Amigoland Part 13

"Even to go in and just to turn around and come back out?" He twirled a finger in the air to show her how quick he would be.

"If all you want to do is turn around, that you can do right here, for free."

"But to go inside?"

Again, she pointed to the sign. "Maybe you can't see with those gla.s.ses."

A short, tubby man in a dark tie brushed up against him.

"Go ahead." She dropped the pesos into the slot, and the man pushed through the turnstile.

"And him?"

"He works downstairs," she said. "Are you just going to stand there, in everyone's way?"

Don Fidencio swayed a bit as he tried to keep his balance.

"I have a need to be here."

"And tell me, who doesn't have a need to be here?"

After looking at her for a few seconds and realizing he would have to irrigate the front of the turnstile before this sour woman would allow him to pa.s.s, he turned to go back and borrow some money from his brother.

Socorro was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they finally made it back down. She held on to the walker and had set the plastic bag and leather pouch inside the wire basket.

"We need to hurry. Already they started boarding."

"And the papers?" Don Celestino asked.

"The guard says you can get them when the bus stops at the first checkpoint."

Don Celestino took his pouch from the basket and they walked toward the security post that led out to the buses. The same clean-shaven guard Socorro had spoken to earlier signaled for them to move on through security since they had no real luggage to speak of. The driver stood near the bus door, waiting for the last few pa.s.sengers. The dark shade of his suit and tie matched the blazer and short skirt worn by the young attendant. She tore Don Celestino's tickets in half and handed him three small plastic bags, each filled with a snack and a bottle of purified water. Socorro packed everything into her own bag as she boarded the bus.

Don Fidencio was still trying to figure out how to get the walker through the narrow entrance. He had tried twice and each time the frame collided with the sides.

"That, we need to fold up and store down below, with the luggage," Don Celestino said. "Give it to me so I can hand it to the boy." The porter was squatting near the middle of the bus, rearranging the last packages to go into the luggage compartment.

Don Fidencio ignored him, though, as if by his waiting a little longer, the entrance might widen or the walker shrink in size.

His brother tapped him on the shoulder. "You should go find your seat, and I'll take care of storing it."

"I can give it to him by myself," the old man snapped. "You think I need your help for everything, like a little baby? Leave me and go sit with the girl."

Don Celestino stared at his brother for a moment, then boarded the bus. A tall man, holding a briefcase in one hand and a large pillow in the other, sat in the front seat. Behind him, a younger man with a long blondish ponytail sat in the aisle seat, while his guitar case sat upright in the window seat. A couple of rows back, an elderly woman held her granddaughter, who was resting her head on the old woman's lap. Across from them, a gaunt man kept his hand on his wife's very pregnant belly. None of these people or any of the other pa.s.sengers so much as looked up as Don Celestino was making his way toward the middle of the bus.

"And your brother?" Socorro asked.

"He was giving his walker to the boy so he could store it underneath."

"They already closed the s.p.a.ce," she said, leaning over again to glance out the window.

They both turned when they heard the driver let out a moan as he removed his jacket and placed it on a wire hanger inside his compartment. Once he was seated, he spent a few seconds stroking the bristles of his mustache in the rearview mirror, then pulled the lever to close the door. Don Celestino started for the front of the bus, but he had to slow down for a woman in the aisle who was stuffing her bag into the luggage rack.

"Wait," Socorro called out. "I see him now."

Don Fidencio was walking toward the front, steadying himself with one hand against the side of the bus. The driver opened the door and stood up to help him climb the three high steps, each one more arduous than the last. Once at the top, the old man grabbed hold of the luggage rack and staggered forward until he reached his seat.

Don Celestino turned to look over his seat back. "I thought you were giving it to the boy. What took you so long?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Why do I have to give you a report?"

The driver closed the door again. After he had cleaned his yellow-tinted aviator gla.s.ses, he inserted a videoca.s.sette into the VCR, and several monitors dropped down from the luggage rack. A pretty female attendant, dressed the same as the real-life attendant outside, only this one with light-brown hair and with not as dark a complexion, appeared on the screen to explain all the luxury features on Omnibuses de Mexico, including a quiet and relaxing ride, roomy seats that reclined to the pa.s.sengers' comfort, a wide selection of feature films that were sure to entertain, and, of course, the cleanest rest-rooms. The image of the pretty attendant segued to footage of the bus coasting through the Mexican countryside.

When the video ended, the driver took a final look at the instrument panel and crossed himself, then dug a finger into his tight collar and pulled out a thin gold necklace with a San Cristobal pendant, which he gently kissed before stuffing it back in his s.h.i.+rt. The porter squeegeed the winds.h.i.+eld one last time, then signaled thumbs-up when he was done, but the driver was more interested in waving good-bye to the young attendant. After she gave him the same cursory smile she gave to every other driver of Omnibuses de Mexico, he slid the gears.h.i.+ft into reverse. The bus glided backward only a couple of inches before the back wheels lurched up and then down again with a harsh grinding sound. The driver slammed on the brakes, jerking all the pa.s.sengers forward and then back into their seats. A few seconds later the porter dragged out a flattened metal frame with three plastic wheels still dangling from it, the fourth rolling aimlessly through the parking lot. Socorro and Don Celestino glanced over their seats, but the old man was already leaning back with his eyes closed, about to take his first peaceful nap in some time.

27.

When they had pa.s.sed the last of the grocery stores and car dealers.h.i.+ps and tire-repair shops and fried-chicken restaurants and Pemex stations, the road narrowed from a bustling four-lane, with lush plants and shrubs growing along the median, to a narrow two-lane, with only a pair of white stripes that served as the shoulders. The ranch-style houses, mixed in with cinder-block houses, were set several feet from the road, leaving a dirt path on either side for those traveling by foot or hoof.

Near the edge of town, the driver stopped for a young man wearing a muscle s.h.i.+rt and baggy shorts, and on his shoulder carrying a wicker basket. His bellows of "Tortas! Tortas!" roused Don Fidencio from his nap. He looked up in time to see the vendor had pa.s.sed him and stopped to sell his food to one of the other pa.s.sengers.

"Give me some money, before he comes back," the old man said, leaning forward.

"Why do you want to waste money?" Don Celestino handed him one of the plastic bags the attendant had given them. "We have your lunch right here, already paid for with the ticket."

He opened the bag and found two triangle halves of a sandwich and a small bag of j.a.panese peanuts. "Is this what you're going to feed me for the whole trip? A ham-and-cheese sandwich?"

"It's the same as the tortas."

"At least those are hot."

"That was all they put in the bags, Fidencio."

When his brother didn't take it back, he tossed the plastic bag onto the seat next to him. The bus driver stopped to drop off the torta vendor and then reached over to insert another videoca.s.sette. The old man was about to fall back to sleep when the bus filled with Hindu music from the feature film, translated into Spanish as The Evil Within Both of Us. The Evil Within Both of Us. A large group of men and women were singing and dancing across an outdoor platform. It seemed to be some sort of family gathering, with children and adults seated at tables around the edges of the stage. When the music reached its climax, the gathering was suddenly disrupted by the arrival of several armed and hooded men. The fathers stood up to defend their families and were gunned down at once, leaving only the women to guard their children. Bodies flew through the air in slow motion, women and children crawled under tables, but the performers continued their singing and dancing. After a few minutes, the old man had trouble following what was happening on the screen. As hard as he tried, he couldn't keep up with the dubbed-over story line, and finally he turned toward the window. Standing in the center of a small plot of land half cleared of the surrounding brush, a s.h.i.+rtless man holding a machete at his side had paused from working. He stared at the bus as if he could make out the old man looking at him through the tinted window. Farther along, the few plots of land made room for the mesquite and huisache and granejo and paloverde, and eventually the vast sea of scrubland broken up only occasionally by a white cross and an arrangement of plastic flowers that marked the last site of an unlucky traveler on this road. A large group of men and women were singing and dancing across an outdoor platform. It seemed to be some sort of family gathering, with children and adults seated at tables around the edges of the stage. When the music reached its climax, the gathering was suddenly disrupted by the arrival of several armed and hooded men. The fathers stood up to defend their families and were gunned down at once, leaving only the women to guard their children. Bodies flew through the air in slow motion, women and children crawled under tables, but the performers continued their singing and dancing. After a few minutes, the old man had trouble following what was happening on the screen. As hard as he tried, he couldn't keep up with the dubbed-over story line, and finally he turned toward the window. Standing in the center of a small plot of land half cleared of the surrounding brush, a s.h.i.+rtless man holding a machete at his side had paused from working. He stared at the bus as if he could make out the old man looking at him through the tinted window. Farther along, the few plots of land made room for the mesquite and huisache and granejo and paloverde, and eventually the vast sea of scrubland broken up only occasionally by a white cross and an arrangement of plastic flowers that marked the last site of an unlucky traveler on this road.

Don Fidencio had his eyes closed for only a few minutes before he felt someone tapping his shoulder.

The old man blinked his eyes open. "Why are you bothering me?"

"We're almost at the checkpoint," Don Celestino said. "I need your driver's license or something with your photo and name so I can get our papers to travel."

"I left all that in my wallet."

"And now tell me how you thought you could go on a trip without your wallet."

"It stayed back there inside my shoe boxes," he said. "The ones you didn't let me bring."

The bus vibrated unsteadily as it rolled across the grated lines on the road and came to a smooth stop under the open-sided checkpoint. The highway continued south and north from this point, but with no other sign of life as far as they could see in either direction. An officer dressed in green pants and khaki s.h.i.+rt approached the bus with a clipboard in hand. Don Celestino reached the front of the bus just as the driver was opening the door to shake hands with the official.

"Excuse me," Don Celestino said, "but the immigration office was closed at the bus station and they told me that I could get our visas here."

"Over there." The official pointed to a single metal office that stood directly across the other lane used for smaller vehicles. "Go knock, see if today you find him in a good mood."

"And hurry," the driver added, "or you'll have to take the next bus."

The men were still laughing as he waited for a large white truck with Texas plates to pa.s.s so he could make it across the lane. He found the office door open and an older woman in a long gingham ap.r.o.n mopping the tiled floor. "Is this where I can get a visa?"

"I only clean the office for the one who sits at the desk," the woman replied.

A short pile of blank visa forms lay on the surface of the otherwise bare desk.

"You know when he's supposed to be back?"

"He comes back whenever he feels like it, any more you have to ask him. I just clean the floor."

He stepped to one side of the entrance to let her pour the water onto a patch of weeds, then carry away the bucket and mop. Back at the bus, the driver was already on the first step, leaning down to shake hands one last time with the official.

"You got everything you needed?" the official asked.

Don Celestino nodded and held up the two forms, folded in half, before he tucked them into the top pocket of his guayabera.

A few minutes later, as the bus was pulling back onto the road, Socorro asked him the same question but got a different response.

"And later if somebody asks, what are we going to do?" she said. "You never stop to think about how things might turn out. You think I can help you if the two of you get in trouble?"

"I was asleep," Don Fidencio said, now sitting back up and leaning forward to hear a little better. "And anyway, if I was born on this side, for what do I need papers?"

"You still need them to be in either country."

"So I'm not supposed to be here, but now I can't get back over there? Is that what you want to tell me? Not here and not there?"

His brother looked at him and then at Socorro. "Just give me time and I'll figure something out," he said, and leaned back in his seat.

"Sure," Don Fidencio said, "sure you will."

_______.

The bus barreled through an open stretch of highway, slowing down only when the red light above the driver buzzed, indicating that he had again exceeded the one-hundred-kilometers-per-hour speed limit. The buzzer, which was actually more of a high-pitched squeal, was interfering with the pa.s.sengers' movie, as well as the ca.s.sette tape he was playing up front for his own pleasure. The combination of the Norteno music, the squealing buzzer, and the Hindu music from the movie forced him to ease his foot off the accelerator. The only other time he reduced his speed was when he found himself stuck behind a car or trailer with a driver who didn't extend him the courtesy of moving off to the shoulder. On the tighter curves, he slowed down to a sluggish eighty kilometers per hour.

After feeling what seemed to be each and every pebble the bus had rolled over, the old man opened his eyes. Three more crosses marked the curve up ahead. A woman was pulling the weeds growing around the last of these shrines, each of them no bigger than a doghouse. Off in the distance he made out a teetering windmill still spinning, though only one of its blades remained in place. Halfway up a small hill, he thought he spotted a thicket of palo amarillo, the kind his grandfather used to search for when he wasn't feeling well and needed to brew another batch of the stems. Together they would venture out into the monte without any clear direction, but turning this way and that way, down along a creek or up some gravelly hillside, as his grandfather picked up a trace of the vanilla-scented flowers. A moment later Don Fidencio grabbed the seat in front of him to pull himself up.

"I need to make water," he announced to anyone interested in knowing.

"You went at the bus station," Don Celestino said back over his shoulder.

"This time I can make it there without your help."

"Yes, yes, without my help - and then if you have an accident and fall?"

"So then what, you want me to stay here and do it in the plastic bag?"

Socorro kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, while the two brothers continued arguing between the seats: something about a pecan, then a guava; something about shoe boxes; something about sacrifices; something about knowing better. Two days ago she'd wanted to come along on the trip, if only to spend more time with Don Celestino. She knew it was silly, but she imagined the trip would somehow make things between them more real. If they were away from home for a while, people would see them together out in public, like a normal couple, and it would continue when they got back. She had been trying to think of the best way of telling her mother, but then Don Celestino said they weren't going after all. She was disappointed at first, though later that night she realized the trip would have been difficult for Don Fidencio. The man needed more care than they had considered before agreeing to take him. Those times they'd gone out to eat, he had refused to wear anything on his collar to protect his clothes. Afterward she'd tried to help him wipe off some of the stains, but they almost always had to return him to the nursing home with various wet splotches across his s.h.i.+rt and pants. Of course, the old man cared little about how he looked; she was the one who worried what people would think, especially the nurses and aides. And none of this was taking into account how he seemed to be losing a little more strength every day. It was difficult helping him get in and out of the car as it was. And now a bus? She had seen how the nurse's aides struggled to get these poor old people in and out of their wheelchairs, their beds, their restrooms. What if one day he couldn't go to the toilet on his own or bathe himself? What if they bought him the cane he insisted on using but then saw that he needed the walker? Though she had gone to bed feeling sorry for him, by the morning she had woken up thankful that his daughter had put an end to the whole thing. She didn't know what to think when she first saw the two men sitting in the taxi at the bridge. What was going through his head, believing he could steal his ninety-one-year-old brother and run away to Mexico? This wasn't going to make the man's life any better. If anything, from now on they probably wouldn't allow him to leave the nursing home even for a short while to eat lunch somewhere. And then one final thought had crossed her mind: What if the old man gets sick on the trip?

Maybe it was her fault for encouraging them to take the trip. Maybe even her fault for insisting that he introduce her to his family. If they hadn't met, Don Fidencio might not have continued telling his grandfather's story as much as he did. What did it matter if she met his family anyway? Or he met hers? She had met his brother, and it wasn't as if anything had changed. Wasn't it enough that she had found someone? Was she imagining this thing between them was more than what it was? The only thing she knew for certain was that she had more questions than answers, and sometimes only questions.

It sounded as if they'd stopped arguing. Then she felt Don Celestino standing up to follow his brother to the lavatory. She opened her eyes just as the bus climbed a low hill that opened up into a new valley. The blossoming white flowers of the yucca spotted the distant hills, and farther to the west, the huisache splashed orange-and-yellow hues along the horizon. A few cinder-block houses with thatched roofs stood at the end of a winding path extending out from the highway. When the bus reached the bottom of the hill, a young boy was standing by himself near the shoulder. He held a falcon tethered to his forearm, which was padded with the remains of what looked like a quilted blanket. A large wire cage stood next to him as he waited for his next customer to pull over. There was nothing around him except for more and more open range. The gust of wind and dirt from a pa.s.sing truck caused the bird to flap its sizable wings and the vendor boy to extend his padded arm to avoid being swatted. As the bus zoomed by, the boy was still struggling to pull down on the tether with his other hand. Socorro turned in her seat until she finally lost him in the unforgiving scrubland.

28.

The engine lights start flas.h.i.+ng, but with no sign that there is trouble with the engine. He has no idea what has become of the driver, or why, of all people, an old man who has never driven a bus, and much less through Mexico, would be the one at the wheel. He tries, for the fourth time, to eject the video from the VCR, and again, like so many other things in his remaining days, it refuses to cooperate with him. He has listened to enough of this strange music in some tongue he has never heard but feels compelled to hum along to. What he needs to do is find a safe place to pull over somewhere on this mountain road and add water to the overheated engine. Because of the dense clouds he has trouble seeing beyond the solid white line at the shoulder, but he imagines the drop is severe and not something any of them would survive if he were to miscalculate one of these curves when the front end of the bus swept over the edge. He eases up on the accelerator as he approaches a group of men walking single file in the opposite direction. But when he gets closer he sees that he is one of these men, only younger, just as he was the only other time he traveled so far into Mexico. The old man desperately wants to slide open the little window and speak to this younger version of himself, tell him how it all turns out, that he makes it back home alive - hungry, but alive - and that from then on he'll take work only when they travel up north, where it will be less likely for these men to accuse him of not belonging where he is and forcing him to go somewhere else, and that later he will find a good job, but one that over many, many years will require him to walk farther than he is walking now, no matter how difficult that might be to imagine. When the road opens up he decides to pull over, only he notices that he has no brakes. There is a gas pedal and then a wide-open s.p.a.ce to the left. He sees the highway flas.h.i.+ng just beneath him. Of all the buses to be put in charge of, they gave him one without so much as a brake pedal. And the accelerator he thought he was controlling turns out to not change in the slightest when he takes his foot off it completely or stomps on it all the way to the floor. The bus simply continues at the same pace, regardless of what he does or doesn't do, whether going downhill or up an incline. He lifts his hands from the steering wheel and it turns smoothly with each curve. Then he stands, watching the bus continue the same as when he was driving, or thought he was. What he wants more than anything is to get back to his own seat and fall back to sleep, as he was doing before he was put in charge of driving a bus that needs no driver. He holds on to the backrests to guide himself past the other pa.s.sengers, who don't so much as thank him for his efforts. But what else should he expect from someone like The Turtle With The Fedora or The Turtle With The Orange Gloves or The One Who Cries Like A Dying Calf or The Gringo With The Ugly Finger? "I pretty much stopped taking buses when I joined up with Pan Am. Then it was nothing but blue, blue skies for yours truly. My little accident wasn't going to keep me grounded, no sir." They're all here, in the seats where the other pa.s.sengers were earlier. The One With The Hole In His Back balances his withered body across several rows so his wound can get some air from the open window. He has left his darkened parts exposed only so that he can keep hold of his cowboy hat in the bustling wind. "I CAN FEEL IT GETTING SMALLER NOW. ALREADY I HAD TOLD THEM TO LEAVE IT, THAT IT JUST NEEDED SOME FRESH AIR AND IT WOULD HEAL BY ITSELF. BUT DID THEY LISTEN?" The lack of empty s.p.a.ces sends him shuffling back to the driver's seat. At least they're past the mountains and hills and are on a level highway. Everything is so much flatter now. The narrow road has two ample lanes going in the same direction and, across a narrow median, another two lanes going in the opposite direction. Something about this feels familiar. He tries to remember the stretch of road from the other time he was here, but he realizes how pointless this is for him, trying to remember something he experienced a lifetime ago. The needle has fallen off the compa.s.s. Who knows where they may be headed? "Telefono!" The bus has slowed down and is traveling through a busy street. No more mountains, no more checkpoints, no more buzzer going off. Still there is something he wants to recall about being here. They're driving straight into the sun, and then up ahead he sees what looks like a long line of cars, all heading toward a bridge.

29.

Most of the pa.s.sengers were still asleep when the bus pulled over. The driver pressed a b.u.t.ton on the console and muted the video.

"You need to wake up," Socorro said.

"Are we there?" Don Celestino sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Look for yourself," she answered, turning to rouse his brother.

Three soldiers were boarding the bus. One stayed up front; the other two walked down the aisle to check everyone's papers. They wore flak jackets over their dark-green fatigues, and the one at the front carried a submachine gun strapped to his shoulder. Don Celestino pulled his seat back to the upright position when the first soldier walked by him.

"I told you something like this would happen," Socorro whispered. "But what do I know?"

"Nothing's going to happen." He caressed her hand.

"You say it like I have something to worry about," she said. "You and your brother are the ones."

The younger of two soldiers was now at the rear of the bus, making his way toward the middle. His partner had stopped in front of the long-haired musician and nudged him until he sat up.