by David Unger
He returns to the motel, gathers his things, and catches a bus back to San Salvador.
* * *
Easter comes early in April of 2010 but already the heat in San Salvador is oppressive. The spring rains have failed to arrive, a pattern dating back to the deforestation during the years of civil war. Not that forests would do much to cool things down, especially in a city that is increasingly crowded and polluted. There is a density to the air that makes breathing difficult.
It has been an unexpectedly kind spring for Rafael Ignacio Gallardo né Guillermo Rosensweig and his depression is once again lifting. His consulting business is doing well and making good money: he’s no longer dipping into the cash he brought from Guatemala. His clients recommend friends because, unlike many other advisors, Guillermo is dedicated to exploring possibilities and finding solutions, not whining about problems. He concentrates on getting them to focus on achieving their goals, however small. And he is honest to the core, something unusual in downtown San Salvador, where it seems like every other person is a huckster.
Guillermo acknowledges something else about the structure of his life: after all the turbulence in Guatemala, he is happy to simply go to his office, keep a low profile, and help his clients without major distractions or drama. He is no longer driven by the messianic desire to right the hundreds of wrongs in his homeland.
He lives in relative peace except for the times that the memory of his love for Maryam clutches his heart and won’t let him go. Over time these memories come less often but are no less gripping. There are evenings when he falls asleep in a deep rapture, remembering their times together, the happiness they shared, the dreams they discussed. He often ends up masturbating, imagining he is entering her as she begs him not to come yet.
In quieter moments, he remembers their pledge to meet in the main square of La Libertad on May 1—in a month’s time. He feels unsure about whether he should go. His fear of disappointment disquiets him. He feels that if anything could send him back into the depths of despair again, it is the realization that a dream, no matter how extravagant or far-fetched, might never come true.
The odds overwhelmingly favor it: Maryam is almost certainly dead.
But what if by some miracle she’s not?
What if she somehow survived the explosion, is alive, and has built a new life for herself, as he has done?
chapter thirty-one
la libertad
May 1 falls on a Friday, which complicates things for Guillermo because La Libertad is on the coast and thousands of city dwellers will be going there for the three-day weekend. There will be highway blockages and lots of chaos, demonstrations, and parades to celebrate International Workers’ Day.
Luckily, the day dawns cloudy and rainy. This will deter many families from getting up early and heading to the beach. By eight a.m. it is still as dark as night, and the rain is falling in steady sheets, pattering roughly on windows and roofs. No one will head for the seashore or the parades in this weather.
An hour later the rain is still coming down hard. Guillermo realizes he needs to hurry now if he’s to make it there on time. He takes bus 34 from in front of his building to the Terminal Occidente to catch one of the buses that leave every ten minutes or so for La Libertad. He figures that if he catches the ten a.m. bus he will arrive on the coast by eleven, in plenty of time to explore the town and get to the appointed spot—in front of the central church on the main square—by noon.
The downpour delays the bus’s departure. The streets are crowded, mostly by people trying to dodge the buckets of rain. The bus moves slowly through the San Salvador streets, on its way up to Santa Tecla, a town appended to the capital by the thousands of Salvadorans who left the countryside during the civil war of the 1980s. The bus stops for ten minutes or so on the corner of the central park for passengers to embark and disembark, and then barrels toward the coast.
On the outskirts of Santa Tecla, in an area of dense trees and crowded village outcroppings, the bus comes to a halt. The rain has caused a landslide and large clumps of brown earth and stone are blocking access to the highway. There’s utter chaos as two-way traffic tries to navigate through the single passable lane between the mounds of mud on the road. What’s worse, there are no policemen to help sort out the mess. For the next half hour the bus inches forward, maybe a block at most.
Suddenly the ticket taker jumps off the bus wielding a pistol and gesturing wildly. He reaches the blockage and points his gun at the driver of a station wagon moving in the opposite direction, stopping him. This allows the cars in front of the bus to drive through the obstruction. Once the bus gets by, the ticket taker swings back on, cheered by the passengers.
The bus begins to wind slowly up the mountains. Guillermo is surprised by the route and asks the driver what’s taking so long. The driver tells him that if he wanted the fast route, he should’ve taken the express bus to Comalapa International Airport, not the mountain route via Santa Tecla. Instead of smelling the sea air along the coastal route, Guillermo is treated to the odor of dank, fetid vegetation and innumerable stops.
The bus strains up the incline and races down the slopes. The engine is grinding, the sides of the bus shaking, and the passengers are talking loudly as they take hairpin turns at high, unsafe speeds. Several times Guillermo sees the bus heaving halfway over the ravine before managing to right itself back onto the road. But maybe in this way, they will make it through the mountains and arrive in La Libertad on time.
Once out of the mountains, the driver floors the pedal. Gas stations, small villages, and roadside businesses swirl by. Guillermo is nauseous by the time the bus slows down on the crowded outskirts of La Libertad: tire shops, hardware stores, dirt-floor restaurants. The sun has come out and steam floats like low-hanging clouds over the quickly drying asphalt.
The bus stops in the main square facing the central church a bit before twelve. Guillermo doesn’t know what he imagined, but this church is no cathedral: it looks more like a large airplane hangar, with corrugated tin walls surrounded by a barbed-wire fence built, he imagines, to keep possible suicide bombers away, a relic of the civil war.
He doesn’t understand why the fence hasn’t been brought down. Does it still face a daily onslaughts of terrorists attempting to get in? To do what? To pray?
Guillermo is struck by the sinking feeling he has made a huge mistake by coming: better to dream desperately of her survival than face disappointment at a place as disheartening as this. It’s absurd to be waiting for his deceased lover in front of a veritable airplane hangar in La Libertad, El Salvador.
He waits and waits, seeing two other buses arrive and an equal number leave, and soon it is twelve thirty. The sun is beating down now that the rain has temporarily subsided; there’s no relief. Guillermo realizes Maryam will not be meeting him, that she perished in the car with her father, that his hope she survived the explosion has been a childish fantasy.
chapter thirty-two
paying the piper
Maryam’s bus from San Lorenzo stops at the town of La Amatillo around eight a.m. for the passengers to go through customs and immigration control. But even before the bus reaches the border crossing, it’s surrounded by nearly one hundred teachers and their families holding signs and placards protesting salary cuts and the poor working conditions in western Honduras. Maryam is sympathetic to the strikers, but furious at the delay: she had left her home at six in the morning, planning to arrive in La Libertad by eleven. She could kick herself for not having left the day before.
The driver says they will get through the protesters in a half hour. Maryam is unconvinced. She looks out the window and sees the build-up of thick clouds—the rain could be a blessing in disguise since it might force the teachers to scatter. Nervously, she begins playing with her ring. It has bands of silver filigree and there’s a deep amber stone, almost ruby in color, in the center. She bought the ring in a Tegucigalpa store that sold jewelry from Mexico. The shopgirl called
the stone a lagrima de la selva. A jungle tear.
Maryam bought the ring to symbolize her engagement to Guillermo. She has no idea if they will ever see each other again, but she wants to wear something on her right hand that will remind her of him every day.
In San Lorenzo, she wears her wedding band on her left hand so that the men in town will not bother her. She passes herself off as a grieving widow whose husband died in Guatemala. Here on the bus she puts the ring in her purse.
With the bus at a standstill, the driver allows two peddlers on. They walk down the aisle selling food and beer to the half-asleep passengers.
Maryam is starved. She buys two bean pupusas and gobbles them down while looking out the window. The strikers are jovial but show no signs of letting the bus and the stream of cars behind it go by. She’s not sure what’s going to happen next.
Loud claps of thunder shake the bus. A minute later, bolts of lightning illuminate the marchers and the rain starts bucketing down. Within a minute the strikers have dispersed and the bus driver inches down another five hundred yards to the border crossing. Years ago, crossing frontiers could take days, but since Central Americans now share the same blue passport, crossing is easy. The passengers don’t even need to disembark as border agents come aboard the buses to stamp their passports.
Soon they’re on their way to San Miguel where Maryam will transfer to the La Libertad bus. She drifts in and out of sleep, once again reliving the moments after the explosion.
She has no idea why the bullets suddenly stopped. She sees herself crouching in the construction site, waiting for the onslaught of more bullets. Instead, she heard a car drive away. Who was it and who did they think they were chasing? Her? Some unknown witness? Did they think whoever it was got the message and knew better than to try to come forward?
The bus hits a bump and Maryam is startled awake. A part of her is still expecting that bullet. Her carriage is no longer carefree—there’s something skittish about it.
She presses her body against the window. She reminds herself that she escaped. As she dozes again, she sees herself leaning against the bus window as though crouching in the construction site. The same dream of that day takes over once more.
* * *
The bullets stop and she knows she must be decisive. She’s alone, but she tells herself the worst is over. She decides it’s best to wait until dusk. She tries to quiet her mind. Breathe calmly.
At six p.m. she gets up and walks the back roads until she reaches Calzada Roosevelt where she takes a public bus to the Marriott Hotel in Zone 9. She spends the night there, not too far from Guillermo’s rendezvous apartment in the Plazuela España. She knows there are first-class buses that leave from the Radisson not too far from the Marriott. She takes the first available bus in the morning. It’s going to Tegucigalpa. She knows she can’t stay in the Honduran capital, but it’s the first step toward safety. She’s sure people are trying to find her.
She decides to settle in a small town called San Lorenzo, on the Pacific coast, about two hours from Tegucigalpa. It’s an inferno and has none of the conveniences she has grown accustomed to. She lives simply, renting a nondescript apartment and waitressing in a small but busy fish restaurant in the Las Cabañas area, overlooking the harbor. A few months later, she starts to teach the cook how to make some Middle Eastern dishes—tabbouleh, kibbes, falafel sandwiches, saffron rice—as a way to keep part of who she is in a place where she has absolutely nothing. These recipes are her connection to her father and to Guillermo. She knows it isn’t much, but it’s something.
The factory workers who eat at the restaurant love the new dishes, the way her rice explodes with taste and the lamb patties are infused with the three C’s—cumin, coriander, and cardamom. She even finds sheets of filo and makes her own baklava.
Months go by and she realizes she’s adjusting well to life in this small town. She feels a sense of accomplishment. For the first time in a while she’s responsible for her own well-being—she’s independent, beholden to no one.
One day she sees an old push-pedal Singer for sale. She buys it and starts sewing place mats and napkins to add character to the restaurant. Customers start asking her to make some custom-made mats for their homes, which she sells to earn a few extra lempiras. She becomes friendly with a woman who sells fabric at the market and Maryam learns how to use patterns to make simple dresses, blouses, and slacks. She tries not to think too much of Guillermo when she’s around other people. His absence hits her as a lump in her throat and she knows she needs to keep functioning. She can’t let her guard down and seem too vulnerable.
She learns how to be friendly but reserved. None of the coquettishness she carried as a second skin in Guatemala is visible here. There’s nothing provocative about her manner or dress. She is absolutely clear about what she needs to do to survive—creating any kind of interest in her or her past would not be smart.
She reads voraciously. It is her escape. On rare occasions she allows herself to fantasize about Guillermo, to pretend they might have a life together one day. She keeps imagining the trip to La Libertad, that she will get off the bus and see him. She can’t go too much further than that—it feels like she is tempting fate to even imagine that day. But sometimes she can’t help herself, and she plays out different scenarios in her head, always hoping he will show up.
She is happy to be alone, away from the demands and strictures of her former life. This allows her to do her work without distraction and to mourn the loss of her father and lover.
* * *
On the bus to San Miguel she remembers how many times she imagined this trip. How May 1 seemed so far away.
And she didn’t account for the teacher’s strike and the bad weather.
What will they do if they somehow manage to meet up? She has changed so much in these months and is not the woman he knew, not the woman who waited for his calls. She can’t go back to that. If they do meet, she imagines he will have changed as well. If it had been the reverse, and she had heard news of Guillermo’s death, she’s not sure she could have convinced herself to come to La Libertad.
* * *
Music is playing as Maryam wakes up on the outskirts of San Miguel. She gets off the bus and goes to the ticket booth to inquire about the bus to La Libertad. It is ten a.m. and her bus has arrived a half hour behind schedule. When she asks for the next one to La Libertad, she’s told it’s leaving at ten thirty but will be making a stop in San Salvador.
“What about an express?”
“It left fifteen minutes ago. There’s another one at eleven.”
She’s furious at herself for her poor planning. She won’t get to La Libertad until well after one. Her father used to say that women are like lint brushes, picking up thoughts and ideas as they sweep across the surface of things, never initiating anything on their own, always distracted.
Maryam has never felt like a lint brush until now. She knows her bus will not reach La Libertad on time. She could not have predicted the teachers’ protests, yet she feels she’s at fault for being late.
* * *
Maryam falls asleep again on the eleven o’clock bus and dreams she’s in a hotel with Guillermo. They are lying on the room’s industrial gray carpet after having made love.
“So what are we going to do?” she says.
He replies cautiously: “We can’t go back to Guatemala. Let’s assume that Samir wasn’t behind the murder of your father and Verónica. Wouldn’t the real assassins try and kill you? Wouldn’t they be afraid you could identify them or their car? They wouldn’t be happy to have us appear a year or two after the explosion holding hands.”
“I could cut my hair, hide my face under a keffiyeh,” Maryam says, lying across his body, covering his mouth with her scarf.
“What about your green eyes? Wouldn’t they give you away?”
Maryam grows reflective, then snaps her fingers. “Come back with me to San Lorenzo! I can’t imagine anyone there caring who w
e are.”
“What would I do there?”
“Maybe you could become a fisherman!”
“Start fishing at my age?”
“Sure,” she says.
“Like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea? Going eighty-four days without catching a fish?”
“You could cut lumber in the forests outside San Lorenzo,” she says, poking his sides.
“Uh uh, I’m not Paul Bunyan. No manual labor for me.”
“What about moving to New York City? You always brag about your Columbia University law degree. It should be worth something, don’t you think?”
He has turned his back to her and she realizes he has a tattoo of a horse on his back. She had never noticed that detail about him.
“And I’ll grow out my hair,” she says. “No one will recognize me. I’ll become a famous dress designer, you’ll see.”
* * *
She wakes up when the bus arrives in La Libertad. It is one thirty. She bounds down the steps and is surrounded by a sea of humanity.
chapter thirty-three
dream a little dream
Guillermo thinks that a half hour should be long enough to wait. Still, he decides to linger by the church for another half hour: doesn’t love require patience?
At one in the afternoon he realizes he has wasted his time. He considers taking the next bus back to San Salvador to avoid the crowds who will be arriving soon, now that the rain has stopped and a fiery sun is beating down.
Instead, he decides to walk the few blocks to the ocean. The streets are dirty in La Libertad, paved with discarded paper, plastic, and aluminum. It’s a hideous town with its dry mud, uneven streets, and pockmarked walls half-eaten by sea salt and the merciless sun. Swirls of dust prowl around the unpainted buildings, leaving a brown film on everything.
