The Travel Writer

by Jeff Soloway

  She smiled with a proprietary gleam. Her exhausted employee was still ready to deliver customer satisfaction, after a double shift, and his uniform was unstained and unwrinkled.

  “I have a few questions for him,” I said.

  The manager waved a promotional brochure in my face.

  “Antonio is a graduate of our finest school of tourism,” she said. “Have you seen our special offers? I am certain our honeymoon discount will be especially attractive to American tourists.”

  I took the brochure from her to get it out of my face; meanwhile, Antonio was cautiously turning away.

  “But I have one question more,” I said. “Some questions.”

  He was walking through the doorway, oblivious to my urgent tone, like a distant father in a dream.

  “Tell me,” said the manager.

  “Wait!”

  His footsteps down the hallway were like an insolent chuckle. I thought of chasing him, but even if I could tackle him from behind, how could I force him to tell me the truth? What could I threaten him with? What if he fought back?

  As I hesitated, the manager rattled off the rack rates for single rooms with views, double rooms with views, interior rooms, executive rooms, and suites. I surrendered to the clatter of her voice and glanced down at the brochure. It was in both English and German.

  “Where will your article be published? Last year we received an excellent review from the Spanish newspaper El Mundo.”

  “With luck it will appear in Condé Nast Traveler and certainly in the next edition of my guidebook.”

  As if the American public was clamoring for an updated edition of the Caravan Guide to Bolivia and Ecuador. I wondered if the hotel had been reviewed in La Razón, or any other Bolivian paper. Perhaps it scored poorly after Antonio tried repeatedly to wheedle an interview for a copydesk job. More likely no reviewer had bothered, or been encouraged. Since few Bolivian leisure travelers could afford to stay at the Gran Hotel París, there wasn’t much point in giving a freebie to a writer for the “Weekend Escapes” section of the Sucre or Santa Cruz papers. The (unpaid) woman at the ramshackle La Paz tourist office, located above a pharmacy across from the city hall, once said to me, “We Bolivians never get anything for free.” I agreed: Bolivians paid for American loans with defoliation campaigns, still poorer peasants, more dire need for more aid. Only the corrupt officials got freebies, by skimming from the top. Like me, in a sense. But I skimmed only from the rich. A Robin Hood out for himself.

  “Where are you going next?”

  She wanted to know if I’d be writing up one of her rivals.

  “To the Hotel Matamoros.”

  “The Matamoros? I don’t like it. It attracts foreigners, but they travel immediately from the airport in El Alto to the Yungas, without stopping for a night in La Paz. Why not? We have tried to do business with them. Certainly their guests would enjoy a weekend at a historic hotel in the premier city of Bolivia. They are not interested. We are not their type of hotel: too traditional, too historic. The Hotel Matamoros is not good for tourism in Bolivia, only for itself. And now they are getting just what they deserve. I hear they have had to close an entire wing. So many guests have canceled because of the disaster of the American journalist.”

  “Nonetheless, many politicians appear to support the hotel. Condepa? I have heard rumors.”

  “Condepa?” She laughed derisively. “What do taxi drivers and fruit sellers know of tourism? A thriving tourism industry would bring jobs to La Paz, but they follow their leaders, who take little pinches of money from the Matamoros and think they’re getting rich. Condepa is of no significance.”

  “Isn’t this the party that controls El Alto?”

  “Until the next scandal finishes them, yes.”

  “Really? They seem very … influential.”

  “Among poor people and Indians, yes.”

  “I think Antonio is a member of Condepa.”

  She shuffled a little on her heels, wondering whether she should be indignant.

  “Perhaps. Why not? The political affiliations of my employees do not interest me. Did he give you any literature? If so, I will reprimand him.”

  “I think he may have … advised some persons in the party that I was interested in the case of Hilary Pearson.”

  “The case of whom?”

  “The American journalist you spoke of.”

  “Ah, yes. I am familiar with this case. Very sad.”

  She tried to express her sorrow by frowning but managed only to look irritable.

  “Tell me,” I said, “in your opinion, is it possible—a little possible—that Condepa had something to do with the disappeared American journalist?”

  “Why?” She laughed uncertainly, hoping what I’d said was a joke. She probably knew most jokes went over her head. “In any case,” she said, “the Hotel Matamoros was all built on narcotrafficking money. That is a well-known fact.”

  She said nothing more, and I demanded no proof, which she wouldn’t have had anyway.

  Chapter 12

  I arrived at the Pig & Whistle at 6:45, bearing a copy of La Razón to pass the time—Pilar liked to unplug her professional habits, such as punctuality, when she was off duty. The P & W advertised itself as Bolivia’s most authentic English pub (there wasn’t much competition). The Union Jack and scarves from various Premier League soccer teams were pinned to the dark paneled walls; a stuffed bulldog gaped stupidly from a perch over the whiskey and pisco bottles; the kitchen served Lake Titicaca trout, but it was fried and came with french fries that were mushy with vinegar. The nightly live music was local, however, and improbably popular.

  I ordered a Paceña beer and sat at the corner of the bar, where I could keep my eye on the door. La Razón was useless. I couldn’t muster the concentration to tackle anything more than the first paragraph of any article, even the merciless recap of the Bolivian national soccer team’s latest humiliation in Brazil. I tried starting from different spots on the page, hoping a sentence would catch my interest.

  “One more?” the bartender asked, startling me. I shook my head, both to waken my senses and to refuse. Another beer and I’d have to pee, and risk her walking in, not seeing me, and turning around in disgust. It was after 7:00. You should have relieved yourself ten minutes ago, I told myself. That was my chance, and I missed it. I pretended even harder to read. The chatter around me grew louder, like the noises of the jungle just before sunrise. People began taking the stools beside me, brushing against my back, glancing irritably at my newspaper, which took up valuable bar space.

  She wasn’t going to come. Wasn’t there one thing I could trust in this world?

  The girl next to me asked what I was reading. Her black hair was pulled straight back from her forehead, so that her eyebrows stood out like a pair of crows flying across an overcast sky. Another girl peered over her shoulders, breathlessly observing her friend’s boldness.

  “Nothing. The newspaper. Tell me,” I said, “why can you never trust women?”

  The friend lurking behind giggled. She was taller, less slim, and wore a sleeveless top. Her bare shoulders were like brown softballs.

  “Are you waiting for a girl?” the friend asked, unwilling to be left out. “Who is she?”

  “A woman worth nothing.”

  I find it easy to affect the puffed-out chest of manliness when I speak Spanish to strangers.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “No,” I lied. “I’ve only been in love with one girl. This other one, she’s just a distraction.”

  “What happened to the one you loved?”

  “She disappeared. Would you like to see a picture?”

  I fished from my pocket and unfolded one of the Pearsons’ Xeroxes of Hilary.

  “I remember her! The poor American girl that disappeared from the hotel,” the girl with the pulled-back hair said. She now looked like a young cafeteria lady. “They posted her photo at the university. How tragic! Are you looking for her?
”

  “Yes. But I’m never going to find her.”

  I studied the foamy dregs of my empty glass. Where was Pilar? What if she were crouching below the bar, eavesdropping on my fibs? I would assure her that she was the lover I meant, that love to me was such a daunting subject I could only approach it obliquely, through metaphors or lies.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be in love?” I asked.

  The food-service girl nodded solemnly. I wiggled my empty bottle at the bartender.

  “So do I. But now love is death, for me,” I said.

  I would never make such an embarrassingly trite assertion in English; even if the sentence just flashed through my mind, I would bite it off half finished. But to me a word in Spanish is just a symbol of a word in English, and therefore I can convince myself, especially after a drink or two in a darkened bar, that even the most maudlin of ideas is fresh, subtle, and heartfelt.

  “Everything that was happiness for me is now pain,” I said. “Can you understand that? Because I know I’ll never find her.”

  Her friend gasped, moved and gratified to find such a dramatic gringo in a gringo bar. How often do life’s wonders come as advertised?

  “Maybe she’s still alive,” the food-service girl said. “Maybe she still loves you. Love for me,” she explained, “is something that can never die, that lives on and on, that even death cannot kill.”

  The idea terrified me. If it was true, there would never be any peace. Didn’t these girls know to giggle and spout something shallow when I was looking for a private laugh? I took a pull at my new beer, and when I looked up, they were still staring expectantly at me.

  “If I can only find her dead body, I’ll be happy,” I said.

  They weren’t sure if I had just said something profound or something disgusting, but either way, it killed the conversation. The band started assembling the drum kit and amplifiers. I finished the beer and left, twisting my paper until it tore.

  * * *

  Warmth in La Paz, like in the desert, flees headlong over the horizon the minute the sun sets. Outside the Pig & Whistle I shivered in my sweater with the cruel breeze of every passing car on the road. No cabs, and the next streetlight was a steep, chilly walk uphill.

  I had just started when a man emerged from the shadows. At first I thought he was one of the security guards that shelter in plywood sheds outside fancy apartment buildings, listening surreptitiously to the soccer game on the radio and stepping out now and then like vampires to make the rounds or sneak a smoke, but then I saw that he was grinning. No guard ever grins. I recognized him.

  “Good evening, neoliberal,” Arturo said, and clapped my shoulder, playfully but hard enough to make me stumble, my feet clicking together like the blades of a pair of scissors; and suddenly the world tumbled under me and I was looking up at the moon from the gutter. My frosty breath puffed rapidly before me. The pavement was like ice on my butt. Thank God no car was coming.

  Arturo pointed at me and laughed. Where were the real security guards when you needed them? The lights of the bar, just a block away, seemed as distant as the stars. A teenager glanced my way up the hill before hustling into the Pig & Whistle. He thought I was just some drunk.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  Arturo stepped closer, within kicking range. I could see his sporty nylon hiking boots, with their fading (and certainly fake) Nike swoosh. Then he bent over at the waist, as if he was bowing, or preparing to spit.

  “What a surprise,” he said.

  In the dim light of the streetlamps, his face was a rich olive, and his acne scars were invisible. I scooted backward, a grimacing crab, and scrambled to my feet.

  “What do you want?”

  A taxi passed, with a dying moan and a freezing wake. I felt an itch at my back; perhaps Arturo had friends, perhaps they were surrounding me, perhaps even now they were reaching for my neck.

  “I hate these gringo bars,” he said.

  “There are no gringos there,” I said. “Not after I leave. Left.”

  Had he followed me? Had he come to kill me? How unfair, after he had let me off and even given me a lift back into town. I could have taken a flight home and enjoyed the rest of my life.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. I tried to convince myself that he had wanted to hear the band, couldn’t afford the three-dollar cover, and was left in a bad mood.

  “I’m sure you’re very happy that Dionisius is not with me,” he said.

  “Happy enough,” I admitted. “I understand he doesn’t like Americans.”

  “I have a different attitude. I find them fascinating beasts.”

  I kept my eyes locked on his, like a trespasser staring down a growling dog, and stepped backward, up the hill, hoping Arturo wouldn’t notice. Another step or two, and I’d have room to run if I had to. But my confidence grew with my altitude; it’s hard to fear a shorter man.

  “Why did you pick me up today?” I asked.

  “We wanted to learn more about you,” he said. “We learned more than we expected.”

  “My life is an open book.” Did they have that expression in Spanish? “What do you want?”

  He waved his hand dismissively.

  “That I go back home?” I said.

  “I want only that my employer is happy.”

  “Your employer? Condepa? What does it matter to the party if I’m in La Paz? What have I ever done? In my entire life.”

  Arturo turned his back on me with a matador’s disdain, and I watched him go like a wounded animal, frightened, suspicious, and also grateful. He hadn’t come to kill me after all. He had just finished slugging down a drink in another, cheaper bar down the road, with his third-string political-gangster friends, and just happened upon me by an evil chance on his way to the bus stop. Or maybe he picked up extra cash on weekends shaking down the busier bars like the Pig & Whistle for protection money. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t dangerous by himself. And tomorrow I’d leave him behind forever.

  * * *

  When I got back, Kenny was sitting up in bed, ignoring the open Idiot’s Guide to Speaking Spanish on his lap in favor of a rerun of Friends on the English-language channel. “How’s the chica?” he asked, then added, graciously, “She’s a hottie.”

  I considered describing a sex romp in a secret jaguar-fur-draped room in the basement of the Pig & Whistle, but my heart wasn’t in it. “She didn’t show.”

  He nodded. He had heard, or read about, or seen on TV, the cruel games men and women play with each other, so he could sympathize. “That’s cold,” he said. “When Hilary took that trip down here without telling me, I felt the same way.”

  “You didn’t feel the same way. You hardly knew her. She felt sorry for you one night. How did you get like this? You’re not just a virgin, you’re completely ignorant about women. How have you stayed that way for so long?” I was too humiliated by Arturo and Pilar to hate myself for meanness. And these were serious questions. A journalist should not hesitate to pick at painful wounds in order to find the truth.

  “I’m not like everybody else,” Kenny said. The laugh track soared, and Kenny clicked the television off viciously with the remote. “I don’t know why. I go to work and I come home and then it’s the weekend and nothing to do.” He spat his words at the blank television, not me, as if he’d suddenly realized that the cast of Friends had been laughing at him and not each other for all these years. “Where do you go to find people? What do you say to them? I keep thinking things will be different. They should have been. But high school sucked and then college; I went to Hunter and lived at home. Everybody already had friends. Now at work I go out for drinks but there’s never anything to talk about. I’m not a real editor like the others. There’s only one other assistant, and she’s too good for anything but her own face in the mirror.”

  “You made friends with Hilary,” I said. “You can make more.”

  “She was special.”

  I pulled off my sweater and s
at on the other bed. At least Kenny had figured out how to work the heat.

  “Do you still live at home?” I asked.

  “My mom got transferred to Denver last summer. I went for Christmas, but I don’t ski, so it was just cold. I still live in our apartment on Twenty-ninth Street. My mom says we’ll have to sell next year. You live alone?”

  “I like it.” I didn’t want him to think I was as lonely as him.

  “I like it too. Nobody fucking around with your stuff. Put on whatever music you want. Don’t have to listen to the TV all night if you don’t want. Invite girls over, no problem.”

  “But you never invited Hilary over.”

  “I would have.”

  I remembered the first time I had Pilar in my Queens apartment. She burst out laughing at its tininess, and I laughed with her, though I was glad she didn’t keep it up. That was the best thing about Pilar then; anything unpleasant about her was over so quickly. The only place to sit was on the futon, which I had left pulled out in its “bed” position, to be more conducive to romance. As soon as she sat down there was no question about the next step. No awkwardness, no uncertain hesitation. It seemed odd that I had ever experienced such unreserved joy. It was like remembering some inexplicable, overpowering emotion from childhood, long abandoned. You remember gaping in awe at your first sight of a major-league baseball diamond or the ocean, but you don’t remember exactly what about it overwhelmed you.

  I undressed and burrowed under the blankets, but Kenny wasn’t ready to sleep. He’d had nobody to talk to all evening.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I’m taking a bus to the Hotel Matamoros, about three hours from here,” I said. Pilar worked there—she couldn’t hide. Perhaps she’d apologize and claim that she missed our appointment because a planeload of Venezuelans were held up by the altiplano gusts and missed their minibus connection. Or better, that she had been paralyzed with fear, unable to face the emotional eruption of seeing me again. Or maybe that she knew Arturo was tailing me.