Hippie

19

When Karla arrived, the Brazilian was already there—enormous bags under his eyes, as though he’d spent the entire night without sleeping, or as though…She preferred not to think about the second possibility, as this would imply he was someone she could never trust again, and she’d already grown used to his presence and his scent.

“So, let’s go see a windmill, one of those Dutch icons?”

He slowly got up and began to follow her. They took a bus and eventually left Amsterdam behind them. Karla told him that it was necessary to buy a ticket—there was a machine inside the vehicle—but he preferred to ignore her warning; he’d slept poorly, was tired of everything, and needed to get his energy back. He felt his strength beginning to return.

The landscape was unchanging: immense plains, interrupted by dikes and drawbridges, where barges passed, carrying something somewhere. He couldn’t see windmills in any direction, but it was day and the sun was shining again, provoking Karla to comment on just how rare that was—it was always raining in the Netherlands.

“I wrote something yesterday,” Paulo said, taking a notebook from his pocket and reading aloud. She said neither that she liked it nor that she disliked it.

“Where is the sea?”

“The sea was here. There’s an old proverb: God created the world but the Dutch created the Netherlands. But it’s far from here—we can’t see a windmill and the sea in a single day.”

“No, I don’t want to see the sea. Or even a windmill—something that, I imagine, must captivate tourists. That’s not the kind of trip I’m on, as you must have realized by now.”

“So why didn’t you say anything back there? I’m tired of following the same old route to show my foreign friends something that doesn’t even serve its original purpose anymore. We could have stayed in the city.”

…And gone directly to the spot where they sell bus tickets, she thought. But she left that part out; she had to wait for the right moment to pounce.

“I didn’t say anything back there because…”

…The story escaped from his mouth, it was beyond his control.

Karla stood listening, relieved and apprehensive at the same time. Was his reaction not a bit extreme? Was Paulo the type that swung between euphoria and depression and vice versa?

When he was done with his story, he felt better. The girl had listened quietly without judging him. She didn’t seem to think that he had thrown five thousand dollars in the bathroom garbage. She didn’t consider him weak—and that alone made him feel stronger.

They finally made it to the windmill, where a group of tourists was gathered listening to their guide: “the oldest example can be found in [unpronounceable name], the tallest in [unpronounceable name], they were used in the grinding of corn, coffee beans, cacao, the production of oil, and helped our explorers to transform large slats of wood into ships, and as a result, we went far, the empire expanded…”

Paulo heard the sound of a bus engine turning over, he grabbed Karla by the hand and begged to go back quickly to the city in the same vehicle on which they’d arrived. Two days from then, neither he nor the tourists would remember anything about the uses for a windmill. He hadn’t come all that way to learn this sort of thing.

On the way back, during one of the stops, a woman got on, put on an armband that read TICKET COLLECTOR, and began to ask everyone for their ticket. When it was Paulo’s turn, Karla looked away.

“I don’t have one,” he responded. “I thought the bus was free.”

The ticket collector must have heard this sort of excuse a million times, because her response, which sounded rehearsed, was that Netherlands were very generous, no doubt, but only those with an exceptionally low IQ could think the country also had free transportation.

“Have you ever seen such a thing in any part of the world?”

Of course not, but he’d also never seen…Just then he felt Karla nudge him with her foot and he decided not to argue any further. He paid twenty times the value of the ticket, plus he was subjected to ugly looks from the other passengers—all of them Calvinists, honest, law-abiding folks, not one of whom had the air of someone who frequented Dam Square or its environs.

When they stepped off the bus, Paulo felt uncomfortable—was he trying to impose his presence on that girl who’d been so nice, though always determined to get what she wanted? Was it not time to say goodbye and let her carry on with her life? They barely knew one another and had already spent more than twenty-four hours together, joined at the hip, as though it were natural.

Karla must have read his mind because she invited him to go with her to the agency where she was going to buy her bus ticket to Nepal.

A bus ticket!

This was crazy beyond anything he could imagine.

The so-called agency was in fact a tiny office with a single employee, who introduced himself as Lars something or other, one of those names that was impossible to remember.

Karla asked when the next Magic Bus (that’s what it was called) was scheduled to depart.

“Tomorrow. We only have two spots left and they’re certain to be filled. If the two of you don’t go, someone along the way will stop us and ask to get on.”

Well, at least she wouldn’t have enough time to change her mind…

“And it’s not dangerous for a woman to travel alone?”

“I doubt you’ll be alone for more than twenty-four hours. You’ll have made it through all of the male passengers long before you arrive in Kathmandu. You and the other women traveling alone.”

How strange—Karla had never considered this possibility. She’d lost tons of time looking for a travel companion, a whole bunch of frightened little boys who were only prepared to explore what they already knew—for them, even Latin America must have posed a threat. They liked to pretend they were free as long as they were within safe range of their mothers’ skirts. She noticed Paulo trying to hide his agitation, and this made her happy.

“I’d like a one-way ticket. I’ll worry about the return later.”

“To Kathmandu?”

This Magic Bus made several stops to pick up or drop off passengers—Munich, Athens, Istanbul, Belgrade, Tehran, or Baghdad (depending on which route was open).

“To Kathmandu.”

“You sure you don’t want to see India?”

Paulo could see that Karla and Lars were flirting. So what? She wasn’t his girlfriend, she wasn’t anything more than a recent acquaintance, kind but keeping her distance.

“How much to Kathmandu?”

“Seventy American dollars.”

Seventy dollars to go to the other end of the world? What kind of bus was this? Paulo couldn’t believe his ears.

Karla took the money from her belt and handed it to the “travel agent.” This Lars filled out a receipt like those you get in restaurants, without any information beyond a person’s name, passport number, and final destination. He then filled a section of the receipt with stamps that in reality meant nothing but lent an air of respectability to the whole operation. He handed it to Karla along with a map of the route.

“There are no refunds in the event of closed borders, natural disasters, armed conflicts along the way, that sort of thing.”

She understood perfectly.

“When’s the next Magic Bus?” Paulo asked, emerging from his silence and his brooding.

Lars’s tone became slightly hostile. “It depends. We’re not a regular bus line, as you might have guessed.” He’d taken Paulo for an idiot.

“That I know, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“In theory, if everything’s in order with Cortez’s bus, he ought to get here in two weeks, rest for a bit, and then take off before the end of the month. But I can’t promise anything—Cortez, like our other drivers…”

The way he said “our,” it was almost as if he were referring to a large enterprise, something he’d denied being a short time before.

“…gets tired of taking the same route all the time. They own the vehicles they drive, and Cortez could decide to go to Marrakech, for example. Or Kabul. He always talks about such things.”

Karla said goodbye, but not before flashing a killer look at the Swede before her.

“If I weren’t so busy, I’d offer to drive you myself,” Lars said in response to Karla’s wordless message. “That way we could get to know each other better.”

As far as he was concerned, the girl’s male companion didn’t exist.

“There’ll be a chance yet. When I make it back, we can grab a coffee and see how things develop.”

It was at that moment that Lars, leaving behind the arrogant tone of someone who owned the world, said something no one was expecting.

“Those who go to the very end never come back—at least not for a good two or three years. That’s what the drivers tell me.”

Kidnappings? Muggings?

“No, none of that. The nickname for Kathmandu is ‘Shangri-la,’ the valley of paradise. Once you get used to the altitude, you’re going to find everything you need there. And it’s unlikely you’ll ever want to come live in a city again.”

As he handed her the ticket, he also handed her another map marked with all the stops.

“Tomorrow at eleven o’clock. Everyone here. Whoever doesn’t make it doesn’t get on.”

“But isn’t that too early?”

“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the bus.”