To the Ends of the Earth

She agreed that he might have gone back, but not for the reasons I said. “I’m staying here until I find him. But even if I find him tomorrow I’ll stay a month. I like it here. This is a real nice town. Were you here for the carnival? No? It was a trip, I can tell you that. Everyone was down here in the plaza—”

Now the band was playing Rossini, the overture to The Barber of Seville.

“—drinking, dancing. Everyone was so friendly. I met so many people. I was partying every night. That’s why I don’t mind staying here and looking for José. And, um, I met a man.”

“Local feller?”

“Mexican. He gave me good vibrations, like you’re giving me. You’re positive—get posters made, radio broadcasts—that’s what I need.”

“This new man you met—he might complicate things.”

She shook her head. “He’s good for me.”

“What if he finds out that you’re looking for José? He might get annoyed.”

“He knows all about it. We discussed it. Besides,” she added after a moment, “José is dying.”

The concert had ended. It was so late I had become ravenously hungry. I said that I was going to a restaurant, and Nicky said, “Mind if I join you?” We had red snapper and she told me about her divorces. Her first husband had been violent, her second had been a bum. It was her word.

“A real bum?”

“A real one,” she said. “He was so lazy—why, he worked for me, you know? While we were married. But he was so lazy I had to fire him.”

“When you divorced him?”

“No, long before that. I fired him, but I stayed married to him. That was about five years ago. After that, he just hung around the house. When I couldn’t take any more of it I divorced him. Then guess what? He goes to his lawyer and tries to get me to pay him maintenance money. I’m supposed to pay him!”

“What sort of business are you in?”

“I own slums,” she said. “Fifty-seven of them—I mean, fifty-seven units. I used to own 128 units. But these fifty-seven are in eighteen different locations. God, it’s a problem—people always want paint, things fixed, a new roof.”

I ceased to see her as a troubled libido languishing in Mexico. She owned property; she was here living on her slum rents. She said she didn’t pay any taxes because of her “depreciations” and that on paper she looked “real good.” She said, “God’s been good to me.”

“Are you going to sell these slums of yours?”

“Probably. I’d like to live here. I’m a real Mexico freak.”

“And you’ll make a profit when you sell them.”

“That’s what it’s all about.”

“Then why don’t you let these people live rent-free? They’re doing you a favor by keeping them in repair. God would love you for that. And you’ll still make a profit.”

She said, “That’s silly.”

The bill came.

“I’ll pay for myself,” she said.

“Save your money,” I said. “José might turn up.”

She smiled at me. “You’re kind of an interesting guy.”

I had not said a single word about myself; she did not even know my name. Perhaps this reticence was interesting? But it wasn’t reticence: she hadn’t asked.

I said, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m at the Diligencia.”

I was at the Diligencia, too. I decided not to tell her this. I said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Magic Names

WE CAME TO TIERRA BLANCA. THE DESCRIPTIVE NAME DID not describe the place. Spanish names were apt only as ironies or simplifications; they seldom fit. The argument is usually stated differently, to demonstrate how dull, how literal-minded and unimaginative the Spanish explorer or cartographer was. Seeing a dark river, the witness quickly assigned a name: Rio Negro. It is a common name throughout Latin America; yet it never matched the color of the water. And the four Rio Colorados I saw bore not the slightest hint of red. Piedra Negras was marshland, not black stones; I saw no stags at Venado Tuerto, no lizards at Lagartos. None of the Laguna Verdes was green; my one La Dorada looked leaden, and Progreso in Guatemala was backward, La Libertad in El Salvador a stronghold of repression in a country where salvation seemed in short supply. La Paz was not peaceful, nor was La Democracia democratic. This was not literalness—it was whimsy. Place names called attention to beauty, freedom, piety, or strong colors; but the places themselves, so prettily named, were something else. Was it willful inaccuracy or a lack of subtlety that made the map so glorious with fine attributes and praises? Latins found it hard to live with dull facts; the enchanting name, while not exactly making their town magical, at least took the curse off it. And there was always a chance that an evocative name might evoke something to make the plain town bearable.

Earthquakes in Guatemala