by Paul Theroux
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 fountains, people walked their dogs, lovers held hands. The night was cool and balmy, the crowd good-humored 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 not 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 blond 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 mustache, 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 makeup, eye shadow, and thick Mexican jewelry 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’s 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 mustache.”
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 Mazatlán. 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 overbright 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, mustached 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 MAZATLÁN. IT IS BELIEVED THAT HE IS NOW IN VERACRUZ. ANYONE WHO RECOGNIZES HIM FROM THIS PICTURE SHOULD IMMEDIATELY CONTACT—. There followed detailed instructions for getting 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 Mazatlán 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 toward 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 skepticism. 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 traveler, 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’s so confusing for him. He’s been living in Mazatlán. He’s a poor fisherman—he can barely read.”
“Interesting. You live in Denver, he lives in Mazatlán.”
“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 anymore. 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 Mazatlán. 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. ‘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 Mazatlán 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 time. 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 Mazatlán. 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 I 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 128 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 favor 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.”
Magic Names
WE CAME TO TIERRA BLANCA. THE DESCRIPTIVE NAME DID not describe the place. Spanish names were apt only as ironies or simplifications; they seldom fit. The argument is usually stated differently, to demonstrate how dull, how literal-minded and unimaginative the Spanish explorer or cartographer was. Seeing a dark river, the witness quickly assigned a nam
e: Rio Negro. It is a common name throughout Latin America; yet it never matched the color of the water. And the four Rio Colorados I saw bore not the slightest hint of red. Piedra Negras was marshland, not black stones; I saw no stags at Venado Tuerto, no lizards at Lagartos. None of the Laguna Verdes was green; my one La Dorada looked leaden, and Progreso in Guatemala was backward, La Libertad in El Salvador a stronghold of repression in a country where salvation seemed in short supply. La Paz was not peaceful, nor was La Democracia democratic. This was not literalness—it was whimsy. Place names called attention to beauty, freedom, piety, or strong colors; but the places themselves, so prettily named, were something else. Was it willful inaccuracy or a lack of subtlety that made the map so glorious with fine attributes and praises? Latins found it hard to live with dull facts; the enchanting name, while not exactly making their town magical, at least took the curse off it. And there was always a chance that an evocative name might evoke something to make the plain town bearable.
Earthquakes in Guatemala
GUATEMALA CITY, AN EXTREMELY HORIZONTAL PLACE, IS like a city on its back. Its ugliness, which is a threatened look (the low, morose houses have earthquake cracks in their façades; the buildings wince at you with fright lines), is ugliest on those streets where, just past the last toppling house, a blue volcano’s cone bulges. I could see the volcanoes from the window of my hotel room. I was on the third floor, which was also the top floor. They were tall volcanoes and looked capable of spewing lava. Their beauty was undeniable; but it was the beauty of witches. The rumbles from their fires had heaved this city down.
The first capital had been destroyed by torrents of water. So the capital was moved three miles away to Antigua in the middle of the sixteenth century. In 1773, Antigua was flattened by an earthquake, and a more stable site—at least it was farther from the slopes of the great volcanoes—was found here, in the Valley of the Hermitage, formerly an Indian village. Churches were built—a dozen, of Spanish loveliness, with slender steeples and finely finished porches and domes. The earth shook—not much, but enough to split them. Tremors left cracks between windows, and separated, in the stained glass of those windows, the shepherd from his brittle flock, the saint from his gold staff, the martyr from his persecutors. Christs were parted from their crosses and the anatomy of chapel Virgins violated, as their enameling, the porcelain white of faces and fingers, shattered, sometimes with a report that startled the faithful in their prayers. The windows, the statues, the masonry were mended; and gold leaf was applied thickly to the splintered altars. It seemed the churches had been made whole again. But the motion of earthquakes had never really ceased. In Guatemala they were inescapable. And in 1917 the whole city was thrown into its streets—every church and house and brothel. Thousands died; that unprecedented earthquake was seen as a judgment; and more fled to the Caribbean coast, where there were only savages to contend with.
