excerpt
– Gringos are sometimes kidnapped for sport, warned a Brit. With
that hair, you’d be hard not to notice.
The Canadian scoffed at the notion of danger— secretly yearned,
in fact, for adventure — and had only decided against thumbing to
the coast after witnessing an incident near the zocolo. Men identifying
themselves as police had beaten one of the Australians he’d been
drinking with, a rugby player built like a bulldozer.
Witherspoon woke late the following morning, his brain cells
jumbled by too much mescal. From the hotel balcony he’d watched
as the Cessna he was booked to be aboard struggled to clear the treetops.
The desk clerk who’d promised to rouse him early — who’d
accepted a gratuity to do so — feigned amnesia. The proprietor of
the airline refused him a refund.
– The next flight leaves in one week, señor. he said. Would you
like to purchase a ticket?
– I have a ticket!
– Correct, señor. But your ticket has today’s stamp.
Paco brakes hard, scattering a clutch of chickens. He rolls down the
window and calls to the hitchhiker.
– Dondeva?
With dictionaries open in their laps, they know just enough of the
other’s language to be understood. The Mexican says he’s a pharmaceutical
student soon to be wed. He’s heard of the Canadian on radio
broadcasts.
– You like to throw the beanball, no?
– I led the league.
Whenever a pretty girl is spotted, Paco toots his horn. She is
assigned a number from one to 10, which is then averaged out to much
laughter and swigs from a bottle the Mexican keeps under the seat.
Halfway to the coast, Paco stops for a siesta. Witherspoon opts for
a dip in the river running parallel to the road. Young housewives,
their laundry spread out to dry on its grassy banks, are intrigued by
the stranger’s tangerine hair and cornflake freckles. He strips and
dashes into the current. The giggling voyeurs float bars of soap
downstream inside empty juice cartons.
– Norteamericano, he hears them say. El hombre muy blanco.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 