by Jeff Soloway
The city of El Alto holds about one million souls, most of whom can’t afford to live in the shelter of the valley, hundreds of meters below, and so must make their homes on the altiplano, where the air is colder and less nourishing and the winds and storms sweep unimpeded across the flats. They build with bricks of mud dug out of their yards or from the mounds heaped beside the roadway, mixed with straw from the flourishing local weeds. It’s everyone’s ambition to afford real bricks, which, unlike those of adobe, don’t need to be painstakingly repaired every year, but even the most fortunate of social climbers are not so profligate as to pull down their perfectly good mud houses when they come into a bit of money. The adobe houses of the upwardly mobile often bear a second floor—or a terrace, or a section of fence—made out of real red brick, flaming beside the dull brown of the rest of the structure.
The road was paved but scabbed and pocked. We turned onto a dirt lane and passed more mud houses, their front yards overrun by grids of newly dug bricks drying in the sun. The driver honked to scatter a pack of dogs in the middle of the road. A brick cutter leaned on his straight-edged hoe to stare as we passed. Pigs rooted in the reeds; chickens tossed their beaks like darts at the ground; women crouched inside their petticoats arranging potatoes.
Then a long stretch of nothing: flat brown scrubland stretching to the distant mountains, no people, animals, or huts, no life at all but the yellowing weeds. I didn’t dare look ahead through the windshield. Was there a depression, a canyon, waiting up ahead to receive us? Would we be handed shovels and ordered to dig our own graves?
We slowed, and stopped. The driver opened our door. Before us was a building made of cinder blocks. A school? A warehouse? It was roofless and unpainted, either unfinished or abandoned. Kenny and I followed the Bolivians inside. I wiped my forehead. The sun, closer here than in La Paz, seemed to burn hotter on my skin.
We were inside a lidless gray box. Light bombarded us from above. Three stools stood before a plastic table. Behind the table sat a man with a barnacle nose, flat and wide.
“Sit,” he said in Spanish.
I selected the stool in the middle.
“You cannot sit there,” the man said. “Who are you to enter my home and sit where you wish? Sit there.”
I scooted to the stool to my right. Arturo sat in the middle seat and patted the seat to the left for Kenny, who was still standing and staring up at the un-ceiling. There was nothing else to stare at except people and the cracks in the concrete floor. The driver stood beside the entranceway, leaning against the wall like a heavy oak door ready for installation.
“Who are you, sir?” I asked the man, as I glanced at Kenny, hoping he’d have sense enough to take in his surroundings and sit down.
“I will not be interrogated in my own home!” said the man.
Kenny redirected his gawk. Like a baby, he understood only tone of voice, and was fascinated by strong emotion.
“Pardon me for bothering you,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m here. These two persons—”
“ ‘Pardon me for bothering you.’ What arrogance! Do you have any idea who I am? I am the first officer of Conscience of Patria and chief executive assistant of the mayor of the city of El Alto, the Mallku of our party. Condepa is extremely concerned at your presence in my city. What is he staring at?”
“This is his first time out of the United States. Forgive him.”
“It is only by the grace of Condepa that he is here now. He should behave himself like an adult.”
“Stop staring, Kenny,” I said. “And sit down.”
“I’m trying to understand what he’s saying. I think I’ve almost got it.”
The man pierced the air with his finger.
“I should have you arrested,” he said. “I have police powers. You have broken the law. This is my city!”
My mind cowered before the multitude of everything I could possibly be guilty of.
“I don’t know what I do,” I said, my Spanish failing. “I mean did. Nothing. I am here to write an article—”
“You have been spreading lies about Hilary Pearson. You are doubtless in the pay of a rival political party.”
“Oh no. Absolutely not. I am writing an article about—”
“How your lies weary me!”
He put his hands to his head and rocked back and forth in his chair until I was sure it was about to collapse beneath him.
“Dionisius,” he called.
Steps from behind, brushing over the concrete floor. The big man was approaching.
“I am a journalist and citizen of the United States of America,” I said. “My friends at the embassy of the United States know that I am here.”
“No they don’t,” said Arturo.
“Yes they do.”
“No. We picked you up on the street. It would be impossible,” he explained to his boss.
“In the car, he”—I jerked my thumb at Kenny—“called the embassy with his mobile phone. You didn’t understand because he speaks in English. Spoke in English.”
“Neoliberal liar!” said Arturo.
“My head is hurting much worse now,” said his boss. “Do you know why? Because you are lying, which agitates the blood vessels in my brain, causing them to expand painfully against the cranium. This condition has been well documented by experts in the science of medicine. For whom are you writing this deplorable article? Does the CIA now publish in Time magazine?”
Arturo laughed in sycophantic appreciation. His boss glared him into silence.
A heavy hand fell on my shoulder.
I cleared my throat and turned my head to look at Kenny. His sweating face was lit up like a Japanese lantern. I hoped he looked worse than I did. I looked down. Around us the gray floor was unstained with blood, so far. The dull heat of Dionisius’s hand seeped through my shirt.
A voice rumbled from far above.
“For whom are you writing?” asked Dionisius.
I wished I could assure these men that I didn’t mind at all that they had murdered Hilary, that I just wanted to sign my name to some PR drivel and leave the country forever. Maybe Pilar would have to follow me to save herself. Could I write my article on Hilary’s disappearance when I was back in the United States, safe? Would I ever be safe again?
“The Hotel Matamoros,” I said.
The boss ripped his hands from his head.
“Lying nonsense,” he said.
But the name had done something to him. I spoke quickly: “Pilar Rojas, of the publicity department of the hotel, she contracted me to write this article. I have her card in my wallet.”
I pulled it out. Luckily it was printed in both English and Spanish. He flipped it over, frowned, and returned it.
“Some traitor at the hotel has hired you to investigate the disappearance of Hilary Pearson,” he said.
“No! Nothing of that. They want me to write a little article about the hotel. How nice it is and why everyone should stay there.”
“Then why are you asking all these ridiculous questions of cabdrivers, hotel attendants, and innocent little girls?”
“Because—because I want to know what happened to the woman. It is an interesting case.”
“No one knows what happened to her. The police inspected the entire hotel and interviewed every member of the staff and every guest. The FBI also investigated. This is well known. The hotel behaved brilliantly. But I have my suspicions. Perhaps the narcotraffickers of Chapare, who have no traditions as do our people in Los Yungas, only their greed, have committed a horrible crime in order to discredit the people of the North and their legitimate business concern, the Hotel Matamoros. But, I repeat, that is merely supposition.”
He spread his hands in surrender and flashed a glance above me. Dionisius’s hand lifted from my shoulder. I felt I could fly to heaven.
“Who is this boy?” said the boss, pointing to Kenny. “Why is he still staring?”
“I told you. He’s an idiot. Ask Pilar at the Hotel Matamoros.”
“I will confirm your information later. If you are indeed a journalist, perhaps I will not arrest you today as you deserve under our laws. But listen to me well. As a North American capitalist, you probably do not understand the conditions of life in an Andean nation, so I will speak very clearly. The hotel is critical to the future of working people not only in the Yungas region but also in El Alto City, and perhaps in all of Bolivia as well. Several more branches of the Hotel Matamoros have been planned, in many of the most beautiful tropical sites of our country. The benefit to our economy is incalculable. Our citizens here in El Alto have been hired to work on the buses, the vans, the maintenance crews. Do you know the unemployment rate in El Alto City? The expansion of the Hotel Matamoros is without doubt the best hope of the Bolivian economy and of the Bolivian people. If you persist in your insinuations about the hotel’s complicity in the disappearance of the unfortunate Hilary Pearson, there will be consequences.
“I explain further. I wish there to be neither confusion nor doubt in your mind. I am on excellent terms with the security staff of El Alto airport. You will be found trafficking in cocaine. This will not be pleasant. If you attempt to publish lies while you are back in the United States, you will never be safe in the airport of El Alto or anywhere near the city of La Paz again. And we will surely sue you in your own country for slander.”
It was the feeblest threat I had heard since fifth grade. I felt my face cool and my power of thought return.
“Why are you trying to frighten a journalist?” I asked.
“I am trying to protect the future of my city. Arturo will return you to La Paz.”
We followed Arturo out of the box and back to the car. Dionisius stood in the doorway to watch us leave, as if we might attempt to flee across the altiplano instead of returning to the city.
I sat in front and got a better view of the road. Dead animals, dogs mostly, lay on the roadside or right in the middle. One dog was picking at the corpse of its neighbor. Another, listless with starvation, would only turn its head when Arturo honked. He had to pull over halfway into the dirt to avoid it.
After he passed the tolls he broke out in laughter.
“Pardon me! Excuse me! I apologize!” he said. I knew he was mocking me, but I pretended not to understand. My burning face betrayed me.
Chapter 11
I dashed past the doorman into the lobby of the Gran Hotel París. A new clerk, younger and even shorter (or else too proud for the step stool) was stationed behind the desk.
“Where’s the other one?” I demanded. “The one who works here? Antonio. You know?”
“He is otherwise occupied. Can I assist you in any way?”
“No.”
Kenny wandered in and dropped himself on the sofa in the lobby. He rubbed his hands together. “What were we doing there? With those dickwads. If there was just two I would’ve rushed the guy that put his hand on you. Or if he wasn’t so big.” His raised his eyebrows, as if to suggest that he certainly would have challenged them all, no matter how big or how many, if he had been at all confident of my assistance. “Who were those guys?” he asked.
“They’re members of a political party called Condepa that’s somehow in bed with the Hotel Matamoros,” I said. “They’re trying to scare us away.”
Kenny’s eyes lit up and he stopped rubbing his hands.
“But we’re not scared, are we?” he said. “Do you think they know something about Hilary?”
“Do you think they’d tell me if they did? Pilar, the one from the airport, she’ll know. I’m having a drink with her tonight.” My righteous adrenaline rush was fading; perhaps there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air to sustain it.
“Yeah? Hey. She your girlfriend?”
“She used to be.”
“If you want to bring her over afterwards, that’s okay,” said Kenny. “I’ll hang in the lobby for a while. I’ll be cool.”
“Thanks.”
The replacement clerk was scribbling notes on a ledger. Perhaps he’s a bilingual spy, I thought, transcribing our every word.
“I thought maybe they were going to try to beat us up,” Kenny said.
“So did I,” I said, pitching my voice lower, to test the clerk. He kept on scribbling.
“Were you scared?”
“Of course I was. I don’t get in fights very often.”
He snorted. “You scare that easy?”
“Yeah. You know why? I’ve got things to live for.”
“Like what?”
“Like my job.”
“What’s so great about a job?”
“I’m not an admin assistant. My job is to see the best parts of the world and write about them. I’ve got a lot more to see before I die.”
Kenny just snorted and wiggled his head in disbelief. Only Pilar would understand. We didn’t live like Kenny, or like anyone else in the sedentary world. Pilar and I would find contentment on our own terms, on a path that wound unpredictably ahead of us. Just reminding myself of my principles eased my anxiety, the way repeating a favorite catchphrase gets a politician back on track in a debate. I ran my fingers over the balding velvet of the arm of the sofa, to soothe my fingertip nerves, the body’s most sensitive.
“Seeing stuff is okay, but all I care about is Hilary,” said Kenny. “Most of the rest I could take or leave. If we find her, maybe I’ll have something new worth thinking about. That’d be good. You think those guys will come back?”
“Not today. Or they wouldn’t have let us go.”
“My head hurts again.”
“Take a nap.”
After he left, I sat in the hotel’s café beside its plate-glass windows and took notes on the day’s events in my messiest handwriting—messy on purpose, because I wanted to render them spy-proof, and messy also because my fingers couldn’t yet stop trembling. I wrote what I remembered until my hands relaxed and the writing became dangerously legible. Meanwhile, I ate salteñas—doughy pastries, pregnant with meat and juice—and drank coffee in the restorative sunshine.
A thick woman in a grim pantsuit entered the otherwise vacant café and served up what was meant to be a bright smile in my direction, then followed it up, like the infantry following up an artillery assault. She introduced herself in Spanish as the manager of the hotel and asked if I was ready for my tour.
“Certainly,” I said. I folded my notebook and rose. I was still a professional.
She left the café, not even turning her head to see if I was following her. I knew her type. She disliked glad-handing, and journalists, and probably guests as well. Some hotel managers are born with a charming hospitality; some manage easily to fake it; and some struggle with the wrong career for years. She would be happiest in her office, ordering linens and double-checking invoices.
“You know the history of our hotel? It began in 1911 as a cinema—the most fashionable in La Paz.”
I looked at the series of photos on the wall of her office; the first featured gray men and women with hats, filing into something called the Biógrafo París, an old movie theater.
She continued reciting the history of the hotel—its initial conversion to a hotel, its failure, its recent reopening, and all the famous people who either stayed here or saw movies here, none of whom I’d heard of—as I pretended to study the photo gallery on her wall. Perhaps my article on Hilary should be accompanied by gritty black-and-white pictures of forlorn Bolivian street children and hard-nosed Condepa operatives. Would Esquire go for that? Unfortunately, Pilar was right—I was still a lousy photographer, despite what I claimed in my query letters.
The woman droned on; did she even care that I wasn’t listening? You could never know what was important to whom. Why would the case of Hilary preoccupy the higher-ups and the knee breakers of Condepa? One dead American girl. Or not dead, according to Pilar. If I died, would travel writers and not-quite lovers come searching for me, as we searched for Hilary? Would political parties terrorize the searchers? I lingered in fr
ont of a photo of a phalanx of horses, all facing a sergeant in uniform and being stared at by a curious crowd. Everyone in that photo was dead. Their influence had stirred the water of other lives, but the ripples had died long ago, and only their memory—if that—was left. How influential was Hilary’s life! But only now, when she was gone. She might have smashed her car on the way home to New Jersey and no one but a few friends and family would have known or cared. Kenny would have mourned her, arrived in a wrinkled suit and gnarled tie at her funeral, towered awkwardly over a cadre of dutiful Folgers colleagues, but no reporters would have shown up. I would have stopped by to pay my respects to my first editor, had I been told, but who would have told me?
The woman had fallen silent.
“What a beautiful history,” I said.
The woman’s pride flared up in a satisfied smile.
“Yes. We only hope that the Gran Hotel París of today is worthy of its past.”
“Is anything worthy of its past? But this hotel is a marvel.”
She beamed slyly, as if I’d managed to compliment a small but expensive set of earrings, all but hidden by her hair.
To reward me, she lifted from her desk a photo in a dull pewter frame and explained that the figure at the head of the banquet table in the picture was a former president of Argentina. (I didn’t catch his name. Not Perón—I only knew Perón.) A man like that must have paid well for the room, I thought, unless the hotel had given it away free for the publicity. But all those flunkies at the table, all his servants, secretaries, and underlings—surely he paid for them too. After all, Argentina was a rich country, compared to Bolivia.
I heard footsteps behind me. Antonio had entered. He froze when he saw me and looked away.
“What’s up, Antonio? Is it finished yet?” she asked him.
“Yes. Finished. Very well. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Wait,” I said.
Antonio raised his eyebrows, as if hoping the muscles in his forehead would pull up his lips into some semblance of an eager-to-please smile. His fiery, sleep-deprived eyes bulged from his head.
“Antonio is the night clerk,” said the manager. “This is the end of his weekly double shift. It’s time for him to go to bed.”
