The Old Patagonian Express: By Train Through the Americas

4 EL JAROCHO TO VERACRUZ

Before I boarded the 'Jarocho' — the word means 'a boor; a rude person'; it is what the Veracruzians call themselves — I went to the restaurant in Buenavista Station and bought a box lunch. There wasn't time for me to eat before I left Mexico City, and there was no dining car on the Jarocho. But, even so, the box lunch was an error of judgement. I made a point not to repeat this mistake. The box was gaily decorated, and inside was one of those parody meals that are assembled by people who have a profound dedication of completeness and a total disregard for taste. Two ham sandwiches on stale bread, a semi-liquid egg, an unpeelable orange and a piece of mouldy cake. I made an incision in the orange with my Nuevo Laredo switchblade and used the juice to blunt my tequila. The rest I threw out of the window as soon as we left the station. I suppose that disgusting lunch was one of the penalties of my refusing to stay in Mexico City for longer than an hour. But I was no sightseer; I was glad to be on this sleeper to the coast. Travelling hungry was no fun, but tequila was a great appetite-killer. It also guaranteed solid slumber and lively dreams of fulfilment — its effect on me was more the wild-eyed numbness of a narcotic drug than the giddyness of alcohol — and when I awoke I would be in the middle of Veracruz.

With my feet up and my compartment filled with pipe smoke on that night express to Veracruz, leaving this foggy altitude for the humid heat and palm trees of the coast with two inches of orange-scented tequila in my glass, I felt supremely happy. The whistle shrieked, the sleeping car tipped on a bend and the curtains parted: darkness and a few glaring lights and a faint hint of danger which intensified the romance. I shot my switchblade open and carved a slice from the orange for my drink. I was on a secret mission (now the tequila was starting to take effect), travelling incognito as a simple English teacher to carry out a tricky piece of Mexican reconnaissance. This shiv in my hand was a lethal weapon and I was drunk enough to believe that if anyone was foolish enough to jump me I'd have his guts for garters. The train, the atmosphere, my destination, my mood: it was all fantasy — ridiculous and pleasurable. And when I finished my drink I slipped the knife into the pocket of my black leather jacket and crept into the corridor to sneak a look at the other passengers.

There was a figure lurking near my door: a moustached man with a suspicious-looking box.

He said: 'Want a chocolate cookie?'

And the spell was broken.

'No thanks.'

'Go ahead. I've got plenty.'

To be polite I took one of his chocolate cookies. He was tall and friendly and said his name was Pepe. He was from Veracruz. He said he could tell that I was an American, but quickly added that it was not a reflection on my Spanish but rather the way I looked. It was too bad I was only going to Veracruz now, he said, because the carnival had just ended. I had missed a very wonderful thing. Bands — very loud bands! Dancing — in the streets! Parades — very long ones! Music — drums, horns, marimbas! Costumes — people dressed as princes and clowns and conquistadors! Also church services and eating of wonderful food, and drinking of fantastic tequila, and friendship of all kinds.

His description removed any sense of regret I might have had about missing the Veracruz carnival. I was relieved that I would not have to endure the vulgar spectacle, which I was sure would have depressed and annoyed me, or in any case kept me awake.

But I said, 'What a shame I missed it.'

'You can come back next year.'

'Of course.'

'Want another chocolate cookie?'

'No thanks. I haven't eaten this one yet.' I wanted him to go away. I waited a moment, yawned and said, 'I am very married.'

He looked oddly at me.

'Very married? Interesting.' But the look of puzzlement did not leave his face.

'Aren't you married?'

'I am only eighteen.'

This confused me. I said, 'Married — isn't that what you are when you want to go to bed?'

'You mean tired.'

'That's it.' The Spanish words sounded similar to me: casado, cansado; married, tired.

Yet this double-talk did the trick. He obviously thought I was insane. He said good-night, put his box of cookies under his arm and took himself away. I saw no other people in the sleeping car.

'The journey from Veracruz [to Mexico City] is to my mind the finest in the world from the point of view of spectacular effect,' writes the diabolist Aleister Crowley in his Confessions. Go to Veracruz during the day, people told me. See the cane fields and the Orizaba volcano; see the peasants and the gardens. But Latin America is full of volcanoes and cane-fields and peasants; at times, it seems as if there is little else to see. It struck me as a better idea to arrive in Veracruz at dawn; the Jarocho Express was a comfortable train and I had heard that my next connection, to Tapachula and the Guatemala border, was in a sorry state. I would have an extra day in Veracruz to prepare for that. And I would be prepared. The Jarocho Express was one of those trains — rarer now than they used to be — which you board feeling exhausted and disembark from feeling like a million dollars. I happened to be drunk in this Mexico City suburb; but the train was moving slowly: I would be sober in the morning in Veracruz.

The compartment was hot and steamy when I awoke; the window was fogged, and when I rubbed it I saw that dawn here was a foamy yellow light and the thin drizzle on the sodden green of a marsh. The clouds were mud-coloured and low and ragged, like dead hanks of Spanish moss. We were approaching the Gulf Coast; there were tall palms on the horizon, silly umbrellas in the rain.

The silence was perfect. Not even the train made a sound. But it was my ears — they hurt badly, and the feeling was that of having landed in a poorly pressurized plane. We had been at a very high altitude and, asleep, I had not been able to compensate by swallowing. Now at sea-level my eardrums, deaf to any chirp this morning, burned with pain.

Anxious to be away from the dirty window and the stuffy compartment, and believing that some deep breathing would be good for my ears, I went to the rear of the sleeping car. The vestibule window was open. I swallowed air and watched the slums go by. My ears cleared: now I could hear the drumroll of the train.

'Look at those people,' said the conductor.

There were shacks by the line, and wet chickens and sombre children. I wondered what the conductor would say next.

'They have the right idea. Look at them — that's the life!'

'What life?' All I saw were shacks and chickens and men whose hat brims were streaming with rain.

'Very tranquil,' he said, nodding in condescension towards the hovels. Truly patronizing people usually adopt a very sage tone when considering their victims. This Mexican squinted wisely and said, 'Very tranquil. Not like Mexico City. It is too rapid there — everyone going this way and that way. They do not know what life is all about. But look how peaceful this is.'

I said, 'How would you like to live in that house?'

It was not a house. It was a shack of cardboard and rusty tin. Holes had been punched in the tin to make windows, and broken bricks held bits of plastic over the leaky roof. A dog sniffed at some garbage near the door, where a fat haggard woman in a torn red sweater watched us pass. We had a glimpse of even greater horror inside.

'Ah!' the conductor said, and looked crushed.

I was not supposed to have asked him that. He had expected me to agree with him — yes, how tranquil! This tiny shack — how idyllic! Most Mexican friendliness seemed to depend on to what extent you agreed with what they said. Disagreement, or simple argument, was taken as a sign of aggression. Was it insecurity, I wondered, or that same mistrust of subtlety that made every painting into a four-acre fresco and every comic book into a violent woman-hating pamphlet. My Spanish was not bad, but I found it hard to hold a conversation with any Mexican that was not pure joshing or else something completely straightforward. One hot afternoon I hailed a taxi just outside of Veracruz, but before I gave him my destination, the driver said, 'Want a whore?'

'I'm tired,' I said. 'I'm also married.'

'I understand,' said the driver.

'Besides, I'll bet they're not pretty.'

'No,' he said, 'not pretty at all. But they're young. That's something.'

I had arrived in Veracruz at seven in the morning, found a hotel in the pretty Plaza Constitución and gone for a walk. I had absolutely nothing to do: I did not know a soul in Veracruz, and the train to the Guatemalan border was not leaving for two days. Still, this did not seem a bad place. There are few tourist attractions in Veracruz; there is an old fort and, about two miles south, a beach. The guidebooks are circumspect about describing this fairly ugly city: one calls it 'exuberant', another 'picturesque'. It is a faded seaport, with slums and tacky modernity crowding the quaintly ruined buildings at its heart. Unlike any other Mexican city, it has pavement cafés, where forlorn children beg and marimba players complete the damage to your eardrums that was started on the descent from the heights of Orizaba. Mexicans treat stray children the way other people treat stray cats (Mexicans treat stray cats like vermin), taking them on their laps and buying them ice cream, all the while shouting to be heard over the noise of the marimbas.

Finding nothing in my plaza to divert me, I walked a mile to the Castle of San Juan de Ulua. Formerly an island — Cortes landed here during Holy Week in 1519 — the harbour has silted up so thoroughly it is now part of the mainland, with a connecting road and the greasy factories, the hovels and graffiti that Mexico appears to require of its urban areas. The Castle contains a permanent exhibit of Veracruz's past, a pictorial record of invasions, punitive missions and local military defeats. It was that most Mexican of enthusiasms — humiliation as history. If the engravings and old photographs showed how cynical and aggressive other countries — but mainly the United States — had been towards Mexico, the prominence of the exhibit in Veracruz invited the Mexican to a morning of wound-licking and self-contempt. Veracruz is known as 'the heroic city'. It is a poignant description: in Mexico a hero is nearly always a corpse.

It had been raining in an inconsequential way all morning, but before I left the castle the clouds lifted and whitened and broke into separate cauliflowers. I found a sunny rampart of the fort and read the paper. The news of the Boston blizzard was still very bad, though here in sight of glittering water and listing palm trees — a fresh sea breeze carrying gulls' cries to me — I found it hard to conjure up a vision of a winter-darkened city or cars buried by snow or the physical pain of the bitter cold. Pain is the hardest feeling to remember: the memory is merciful. Another headline read, BAD END TO THE CARNIVAL and under it Ten Sex Maniacs Captured, and under that, But Another 22 On The Loose. The story was that a gang of 32 sex maniacs had spent Shrove-tide dragging women ('mothers and their daughters') into bushes and raping them. 'Many women were attacked by the crazies in their hotel rooms.' The gang called themselves 'The Tubes'. The significance of this name escaped me — I wondered whether it had some arch sexual resonance. The ten who had been captured appeared in a colour photograph. They were fairly ordinary-looking youths, sheepishly hunched in baggy sweatshirts and blue-jeans, and might well have been the losing side in a fraternity tug-of-war — a suggestion that was as strong in their glum, smirking faces as in their sweatshirts, which were printed with the names of American colleges, University of Iowa, Texas State, Amherst College. They were called 'maniacs' in a dozen places on the page, though none had been convicted. Their full names were given, and after each name — it is customary in Mexican crime reporting — an alias: 'The Chinaman', 'The King', 'The Warbler', 'The Pole', 'The Brave One', 'The Horse', 'The Lion', 'The Magician', and so forth. Stylishness was important to the Mexican male, but a Tube called the Warbler, wearing a college sweatshirt to rape women on a solemn Christian holiday in Veracruz, seemed to me a curious mixture of styles.

Later that day I saw something equally bizarre. I passed a church where there were eight new pick-up trucks being blessed by a priest, with a bucket of holy water, who was attended by four acolytes with candles and crosses. In itself, this was not strange — houses are blessed in Boston, and every year the fishing-fleet is blessed in Gloucester. But what I found odd was that after the priest sprinkled holy water on the doors, the wheels, the rear flap and the hood, the owner unfastened the hood and the priest ducked under it to douse the engine with holy water, as if the Almighty was incapable of penetrating the bodywork of the vehicle. Perhaps they regarded God as just another unreliable foreigner, and extended their mistrust to Him, as they did to all other gringos. Certainly Jesus was a gringo: the proof was on every pious postcard.

To flatter myself that I had something important to do in Veracruz I made a list of provisions that I intended to buy for my trip to Guatemala. Then I remembered I had no ticket. I went immediately to the railway station.

'I cannot sell you a ticket today,' said the man at the window.

'When can I buy one?'

'When are you leaving?'

'Thursday.'

'Fine. I can sell you one Thursday.'

'Why can't I buy one today?'

'It is not done.'

'What if there are no seats on Thursday?'

He laughed. 'On that train there are always seats.'

That was the day I met the taxi driver who said he had a whore for me who was 'not pretty at all'. I said I was not interested, but what else was there to do in Veracruz? He said I should go to the Castle. I said I had been to the Castle. Go for a walk around the city, he said: lovely churches, good restaurants, bars full of prostitutes. I shook my head. 'Too bad you were not here a few days ago,' he said. 'The carnival was fantastic.'

'Maybe I'll go swimming,' I said.

'Good idea,' he said. 'We have the best beach in the world.'

It is called Mocambo; I paid it a visit the next morning. The beach itself was clean and uncluttered, the water chromatic with oil-slick. There were about fifty people on the mile of sand, but no one was swimming. This was a caution to me. The beach was flanked by a row of identical restaurants. I had fish soup and was joined by a man whom I took to be a friendly soul until he said that for two dollars he would snap my picture.

I said,'I'll give you fifty cents.'

He took my picture.

He said, 'You like Veracruz food?'

'This soup has a fish-head in it.'

'We always eat fish-heads.'

'I haven't eaten a fish-head since I was in Africa.'

He frowned, insulted by the comparison, and went to another table.

I rented a beach chair and watched children throwing sand and wished that I was on my way south. It was a fraudulent pleasure, idling on this empty beach. I hated to think that I was killing time, but like the De Vries character I had always admired, I was doing it in self-defence. A bus drew up to the beach and forty people got out. Their faces had a strong Indian cast. The men wore the clothes of farm workers, the women long skirts and shawls. They became two groups: men and boys, women and infants; and they gathered in the shade of two trees. The men stood, the women sat. They watched the surf and whispered. They kept their clothes on, they did not remove their boots. They were unused to the beach and seemed very shy — they had probably come a great distance for this outing. They posed in embarrassment for the photographer, and hours later when I left they were still there, the men standing, the women sitting, staring at the oily waves with curiosity. If they were average rural Mexicans (and they seemed so), they were illiterate, lived in one-room huts, rarely ate meat or eggs, and earned less than $15 a week.

Before the shops closed that afternoon I did my provision-hunting. I bought a basket and filled it with small loaves of bread, a pound of cheese, some sliced ham, and — because a train without a dining car is usually a train on which drinks are unobtainable — bottles of beer, grapefruit juice and soda water. It was like stocking a hamper for a two-day picnic, and it was a sensible precaution. Mexican train travellers do not carry their own food; they urge you to do as they do — buy the local delicacies that are sold by women and children at every railway station. But local delicacies are always carried in a tin wash basin on the seller's head, and because it is out of the seller's sight it is impossible for the hawker yelling, 'Tasty chicken!', to see the flies that have collected on it. Typically, the Mexican food seller is a woman on a railway platform with a basin of flies on her head.

I had planned to get to bed early in order to be up at dawn to buy my ticket to Tapachula. It was when I switched the light off that I heard the music; darkness gave the sounds clarity, and it was too vibrant to be coming from a radio. It was a strong, full-throated brass band:

Land of Hope and Glory,

Mother of the Free,

How shall we extol thee,

who are born of thee?

'Pomp and Circumstance'? In Veracruz? At eleven o'clock at night?

Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;

God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

I dressed and went downstairs.

In the center of the Plaza, near the four fountains, was the Mexican Navy Band, in white uniforms, giving Elgar the full treatment. Lights twinkled in the boughs of the laburnum trees, and there were floodlights, too — pink ones — playing on the balconies and the palms. A sizable crowd had gathered to listen — children played near the fountain, people walked their dogs, lovers held hands. The night was cool and balmy, the crowd good-humoured and attentive. I think it was one of the prettiest sights I have ever seen; the Mexicans had the handsome thoughtful look, the serenity that comes of listening closely to lovely music. It was late, a soft wind moved through the trees, and the tropical harshness that had seemed to me constant in Veracruz was gone; these were gentle people, this was an attractive place.

The song ended. There was clapping. The band began playing 'The Washington Post March', and I strolled around the perimeter of the plaza. There was a slight hazard in this. Because the carnival had just ended, Veracruz was full of idle prostitutes, and as I strolled I realized that most of them had come here to the plaza to listen to the band — in fact, the greater part of the audience was composed of dark-eyed girls in slit skirts and low-cut dresses who, as I passed them, called out, 'Let's go to my house', or fell into step with me and murmured, 'Fuck?' This struck me as comic and rather pleasant — the military dignity of the march music, the pink light on the lush trees and balconies of the plaza, and the whispered invitations of those willing girls.

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 blonde 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 moustache 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 make-up, eye shadow, and thick Mexican jewellery 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' 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 moustache.'

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 Mazatlan. 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 over-bright 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, moustached 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 Mazatlan. It is believed that he is now in Veracruz. Anyone who recognizes him from this picture should immediately contact — There followed detailed instructions forgetting 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 Mazatlan 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 towards 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.'

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 scepticism. 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 traveller, 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 so confusing for him. He's been living in Mazatlan. He's a poor fisherman — he can barely read.'

'Interesting. You live in Denver, he lives in Mazatlan.'

'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 any more. 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 Mazatlan. 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. He couldn't understand why I was giving so much 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 Mazatlan 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 e. 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 Mazatlan. 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.

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 1 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 a hundred and twenty-eight 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 favour 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.'

The next day I rose early and hurried to the station to buy my ticket for Tapachula. It was a simple operation, and there was still time to return to the hotel for breakfast. As I was eating I saw Nicky pass through the lobby. She bought a newspaper. She looked around. I hid behind a pillar. When the coast was clear I made my way to the station. The sun was above the plaza. It was going to be a very hot day.