To the Ends of the Earth (14 page)

A car drew up behind me. I was alarmed, then reassured when I saw it was a taxi. I gave the driver the name of my hotel and got in, but when I tried to make conversation he responded by grunting. He understood only his own language.

In Spanish I said, “It is quiet here.”

That was the first time on my trip that I spoke Spanish. After this, nearly every conversation I had was in Spanish. But in the course of this narrative I shall try to avoid affecting Spanish words, and will translate all conversations into English. I have no patience with sentences that go, “ ‘
Caramba!
’ said the
campesino
, eating his
empanada
at the
estancia …”

“Laredo,” said the taxi driver. He shrugged.

“Where are all the people?”

“The other side.”

“Nuevo Laredo?”

“Boys’ Town,” he said. The English took me by surprise, the phrase tickled me. He said, now in Spanish again, “There are one thousand prostitutes in the Zone.”

It was a round number, but I was convinced. And that of course explained what had happened to this city. After dark, Laredo slipped into Nuevo Laredo, leaving the lights on. It was why Laredo looked respectable, even genteel, in a rainswept and mildewed way: the clubs, the bars, the brothels, were across the river. The red-light district was ten minutes away, in another country.

B
UT THERE WAS MORE TO THIS MORAL SPELLED OUT IN TRANSPONTINE
geography than met the eye. If the Texans had the best of both worlds in decreeing that the fleshpots should remain on the Mexican side of the International Bridge—the river flowing, like the erratic progress of a tricky argument, between vice and virtue—the Mexicans had the sense of tact to keep Boys’ Town camouflaged by decrepitude, on the other side of the tracks, another example of the geography of morality. Divisions everywhere: no one likes to live next door to a whorehouse. And yet both cities existed because of Boys’ Town. Without the whoring and racketeering, Nuevo Laredo would not have had enough municipal funds to plant geraniums around the statue of its madly gesturing patriot in the plaza, much less advertise itself as a bazaar of wickerwork and guitar-twanging folklore—not that anyone ever went to Nuevo Laredo to be sold baskets. And Laredo required the viciousness of its sister city to keep its own churches full. Laredo had the airport and the churches, Nuevo Laredo the brothels and basket factories. Each nationality had seemed to gravitate to its own special area of competence. This was economically sound thinking; it followed to the letter the Theory of Comparative Advantage, outlined by the distinguished economist David Ricardo (1772–1823).

At first glance, this looked like the typical sort of
mushroom-and-dunghill relationship that exists at the frontiers of many unequal countries. But the longer I thought about it the more Laredo seemed like all of the United States, and Nuevo Laredo all of Latin America. This frontier was more than an example of cozy hypocrisy; it demonstrated all one needed to know about the morality of the Americas, the relationship between the puritanical efficiency north of the border, and the bumbling and passionate disorder—the anarchy of sex and hunger—south of it. It was not as simple as that, since there was obviously villainy and charity in both, and yet crossing the river (the Mexicans don’t call it the Rio Grande; they call it the Rio Bravo de Norte), no more than an idle traveler making his way south with a suitcase of dirty laundry, a sheaf of railway timetables, a map, and a pair of leakproof shoes, I felt as if I was acting out a significant image. Crossing a national boundary and seeing such a difference on the other side had something to do with it: truly, every human feature there had the resonance of metaphor.

I
HAD PLANNED TO GET TO BED EARLY IN ORDER TO BE UP AT
dawn to buy my ticket to Tapachula. It was when I switched the light off that I heard the music; darkness gave the sounds clarity, and it was too vibrant to be coming from a radio. It was a strong, full-throated brass band:

“Pomp and Circumstance”? In Veracruz? At eleven o’clock at night?

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.”