“Why aren’t you in school now?”
Apparently Timoteo didn’t know the answer to that one.
“You like old buildings?” said the boy, looking out the window, changing the subject. “There are many old buildings in San Marcos, built by the Spanish, long time ago.”
For his part, Changee Money—who spoke no English at all, but smiled endlessly with his sharpened teeth—leered at Emma good-naturedly and offered through Timoteo to change all her dollars into pesos.
The sights and sounds and smells of San Marcos City were exciting and exotic at first: policemen in white pith helmets, armed with automatics and truncheons; yellow banners stretching across the narrow streets proclaiming the wares of cafeterias and camera stores; food peddlers and tropical flowers and throngs of people in colorful clothes.
Eventually, however, Emma grew weary of the endless travelogue and depressed about her prospects of ever locating what she had come here to find, the Kaito Spirit. The city was too big, too unfamiliar. And there was no reason to assume that the boat her grandfather had once owned had ever been anywhere near here. She’d have to search the entire island.
“Are there any marinas near the city?” she asked.
“Marinas?” said Timoteo, sticking his head back in the window with a quizzical expression. “What is marinas?”
“Places where boats are docked. I’m looking for boats.”
“Sure.” The boy laughed. “We have lots of boats in San Marcos. I have been all everywhere, so I know. I went to San Barnados, once—on the other side of the island, thousands of miles away. There are many marinas there, but we can’t go there now. It is too far away. Changee Money has to go home for dinner. He like to eat a lot. We go back to your hotel now, okay?”
The boy let out a spurt of rapid-fire Spanish, which Changee Money answered with a leer, a wink, and a few grunts.
“Would your uncle let me hire his services for a few days at a time?”
“Where you want to go? To see boats?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t want him,” said Timoteo, laughing, not changing his tone of voice, though his eyes seemed to narrow slightly. “His car’s a piece of shit, won’t get you nowhere very far. My uncle will try to cheat you, too. He’s not so nice a guy like me. Hey, Changee Money, you don’t want to drive lady around a lot anymore tomorrow, do you? You’re the armpit of a smelly dog, aren’t you?”
“Changee mon’?” said Changee Money uncomprehending, looking back at Emma in the rearview mirror with his usual leer.
“Forget it.” Emma sighed. “I’ll find somebody else.”
“Why not you go rent a car?” exclaimed Timoteo. “Then I come with you, show you everywhere you want to go. All you need is a guide, and I’m your best guide who has ever lived. You drive, I bet. Everybody in U.S. drives. Everybody has big new car. You rent car, okay?”
“We’ll see,” said Emma, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it herself. Why wouldn’t they have car rentals on San Marcos? They had Coca-Cola, according to the billboards that were everywhere. They had Kodak film. They even had Indians who had had their own culture before Columbus landed. Were any of them still left?
“Do you know the Kaito, Timoteo?”
“Sure. What’s that?”
“They’re an Indian tribe from the island. Do they still live here?”
“Yeah, they got Indians in the country. They make stuff and sell at market. You want to buy?”
“Maybe.”
“We stop on way back to your hotel. Hey, Changee Money. Go to South Market. Ve al Mercado del Sur.”
Changee Money muttered something that sounded like a complaint, but the boy persisted. Changee Money turned the car down a series of side streets and in a few minutes they came upon an open square full of outdoor vendors, most of whom were packing up their wares. It was nearly six o’clock.
Changee Money waited in the car, smoking a cigarette, while Emma and Timoteo got out. The boy led her by the hand to a booth near the edge of the square. There, an incredibly thin black man with graying temples, dressed in white slacks and shirt, was beginning to collect wooden carvings from an outstretched blanket and pack them into cardboard boxes.
“Beautiful carvings,” said Timoteo with an expansive sweep of his hand. “Made by Indians. You buy many. This man give you good deal.”
As Timoteo chattered in Spanish at the old man who listened without changing his tired expression, Emma bent over and picked up one of the black wood carvings.
Like the carvings in Jacques Passant’s bedroom, it was surprisingly heavy—almost as if it were made of cast iron instead of wood. There, however, the resemblance ended. These carvings were angular and crude compared with Pépé’s rounded, graceful ones. The shapes of these were simpler, too—there were none of the counterbalanced squatting men, the long-jawed warriors or the stacked faces, just androgynous standing figures that all looked alike.
“Are these all he has?”
“A carving is a carving. What’s wrong with them? They are beautiful. He give you good price.”
“I’m looking for older pieces,” said Emma, trying to figure out how to explain the difference between tribal art and cheap souvenirs. “These are just for tourists. I’m looking for more authentic things.”
“Indians make these. They are very poor and stupid. They don’t have houses, they live in the jungle. They don’t know anything. This man buys from them. They make all these things. He give you deal.”
“Tell him thanks, but this really isn’t what I want.”
Timoteo growled in Spanish at the man, who shrugged and went back to packing up his wares. Emma walked back to the car, followed by the disappointed boy. Obviously he had planned to take a fat commission from any transaction.
“Is there a car-rental place near the Casimente, do you know?” Emma asked after Changee Money had started the car and begun driving them back to the hotel.
“Around the block from the Casimente there is best car place in San Marcos,” said Timoteo, brightening. “You rent good car there, one that not break down like this piece of shit. Timoteo take you everywhere. Show you all the boats. You safe with me. I won’t cheat you like Changee Money.”
“Or split the fee with him,” said Emma. “How much do you propose to charge me for your services, by the way?”
“You pay me what you want. I don’t care.”
“Come on, Timoteo.”
“I’m not like the rest of these guys, everything for dollars. I don’t care about that. I do best job. You pay me whatever you decide. It’s okay. I trust you.”
Timoteo stuck to this line until they got to the hotel, then he and Changee Money conversed in Spanish, both anxiously scrutinizing the crowd of money changers still waiting at the curb outside the gate.
The group was smaller now—no more than six men. Happily the big hairy fellow with whom Timoteo had had the argument before was gone. Changee Money brought the car to a stop a few feet from the group.
“Fifty dollar,” said Changee Money, turning in his seat to face Emma.
“Fifty peso,” said Emma, reaching into her pocket and counting out the bills. “As agreed.”
Changee Money shrugged, leered, and took the cash, adding it to the roll he kept in the front pocket of his shirt. Apparently he and the boy would settle later—if the boy got anything at all.
“You meet me tomorrow at car-rental place,” said Timoteo, getting out the car with her and speaking low so none of the men could hear. “You turn left when you get out the hotel gate, then right. Car place is one block past American Express office, okay? We have a great day, see everything there is. You buy many Indian carved statues.”
“I’m still thinking about this,” said Emma.
“It’s okay,” said Timoteo. “You can trust Timoteo. What time you want meet me?”
“Nine, nine-thirty, maybe,” said Emma. “But I’m still making up my mind.”
“Okay, nine-thirty,
” said Timoteo, getting back into Changee Money’s decrepit Ford. “Don’t be late.”
The group of money changers had already convened around Emma, waving their pocket calculators and wads of cash as Changee Money roared away. Timoteo waved his hand at her from the window.
“Yes, there was corruption and cruelty under Peguero,” said Celia, taking another tiny bite of her dinner—a sautéed sole amandine with wild rice. “But my father says Peguero had vision for San Marcos. He also had the power to impose this vision. Now there is no vision, only constant fighting for power. Many people long for the old days.”
The hotel restaurant reminded Emma of the most expensive place in a small town. Unlike the rest of the hotel, which was spacious, informal and airy, the Casimente’s dining room was a stuffy, pretentious place full of white linen tablecloths, tuxedoed waiters, and candelabra. It even appeared that someone wanted the tourists to believe that Michelangelo was still alive and decorating ceilings in the Caribbean.
“The drive from the airport was very impressive,” said Emma, trying to extract a final morsel of meat from her duck a l’orange, also with wild rice. “But this afternoon I saw some shocking poverty in between monuments.”
Emma felt pretty ridiculous, flying to the Caribbean to eat a duck. She had had little choice, however. All the entrees in the restaurant were old-fashioned American fare. Most of the customers, in fact, were old-fashioned Americans. If this really was the best restaurant in the city, San Marcos was in deep culinary trouble.
“Yes, there is great poverty on San Marcos,” said Celia, putting down her fork. “Many families live without plumbing and know nothing of personal hygiene. Not that things were so much better under Peguero, but at least Peguero tried to improve matters. Peguero gave every family a cow and a piece of land. The cow had to be milked, and the land had to be tilled. There were grave penalties for killing this cow, even if the crops had failed and the people were starving. Now most people have no cow, no land, nothing. Now little is certain and nothing is done. And there is still cruelty and corruption.”
Emma took a sip of coffee—a rich dark brew that had been the best part of the meal so far, and the only thing that didn’t taste like something she could have gotten in Indianapolis.
The island’s politics were obviously complicated and not a subject Emma wanted to delve deeply into. She was just a visitor here, one with very specific objectives. She couldn’t get the picture of the blank-eyed woman in the doorway of the shack out of her mind, however.
“How do the people feel about Americans?” Emma asked.
“Oh, they like them. On the whole we are just the opposite of people on many of the other islands. San Marcans do not resent the Americans. We admire you, almost too much, I think. It is like the people here have a cultural inferiority complex. Everything American is better than anything that is San Marcan. We watch American movies and listen to American music. I think we must find our own culture and learn to value it more.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Emma.
They ate several more bites in silence.
“Do you think I’d be safe renting a car and driving around the island?” said Emma, changing the subject to the one that was really on her mind.
“Exploring a strange country is perhaps not something that a woman alone should do,” said Celia with a concerned, surprised look. “The men are very chauvinistic here. It is not like New Jersey.
“Yes,” said Emma. “I once played Atlantic City. The men are very enlightened in New Jersey. They threw money at the stage and barked like seals.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” said Celia, apparently not understanding the sarcasm.
“No, but I’d be with someone who does.”
Emma told her about the boy, Timoteo, the tour he had taken her on today and how she proposed to rent a car tomorrow. Celia listened in respectful silence and didn’t speak until Emma had finished.
“I do not think this is such a good idea, perhaps, if I might say so, Emma. There are many children like this boy. Poor, uneducated, unwanted. It may be that he is not a problem, but there are many desperate people in this country. If there is trouble, what will you do? What if the car breaks down outside of the city? It is not like America here. There are not many gas stations.”
“Yes, this isn’t my favorite idea, but unfortunately I don’t have a lot of other options.”
“I have a cousin who might drive you,” said Celia. “But he works at a job during the week and you would have to wait until Saturday. And I do not know for sure that he would be available. He sometimes must work on the weekends, too, if they need him.”
Emma nodded, knowing too well what it was like to have to work weekends to make ends meet. It was Monday now, however, and she was hardly going to sit around the pool for four more days, waiting for a cousin who may or may not be able to make it.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m pretty good about people, and I think I’ll be all right with Timoteo. What do you think I should pay him, by the way? He wouldn’t quote me a price. I was thinking maybe fifty pesos for the day? That’s what I paid his uncle for the tour today.”
“Oh, that is much too much. Even twenty pesos would be a fortune for a boy like this.”
“I know I’ll have to pay for the car, but if Timoteo spends the whole day with me, figuring even three dollars an hour …”
“That is why he tried to trick you by not telling you what would be fair. You automatically think what would be fair in America. But this is San Marcos. For a week of work many men here earn less than a hundred pesos. Grown men. Give him ten pesos a day, that is all that is required.”
“Do you happen to know of any marinas near the city?” said Emma, changing the subject, uncomfortable at the thought of exploiting the boy and that this quiet young lady would suggest doing so. “I’m trying to find a boat that might have been here thirty years ago.”
“Thirty years is a long time,” said Celia. “I do not know anything about boats. Does this boy?”
“He says he does.”
“Can you believe him?”
“No, probably not.”
They spent the rest of the meal chatting about San Marcos, New Jersey, and what a nice restaurant it was. Emma couldn’t bear to contradict Celia’s breathless raves with a critique of the dated menu, which seemed to have captured America’s sensibilities of the 1960s as perfectly as the amber which Timoteo had shown her in the marketplace had captured flies. And to prove the point, at least to herself, Emma insisted that they have the flaming cherries jubilee for dessert. Celia practically swooned.
After dinner Celia telephoned her parents to come and pick her up, and Emma waited with her in the lobby until they arrived. They were a quiet couple, who blushed when they were introduced and were too shy or too intimidated to get out of the car.
Celia thanked Emma again, and asked to exchange addresses so that they might stay in touch. Emma gave her the address for Charlemagne’s office, remembering suddenly that she no longer had a home, and waited by the curb, waving as the car drove off. Then she walked slowly back into the hotel, feeling more alone than ever.
It was not even ten o‘clock. San Marcos time was four hours ahead of San Francisco’s. Though she hadn’t gotten much sleep on the plane, it still felt like only six o’clock to her. With the excitement of being in a strange country and the coffee she had had at dinner, Emma was wide awake. Her mind whirled with images from the day, fears about tomorrow, the dull ache in her chest for her grandfather that never went away.
There was a small cocktail lounge just off the lobby. Emma wandered in and sat down at one of the little tables. There were only a few other customers in the place—sad-looking men at the bar, a few couples in the back.
A drink wasn’t what she wanted, but a glass of hot milk from room service sounded unutterably lonely. And totally disgusting. Though Pépé had extolled milk as “the cow’s gift to children,” Emma had hated the sight of it since s
he was a little girl, to say nothing of the taste.
“What can I get you, señora?” the bartender called across the room. He was a handsome man with curly black hair and a nice smile.
“Do you have something that will help me sleep?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. After a moment he appeared at her table with a glass of hot milk.
“Do you know this stuff is full of cholesterol and saturated fat?” said Emma, wincing.
“I am sorry, señora,” said the waiter, his proud smile turning to disappointment. “You looked like the wholesome type. Would you like some brandy instead?”
“No, thanks,” sighed Emma. “This is fine.”
The bartender’s smile returned. He nodded and went back to his customers.
Emma stared at the white liquid in the glass. She wanted to be wholesome. She didn’t want to be the kind of woman who came into a bar and slugged back brandies in order to sleep. She closed her eyes tightly and took a sip of the milk. It was awful.
On her way to the elevators afterward, Emma couldn’t help but notice how quiet the lobby was, how peaceful. Still not ready to go to sleep, she took a detour and walked through the open courtyard. A couple was holding hands and kissing on a bench in a quiet corner.
The night seen from the landscaped yard behind the hotel was inky black and above her head a thousand stars twinkled with unfamiliar brightness. Sweet smells of palms and flowers pervaded the warm air and in the distance she could hear waves breaking on the rocky shore.
Emma walked along the hotel’s outer fence and stopped at a place where she could see the ocean. On the horizon, above a grove of palm trees, a sliver of moon rose gently into the sky. All was calm. All was well. There was nothing to be afraid of tomorrow, she knew. Emma was basking in a feeling of overwhelming confidence and peace when she saw the movement out of the corner of her eye.
She nearly jumped when the man came into view—a stocky bruiser in a windbreaker and black jeans. The dark object he was holding in his hands was a pump-action shotgun.
Emma froze, her mouth dropping open in surprise. The man noticed her, smiled broadly with less than a full complement of teeth, and took one hand off the shotgun long enough to tip his baseball cap.
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 12