Time to finish my buffalo and go.
I set off without any particular plan in mind, passing numerous Guatemalans out enjoying the evening air. Eventually I found myself in front of Antigua’s popular Irish pub, a favorite with foreigners of all stripes. On my first trip fellow students and I had come here to spend many hours and many quetzales, the local currency, named for Guatemala’s exotically beautiful national bird. On my current trip I hadn’t taken time to make friends among the students, so there were no familiar faces in the pub that night. Teachers, short on free time to begin with, tended not to hang out in tourist spots.
I took a seat at a table occupied by a woman named Ida who turned out to be, of all things, genuinely Irish. “My daughter’s here studying Spanish,” she lilted. “I’m just checking up on her, don’t you know.” A round of Gallo beer arrived and so did another foreigner, a young Welshman named Nevin. Germany, Ireland, and now, Wales—I’d managed to pull together all three elements of my ancestry in a single evening of dining and drinking.
“Are you here to visit or to study?” I asked.
He displayed his be-ringed left hand with a grin and said, “I live here. I came backpacking in 2004 and fell in love with a Guatemalan. Two weeks later, we were married.” Impressive—quicker than even Charlotte Lucas and Mr. Collins!
After we’d exchanged some travel tales, I couldn’t resist seeing if Nevin had a favorite Guatemalan author. “My favorite,” he answered, “and my wife’s, too, is Gaitán.”
Dignified little Élida, my teacher before Nora during my first trip, had also recommended Hector Gaitán Alfaro, the author of collections of legends and ghost stories. Antiguans have a particular fascination with such tales. One famous apparition is the Sombrerón, a short fat man with a giant hat and a hair fetish; he sneaks into stables at night to tangle the horses’ manes. When he’s really feeling naughty he climbs into young women’s windows while they sleep and braids their hair so tightly they can never get it loose. A teacher I’d spoken to at La Escuela insisted that this happened to one of his friends, who was forced to cut her waist-length hair off above the ears.
Élida had been a responsible, dutiful teacher. She had me recite verb conjugations; she corrected my pronunciation gently but firmly; she kept me on task when I tried to get lazy and let her do most of the talking. Her weak spot, I finally discovered, was stories about ghosts and spirits. A well-placed question and I could sit back and hear all about how an owl would visit outside the house of a person about to die or how a woman with a beautiful body but a horse’s face—the infamous Siguanaba—lures unwary men to their doom if they catch her bathing in a public fountain at night. Élida assured me that these were legends and that only rural Guatemalans still believed them. Then again, a huge owl had hooted outside her family’s house just before her grandfather died…
As the volume in the tourist-packed pub moved into the boisterous range, I checked my watch. I’d entered a gray area, given that the school’s director had warned students not to walk the streets alone after 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. But Antigua, although it has its problems, is not Guatemala City. While fascinating culturally, the country’s capital is noisy, dirty, and overcrowded; you can easily be robbed there in broad daylight. Nora had once seen a woman have her gold earrings—and half of her ears—yanked off in Guatemala City’s central square.
Bidding farewell to Ida and Nevin, I started back to my hotel, alert to the city’s somewhat eerie energy after dark; Antigua means “old” or “ancient” in Spanish, and the name is never more apt than at night. Rich with centuries of history, full of crumbling architecture just perfect for housing phantoms, Antigua has an ambiance that makes legends and ghost stories feel more plausible, somehow. Footsteps seem to ring differently on cobblestone streets, so quaint and narrow, and the fact that there are almost no buildings over three stories allows the night sky to retain a power it loses in most cities.
I passed the largest cathedral, as impressive in the shadows as it was in the sunlight, and started down the alley toward my hotel. Given a choice that night between encountering an earring snatcher or a roaming spirit, I’d go for the latter.
***
“I’ve got an idea,” I said to Luis on Friday morning, the day before the Austen group and the last day of our lessons together. “Let me take you out to lunch, then we can skip the afternoon lesson. Does that sound good?” Normally the school has a two-hour lunch break so teachers can escape students, rest their weary ears, and see their families. I had a suspicion Luis would be willing to trade off his lunch to make it home earlier to his beloved books.
“If you’d like,” he said, trying not to look too pleased.
We chose a Peruvian restaurant. Luis had seldom offered personal anecdotes during the week except when I’d asked him specific questions, but the lunch (or maybe the rooster beer) got him talking about California. He’d lived there for more than ten years in the late seventies and eighties with an American girlfriend. As new Gallos arrived to the sound of Peruvian flute music, we ranged over a huge variety of subjects but inevitably ended up back in literature territory.
“Austen’s novels are excellent character studies,” Luis said, sipping his beer. Somehow, I could hear the “but” before he said it. “But what about a writer’s social responsibility? She was publishing while England was at war with Napoleon. Shouldn’t a writer address current problems and politics?”
I was full of opinions on Austen’s politics—in English.
“The question is,” I plunged in, “what is literature for? It can address problems, but sometimes the last thing people want to think about is their problems. Sometimes they want to focus on something else. Maybe they don’t want to think about fighting. Maybe they want to think what they’re fighting for—their families and a peaceful England.”
When my response earned a smile, I decided on a challenge of my own. “What about Guatemalan authors? Do you think they’re more political? Which ones are important?”
“Asturias, of course. Miguel Ángel Asturias.” He pronounced the full name ringingly.
If you’ve heard of any Guatemalan novelist, chances are it’s Asturias, born in 1899. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1967 shortly before his death. When I asked Guatemalans about literature, his was the first name, every time. Roberto the hotel manager didn’t write Asturias down as a recommendation only because I mentioned I was already familiar with him.
“You know about our problems politically and with the U.S.?” Ever direct, Luis was unafraid to enter touchy conversational territory. I nodded. Some Americans dismiss our shadier foreign policy dealings in Latin America as “conspiracy theory,” even covert actions the CIA has owned up to, as they have with Guatemala. The country’s lengthy civil war extended roughly from the late fifties until 1996, with about 250,000 deaths and “disappearances.” The United States didn’t cause the war, but our meddling was part of the picture. I might still be struggling with Spanish, but I’d learned fairly quickly on the road that assuming all U.S. interventions have the moral soundness of the D-Day landings is a good way never to understand how people in Latin America feel about their northern neighbors (and I don’t mean Canadians).
“You know about racism here,” Luis expanded, “and about our military dictators, the U.S. companies who controlled our land, how your government interfered with our elections? This is what Asturias wrote about.” He pulled paper from his briefcase beneath the table and began writing titles. Hombres de Maíz (Men of Corn) is perhaps Asturias’s most famous, along with what’s known as “The Banana Trilogy,” on foreign agricultural exploitation. “Very powerful writer, very important. To realize how complicated this country is, you need to read Asturias.”
Unfortunately, it’s not just the country that’s complicated—Asturias’s texts are so rich precisely because his style and analyses are complex. For accessibility, the
exception is Leyendas de Guatemala (Guatemalan Legends), produced early in his career.
Challenging topics and all, what a pleasure it was to linger over food and conversation with Luis. I was getting to like this leisurely two-hour lunch business. If you’ve ever traveled outside of the United States, the speed-eating capital of the world, you may have felt frustrated at the service in foreign restaurants. I’ve been as guilty as any American of wanting to scarf, pay, and dash, so I’ve done my share of glaring at staff oblivious to my desire to have the check right after my last bite of food. But to avoid a big howling heart attack while on the road (and thus confirm my mother’s darkest fears that Latin America would kill me one way or another), I’d decided to stop pushing and to surrender as best I could to the local pace of life.
The previous evening, for instance, I’d been lounging around in a little park called the Plazuela Santa Rosa, enjoying the play of fading light over Volcán Agua, when a taxi van drew up. Driving was none other than Gustavo. He stepped out and we chatted for a good ten minutes before I asked him what he was up to that night.
“Oh, I’m taking these volunteers to their hotel. They’re here to work with children.” I’d seen one person emerge from the van when he stopped but failed to register until that moment that five more were still inside, each giving Gustavo and me an indignant look, that quintessentially American “why is this taking so long?!” look that I was working to eliminate from my facial vocabulary.
On that last lunch with Luis, our check arrived when it damn well pleased, without me fussing and twisting in my seat to hurry the service. After all, how often do I advise my California students to slow things down with Austen, to open up to the elegant pace of her novels? On first encountering Austen, some grouse that characters are simply talking and, therefore, “nothing is happening!” I urge them to see that a good conversation is something happening. Spanish even has a word we lack in English to describe those lingering conversations over a good meal—sobremesa. “Over table,” literally, but the connotations in Spanish are much richer.
When Luis and I finally left the restaurant, we went to check out the book fair running in the main square. He made several recommendations, which I duly purchased. But along with local literature, I was hunting for something else: Nancy Drew in Spanish. Reading her in translation would be a nice way to revisit the dear old friend I’d first met long ago on a cold, rainy day in the library where my mother worked. But no such luck under the warm Guatemalan sun, as Luis and I browsed the tables in companionable silence. Luis selected several titles for himself and then announced, “I’ve got one more errand. Come along.”
The errand was buying a fifth of rum. A good bottle and some good books—good plan.
“Will you come back?” he asked pointedly as we shook hands good-bye.
The intense look in his dark eyes felt like a challenge, as if the real question were much more profound. Will you be satisfied with your modest accomplishments or will you really learn to speak Spanish? After a jaunt through Latin America, will you return to an easy life in the United States and forget about the people here, about their struggles and their strengths, or will something get through? Will you be, in some way, changed? I felt transfixed by his gaze, by everything his question and demeanor implied at that moment. Luis was the best kind of teacher—the kind you don’t want to disappoint.
“I can’t promise how soon,” I answered. “But yes, I will come back.” I would show him I was a real traveler, not a tourist. “After all, you still haven’t finished reading Pride and Prejudice. Just you wait until I can really argue with you in Spanish!”
A quick smile and a nod, then he and his books (and his bottle) were gone.
Chapter Three
I paced the lobby of the hotel. Nora, Élida, and the others from the school were about to arrive, at long last, for the group. I wanted so badly for it all to turn out well! We’d had some visits during the week, including a dinner and a few coffee break chats, but with the weekend finally here, we could devote our time to Austen.
One by one the ladies arrived, and amid noisy greetings we commandeered the second-floor lounge. “Tell us,” Mercedes prompted as she settled in on the sofa. “What do you think of Luis?”
Okay, so Austen could wait a bit. Clearly this was my invitation to spill. But recalling Luis’s less-than-polite reference to Mercedes earlier, I felt wary of entering a minefield of co-worker gender politics.
“He’s a very good teacher,” I offered, already knowing that this simply wouldn’t do.
“No doubt,” Mercedes admitted, showing a bit of impatience at my disingenuous answer. “But as a man, what do you think of him as a man?”
“Definitely different. But he’s never been married, like me. You know how odd we single people are.” I recalled some of the revealing things he’d shared over Gallo beer but couldn’t bring myself to tattle.
She shook her head and laughed at this newest sidestep. An “alpha” emerges from any group, and Mercedes was the early frontrunner. A traditional Brit would call her a handsome woman. With carefully coiffed black hair, a direct gaze, and an air of confidence, she somehow gave the impression of being taller than she really was. In fact, her demeanor reminded me of—Luis. A face-off between those two would be something to see; I got the feeling it was something the school grounds had seen on more than one occasion.
The arrival of the last of our crew saved me from any more probing questions. Happy, exuberant Flor, apologizing breathlessly for being late, was the youngest of us, strikingly pretty and a very sharp dresser, albeit a little on the daring side for a Guatemalan. Back in January La Escuela, coming under conservative leadership, adopted new policies and required all teachers to wear more formal dress. The original plan had been to permit only dresses or skirts for women, but a threatened Female Uprising nixed that idea. Nonetheless, Flor had to trade off her attractive-but-snug casual wear for dowdy professorial garb, a real disappointment, I suspected, for her admirers at the school.
Élida had given me a hug and kiss when she’d arrived, but she was somewhat distant that evening. I’d noticed the same thing earlier in the week when we got together with Nora for dinner. While Élida was always more reserved than Nora, she’d seemed especially withdrawn. At first I was concerned I’d offended her by studying with Luis rather than requesting her or Nora again. The situation turned out to be worse than wounded feelings about the school: her granddaughter, she’d told us over dinner, was carrying twins and having a difficult, dangerous pregnancy. I was glad our Austen group this evening gave her something else to think about, but her granddaughter’s health couldn’t be far from her mind.
The member of our group with whom I’d had the least contact was Ani, a shy, sincere woman in her late forties with short salt-and-pepper hair. According to Nora, years ago Ani had contemplated taking religious orders, and she definitely had the serene, centered bearing I’ve observed in many nuns. I was looking forward to hearing what this contemplative soul thought of Lizzy, her sisters, and their troubles.
Because the women had missed the film viewing at the school, they asked me to show the movie again before our talk, so we crowded around my laptop. Like most buildings in Antigua, the hotel had an open courtyard in the center, with the roof extending from the outer walls only far enough to overhang the passageways in front of the rooms. Because the lounge couch faced south, Volcán Agua provided a stunning backdrop to our viewing. The sounds of Antigua played counterpoint to the film’s placid English countryside, as local children launched firecrackers with regularity, the noisiest ones setting off a return volley of car alarms. Roberto passed through periodically to show rooms to new guests (“Hot water’s on the left, available from 4:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.!”). Random shrieks from the neighbor’s colossal parrot made us all jump, and the chorus of local roosters periodically sounded off as well, for good measure.
What surprised me most about the viewing was how much the women adored seeing this particular Mr. Collins humiliated. My California students tend to find Tom Hollander’s Collins either comic or a little sad, but there was a bit of a mean edge to the ladies’ hoots of laughter over his blunders. “Ha! Poco hombre,” snorted Flor when Lizzy arrives to visit Charlotte, who sweeps out of the room with her guest and leaves her husband pontificating, mid-sentence. In other words, “not much of a man.” However rough life is for women in Guatemala, men have their own challenges if they’ve got to live up to a standard set by the likes of Mr. Darcy.
When the film swept to an end, we enjoyed a big girly group sigh as Darcy made his appearance in the mist—more Brontë than Austen, that cinematic touch, but it plays well. Before I could finish packing away the laptop, Mercedes took the initiative, patting the copy of Orgullo y Prejuicio resting on her lap. “So, tell us, what’s the idea behind your Austen project? Why did you want us to read this book with you?”
“Well, I’ve been teaching Austen in the States for years, and I wondered how people in a different setting, a different country, would react.”
“What reactions have you observed?”
“This is my first group, so you’re my guinea pigs.” The others laughed, but Mercedes pursued her line of thought.
“Okay, so what have you observed in us?”
“You all laughed a lot during the movie,” I offered, somewhat flummoxed. Given my novice Spanish and my desire not to influence the group’s responses more than I could help, I’d hoped to do less talking and more listening.
All Roads Lead to Austen Page 4
