gave him money and for the next few weeks we had a wonderful time. Then he told me he had TB.”

“But he didn’t speak English, right?”

“He could say a few words.”

“You believed him when he said he had TB?”

“He wasn’t lying, if that’s what you think. I saw his doctor. The doctor told me he needed treatment. So I swore I would help him, and that’s why I went to Mazatlán a month ago. To help him. He was much thinner—he couldn’t go fishing. I was really worried. I asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted to see his mother. I gave him money and things and put him on the plane, and when I didn’t hear from him I came here myself.”

“It seems very generous of you. You could be out having a good time. Instead, you’re searching Veracruz for this lost soul.”

“It’s what God wants me to do,” she whispered. “Yes?”

“And I’ll find him, if God wants me to.”

“You’re going to stick at it, eh?”

“We Sagittarians are awful determined—real adventurous types! What sign are you?”

“Aries.”

“Ambitious.”

“That’s me.”

She said, “Actually, I think God’s testing me.”

“In what way?”

“This José business is nothing. I’ve just been through a very heavy divorce. And there’s some other things.”

“About José. If he’s illiterate, then his mother’s probably illiterate. In that case, she won’t see your ad in the paper. So why not have a poster made—a picture, some details—and you can put it up near the bus station and where his mother’s house is supposed to be.”

“I think I’ll try that.”

I gave her more suggestions: hire a private detective, broadcast messages on the radio. Then it occurred to me that José might have gone back to Mazatlán. If he had been sick or worried he would have done that, and if he had been trying to swindle her—as I suspected he had—he would certainly have done that eventually, when he ran out of money.