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chapter 30
When I opened my eyes in the morning and saw MacClayne sitting with his Spanish phrase book, it seemed like an extension of the dream I'd just left. It took me a few seconds to get oriented and remember that I was in a hotel room--not in the drippy dungeon where I always seemed to find him with his lost shipmates. I was getting used to waking up from variants of that recurring dream, and now I'd been there once more again, only this time I'd encountered Wendy in that bunker, sitting, beer in hand, at the table by the moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe. "Olaf!" she'd exclaimed. "I thought you were never going to show up!"
I sat up in bed and reached for my journal.
"Buenos días," MacClayne greeted me.
"Buenos días," I responded. A few sentences in Spanish had become our morning ritual. "¿Cómo amanesiste?"
"Muy bien. ¿Y tú?"
"Bien," I said, looking at his shoulder-length gray hair. He looked very different from the twenty-year-old Royal Marine I'd come to know in those dreams. Now there were lines in his face, though his blue eyes still sparkled, apparently with good humor this morning. After a couple more pleasantries he returned to his phrase book, and I began writing in my journal. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen MacClayne and his pals this time. The dark, dreary bunker had been empty, except for Wendy and the disfigured barmaid who kept bringing her drinks. I'd been visiting that place in my dreams for nearly a week now, usually in the company of Cuauhtémoc, who'd turn up presumably to watch over me. He'd become my inseparable companion in that world as well as in this one.
At this moment, he was perched on the backrest of the chair, watching me write. I was only halfway finished when there was a rap at the door. It was Wendy.
"Jeff and I talked it over," she said. "Would you like to travel together with us? We'll be leaving within the hour."
Her invitation was hardly a surprise, but I didn't feel ready to accept without first discussing it with MacClayne. I had some misgivings and I wanted to reach a consensus with him. I glanced at him; he was looking at me.
"Maybe you'd like to take a few minutes to decide?" she said.
"Yes, I think we would," I said. She left and closed the door behind her.
MacClayne nodded and said, "That jeep should be able to get through if anything can. What do you say?"
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. "We're talking about crossing 200 kilometers of mapless jungle with people we hardly know," I began. "If things get stressful, even a simple thing like changing tires--"
"Can you get to the point?"
"I'm trying to sum it up."
"Don't sum it up. Just tell me.
"Please!" I said. "Let me talk, and I'll tell you."
"Okay, go ahead. I won't interrupt."
I paused and tried to think of where to begin. "There is something I want to tell you," I said. "About Wendy."
"You don't have to explain anything. Your past affair with her is not something I care to hear about."
"Would you please listen."
"Normally I find details of these amorous intrigues boring, but if it's of importance I'll bear with you."
For a moment I debated over whether to just drop it. No, I felt I had to tell him. "I don't know Wendy," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. I can't remember ever seeing her before in my life."
"You seemed to know her last night. I got the impression she was your friend. Now you tell me you don't know her?"
"Yes," I said. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"Does it matter?"
For a moment I stood there not knowing what to say to that, meanwhile, MacClayne continued.
"Wendy seems like a nice person, and I don't see what your objection is," he said. "She has the vehicle, and you know this country and can find the road. If we pool our skills and resources with those people, I think we can get through to Lázaro."
I saw that MacClayne wasn't about to pass up this chance to ride to Lázaro in that jeep, and I also guessed that he'd fallen under the spell of Wendy's charm. This wasn't an argument I could win, and maybe there was nothing worth arguing about. Perhaps my premonition about traveling with Wendy was unfounded. Anyway, it seemed wise to take it gracefully, and I said with a grin, "You did present me very well last night. Wendy probably thinks I'm an expert on this country."
"You are knowledgeable. And as I told you last night, you don't have to be so damn modest."
"I'll tell Wendy we're going with."
She was out in the courtyard, carrying things to the jeep.
"I'm so glad you're coming!" she said enthusiastically when I told her of our decision. "I'd hate to be venturing into that jungle without you."
It seemed that I'd been appointed pathfinder, and I couldn't help feeling honored, albeit somewhat trepidatious at the same time. While Wendy and Jeff completed their preparations, I went back to our room, tossed my things in my pack, and was then about to sit down with my journal when it occurred to me that I should ask doña Matilda what she might have noticed about the American couple.
"Not many foreigners come here," doña Matilda said. "You were the first in quite a while. And then those two drove up. The woman spoke some Spanish. She asked about you."
"What did she ask?" I said.
"Many things. First she asked 'which one is Olaf?' I told her you were in your early twenties, and much younger than your partner."
"Really?" I told the lady how Wendy had greeted me by name. I wondered how she'd known it.
Doña Matilda laughed heartily. "I think she saw it in the hotel register when she signed in."
I nodded to myself. Now that it had been explained, it all fell into place. I said, "Could I see the register?"
"Of course you can."
My name was legible. However, MacClayne had scribbled his indecipherably. This could explain how Wendy knew my name, but not MacClayne's. And it began to dawn on me that beyond that, she'd shown no knowledge of me. She'd remarked on how I'd "changed"--she could have invented that to give her fabrication a ring of authenticity.
Five or six travelers had signed the register after us. Strangely, no Wendy and Jeff were there. However, while the other names were Spanish, two were Anglo-Saxon: Jane and Bob Bradbury.
I heard the sound of footsteps passing through the entrance. I glanced around and saw Wendy carrying a bundle, presumably to load in the jeep. She apparently didn't notice me as she went by, and, once she'd passed, I thanked doña Matilda. Then I stretched out my arm for the bird to hop on, and headed back to our room.
MacClayne was sitting on his cot, reading a book about the mystery of B. Traven as I came in the door. His bag lay in the middle of the floor next to my pack, ready to go.
Should I mention the register and tell him how I just solved another real-life mystery? No, not now. Someday after this was done and over with I might tell him about this Jane Bradbury thing, but right now he probably didn't want to hear it.
It appeared that my premonition about Wendy could be right after all. What sort of a person was she? A con artist? More likely, she was playing some kind of game. I'd known people who did things like that, for the fun of it, apparently. Probably harmless. Nevertheless, was it wise to travel with such unknown people into an unknown jungle?
I felt alone in this quandary. At that moment, Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my lap. I hugged him tightly and no longer felt so alone. "Mi compañero," I said. "Mi pajarito."
He put his head under my arm, and I gave him another hug.
I decided to leave things as they stood. Wendy didn't know that I knew, and it might be best to play along with her and see what came of it.
MacClayne laid down his B. Traven book and stood up. "I think it's about time now," he said. "Shall we see if they're ready?"
As we approached their room, Wendy stuck her head out the door. "Jeff needs more time. Another ten minutes."
We returned to our room, and the ten minutes passed. I went to see. They needed another ten. That also passed.
"What's the holdup?" MacClayne wondered. He'd barely said that when we heard shouting and yelling from across the courtyard.
"Fucking bitch!"
"Don't call me that! You--"
"Alcoholic bitch!"
"You're the alcoholic!"
A door slammed and footsteps came in our direction. There was a knock on our half-open door. Wendy wanted to talk with me.
MacClayne returned to his book without so much as a visible sigh. Perhaps he was resigned to something like this. Cuauhtémoc hopped up on my arm, and I accompanied Wendy to the restaurant of the evening before. She ordered a beer for herself and a coffee for me. Water for the bird.
"Jeff's drunk on his ass," she said.
I nodded, and noted to myself that she was still calling him Jeff, not Bob, the name I'd seen in the register.
"It's all he's done on this trip," she was saying. "Drink, drink and more drinking. I think he's scared, can't handle it. Mexico seems to frighten him."
Wendy's beer arrived and she chug-a-lugged a good half, then poured out a lengthy torrent of complaints about Jeff and his endless drinking. She concluded with saying, "I can't go out into the jungle with a drunk like that."
"No, best not to," I agreed.
"Damn alcoholic!"
"Does he always drink like this?"
"On his days off, he often does. But no, even for him, this is pretty extreme."
"What does he do for a living, if I may ask?"
"He's a geologist."
"Really? Where did he study?"
"Stanford."
I almost sighed with envy. "The geology department there is well known."
"It's a name that opens doors in the job market."
"That too," I said.
"That too? What else would there be?"
"The opportunity to study a fascinating subject under some of the world's leading scholars," I said.
"Yes, that's true," she said. "You know, it's so easy to forget that there's more to life than just making money."
It struck me that Wendy was probably quite good at both making and spending money. I wondered what sort of work she did. Maybe it would come up. "There's a lot of fascinating geology in this region," I said. "I suppose Jeff--"
"Jeff doesn't see it. I've been trying to get him to look at it, but he's lost all interest in geology. Seems to hate it."
"I've heard that can happen to people," I said. "It's sad."
"Well, he's in management now, so he doesn't have to deal with it. And, he makes good money."
"That always helps," I said. I thought of how I had to skimp and save. I couldn't even buy Chayo the dress I'd wanted to.
"Otra cerveza, por favor," Wendy said to the waitress, then back to me, "Do you think I drink a lot?"
Without waiting for my reply, she continued, "Normally I hardly drink at all. You drink the water here, don't you? Maybe you're used to it. Myself, I don't want to take a chance on getting sick. That would spoil this whole vacation. Jeff doesn't seem to understand that, keeps telling me to take it easy on the beer. Really embarrassed me last night. Women aren't supposed to drink in his opinion. But he can. Nevertheless he was the one who got drunk. Did you notice that?"
"Yes, it was fairly obvious."
"He's always the one who gets drunk. But I'm sorry to be bothering you with all this."
"It's okay. It helps to talk."
"Thank you for being a good listener," she said.
The waitress brought the beer, and Wendy took a sip. "I'm sorry! Here I order beer for myself and forget about you," she said, and glanced at my coffee cup which was still nearly full. "Can I order something else for you?"
"Not really, but thank you anyway," I said. "You haven't told me what you're doing these days. Back in California, I mean."
"I didn't?" She smiled that teasing smile of hers.
"No, you told me all about me, but nothing about yourself."
She opened her purse and took out a business card which she gave me. Wendy Carson, it read, and below was the name and address of a real estate firm in Los Angeles.
"So, you sell houses?" I said.
"Yes, and last year I even made more money than Jeff." She smiled that sweet, malicious smile that appeared on her face every so often. "Jeff hates that."
"I guess some guys do," I said. "So I've heard, anyway."
"The male ego. But you seem like a guy who could handle a thing like that."
I smiled and said, "I can believe you're a good salesperson."
"I am," she laughed and took a draught of beer.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc. He was far more quiet than usual, as if he were taking this all in.
"I never saw a rooster without a comb before," she said.
"He used to be a fighting cock." I told her briefly about the bird's career in the cockpits.
"Could you train him to do tricks?"
"Tricks?"
"You know. To fly through a hoop and things like that."
"Oh no. I wouldn't want to make him into a circus animal," I said.
Wendy looked at the bird, then emptied her glass of beer and ordered another.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Sure."
"How did you know my name is Olaf?" I said. Although doña Matilda had given me the answer, I was curious to hear what Wendy might say.
She smiled broadly. "I remembered it from somewhere."
"Where?"
"The hotel register."
She'd tossed that out so casually that it caught me unexpectedly. She continued. "And you're perhaps also wondering why I signed in as Jane Bradbury?"
"Huh?"
"I saw you in the office this morning looking at the register," she said, and smiled as I shifted slightly in my seat.
"It's okay," she said patting my arm. "I would've done exactly what you did. In my business I always run a background check. It's no crime to be resourceful."
I wasn't sure whether I was being complimented or manipulated. Probably both. I'd seen through her game and I thought I had the edge on her, but no. This was a person who could perhaps even out-bullshit MacClayne. For a moment I felt a swell of irritation, but then it struck me as funny and I laughed.
"I like you," she said, her hand still on my arm. "You've got a sense of humor."
"You did have me puzzled last night," I said. "But yes, I'm wondering why you play this name game."
"I do that sometimes."
"Any particular reason?"
"Not really. I guess I just like to be mysterious."
I took a sip of my coffee.
"So," Wendy said. "It's my turn to ask something, okay?"
"Go ahead."
"You have an accent. What is it?"
"Norwegian."
"I should have guessed. Olaf is a Norwegian name, isn't it? You speak English so well. You must've lived in America quite a while."
"I was born there."
"Oh," she said. And for a brief moment I had the satisfaction of seeing Wendy look sheepish. But within an instant she recovered and said, "You're also mysterious."
I grinned and took another sip of coffee.
"It's cold by now, isn't it?" she said. "Let me order you another cup. And let's have some breakfast. I'm treating. How about huevos rancheros?"
"This is Michoacán," I said. "I think huevos rancheros is something they have up north, probably in Sonora."
Wendy sighed and gave me a look of admiration. "You know the culture and customs of this country," she said. "There must be some local dish you might recommend?"
"Beef with beans and tortillas is always good."
Wendy ordered us each a plate, and then said to me, "So how did you get that accent? You're not originally from California, are you?"
"I grew up in Minnesota. Nobody back there ever told me I had an accent," I said. "Actually when I first arrived in California I thought people there sounded strange, though I'm used to it by now."
She laughed.
Our food soon arrived.
"I was thinking," Wendy said as we began to eat. "I can still give you and MacClayne a ride to Lázaro."
"Is Jeff in any condition to travel?"
"I'm leaving him."
"You . . . , you are?"
"The jeep is mine," she said.
"But will Jeff be okay?"
"That's his problem."
Cuauhtémoc crapped on the floor. Fortunately I'd placed a napkin there.
"You mean you'd just abandon him?"
"I'm tired of being his sweet, loving, eternally patient wife."
I thought of the guy I'd met the evening before. Hardly a charming fellow, and I was surprised to find myself concerned about him. "He doesn't seem to know any Spanish at all," I said. "Too bad he didn't learn a little bit of tourist Spanish at least."
"He could have taken classes when I did," she said. "He made no effort whatsoever."
"The poor guy might never find his way to the bus stop," I said, then bit my lip as I remembered my own experience of missing three buses in a row back in Tecomán.
"He never had any difficulty finding a liquor store," she said. "But yes, he's a big baby!"
"You didn't see that in him before?"
"I did, but not like I do now. I've always seen him in his own element. This trip has been an eye opener for me."
"I can imagine," I said. "Don't get me wrong. I think it's good that you live your own life. But first I think you should take Jeff back to California."
"And waste my vacation?"
"Well, you could take him to an airport," I said. "To where somebody speaks English. How about Manzanillo? It can't be much more than a couple hours' drive from here."
"Can't you see I hate the bastard?"
"You hate him?" Her outburst caught me by surprise.
"What would you expect? After all he's put me through!"
"Well, I--"
She glared at me as if she were about to bite me, then shook her head and in a softer voice, "Olaf, you're a kind, loving person."
The squall seemed to be over. I was amazed at how quickly this woman went from sweet to angry and back to sweet again. Not even MacClayne changed moods that fast. Was this an act?
"You don't like Jeff," she was saying. "I caught that last night. The bad vibes between the two of you. But you care about him. You care about people. You're good-hearted."
"I don't think of myself as being good-hearted," I said.
"You're unpretentious," she said. "And that too is part of being a good person." She took my hand in hers and stroked it softly. "So you think I ought to take him to the airport in Manzanillo?"
I nodded. "If my guess is right, he'd be glad to go home."
"He would." She sighed. "It would cost me a day," she said, musing to herself, then took a bite of tortilla and chewed it slowly. "Tell you what. I'll do it."
"Good. I think that would be the right thing."
"I'll be back here by tonight and ready to start out for Lázaro in the morning," she said. "You'll wait for me?"
"Huh?"
"We'll set out together in the morning. The three of us. You, me and MacClayne."
A horrible idea, I thought to myself. Waiting a day would have been okay, but 200 kilometers with Wendy could be bad weather. The seductive way she was smiling at me gave me an even worse feeling. Somewhere out there along the coast we'd come to a secluded beach, and . . ., I could picture how Chayo would feel. And she would know. But whether or not she knew wasn't the really important thing, because even if she didn't know, I would know, so it would hurt her anyway.
I missed Chayo terribly! That feeling shot through me as I sat there talking with this woman who was not Chayo. The fact that Wendy was gorgeous and sexy and charming made me miss Chayo all the more. Someday I'd take Chayo with me on this journey and we'd travel this road together. But first I had to find the way myself. This journey was a pilgrimage that had to be completed, and somewhere at the end of this road I would find Chayo.
"Olaf. Are you there?"
It was Wendy's voice, and I looked up. "I'm sorry," I said. "I was just thinking about something."
"You looked like you were in another world; you had the sweetest smile on your face."
"Really?" I chuckled to give the impression that it was nothing significant. I was embarrassed to think she'd caught a glimpse of my private world.
"Yes really," She said teasingly. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone: "So. In the morning we're going to Lázaro."
"I can't," I said. "MacClayne and I are in a hurry to be moving on."
Wendy's face fell, and she gaped at me. "You mean-- You mean you'll just take off and leave me hanging? "
I felt a surge of guilt, feeling I was abandoning her. My rational mind advised me that was not the situation.
"How could I make it through that jungle? Me. A woman alone."
I tried to think of something. "There are other roads," I said.
"Other roads," she repeated, sounding irritated.
"Some are paved and in good condition, Do you have your map?" On it I showed her the road to Colima City, which then went through the Valley of Infiernillo and turned south at Nueva Italia. Wendy was glaring at me, and I could sense her anger rising, but she said nothing till I finished.
"Do you expect me to do something like that?" she demanded.
"It's the best way to Lázaro, and from there it's an easy drive to Acapulco. It's probably as safe as traveling in California, and you do have a working knowledge of Spanish. I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you were up to it."
"There's something you're not telling me."
"I told you what I know," I said. "I've been on part of that road, not all of it. But I'm sure--"
"It's another woman, isn't it?"
"Huh?"
Wendy smiled ironically.
"Yes, there is," I said.
"You must be very much in love with her," she said. Her anger seemed gone. She seemed very sympathetic.
"Yeah, I guess I am," I said a bit sheepishly.
Wendy laughed. "Don't say you guess! Say you love her! Don't you read any of that romantic Spanish poetry? ¡La quiero con toda mi alma! Stuff like that! That's what women like to hear."
"Tienes razón," I said with a grin. "Sí es verdad. La quiero muchísimo."
Wendy stopped laughing, and her smile faded.
I expected her to ask about my fiancée, who she was and where we'd met. But she didn't. We finished our breakfast in silence, and then started back towards the hotel.
"Anyway, since I've taken up so much of your time, maybe I can give you two a ride to La Placita?" she said at last; her voice was a little cool.
"I'd appreciate that, and I'm sure MacClayne would," I said. Other than horse trails, there was only that one road in or out of Aquila, so we'd have to go back the way we came and start out from La Placita. I guessed that buses from here didn't run too frequently.
Wendy and I walked back to the hotel where we parted. MacClayne scowled at me and set the B. Traven book down when I came in the door, "You've been gone for two hours!" he snorted.
"What?" I was caught by surprise.
"Am I supposed to wait here all day while you go chasing around with your ex-girlfriend?"
For a moment I glared at him, and was nearly overcome by a sudden urge to scream irrationally. Fuck you! I wanted to say. But I took a deep breath, sat down on my cot and shook my head. Keep your cool! I said to myself. Just keep your cool.
Cuauhtémoc hopped up beside me, looked at MacClayne with hackles raised and clucked angrily.
MacClayne paused to look at the bird and finally burst into a broad grin. "You think I deserve a scolding? Well, maybe I do," he said to the bird, then to me, "I'm sorry, maybe I spoke a bit hastily."
I took another deep breath, and said, "You did, but that's okay. I want you to know that Wendy's not my ex-girlfriend, and I'm not chasing her. Anyway, she's leaving Jeff, and so they won't be going to Lázaro. But she offered us a ride to La Placita, and we're leaving now. She went to get her car keys."
We took our things and went out to meet her by the jeep. Wendy wasn't there yet. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Finally I went back into the courtyard to see what might be the problem. Wendy wasn't in sight. The door of their room was closed, and I was about to knock when I heard sounds of heavy breathing, moaning.
"So what's the holdup this time?" MacClayne asked when I returned to where he was waiting by the jeep.
I told him.
"So they're kissing and making up?"
"No doubt that's what's happening," I said.
"Let's just go."
We walked down to the plaza and sat down at the bus stop. MacClayne wasn't quite as exuberant as he'd been the afternoon before, but he was still in good spirits. The irony of this whole situation seemed to amuse him.
"As Apatzi will have it," he remarked with a chuckle.
"Yes, as Apatzi will have it," I said. It was a phrase we'd come to repeat to each other quite often as sort of a tongue-in-cheek ritual.
"Or maybe it was Urð who determined the outcome of this round?" MacClayne said.
"Not exactly," I said. "Urð set up our appointment with Wendy. But it was we, the four of us in our collective interaction with each other, who determined the outcome."
"So that's that how it works?" He chuckled again.
"Yes, Urð assigns the tasks, we work them out as best we can, and the results are ours collectively, though not necessarily what we might wish. As Chayo would say, 'Urð puts us on camera, but we write the script.'"
continued in Chapter 31
I sat up in bed and reached for my journal.
"Buenos días," MacClayne greeted me.
"Buenos días," I responded. A few sentences in Spanish had become our morning ritual. "¿Cómo amanesiste?"
"Muy bien. ¿Y tú?"
"Bien," I said, looking at his shoulder-length gray hair. He looked very different from the twenty-year-old Royal Marine I'd come to know in those dreams. Now there were lines in his face, though his blue eyes still sparkled, apparently with good humor this morning. After a couple more pleasantries he returned to his phrase book, and I began writing in my journal. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen MacClayne and his pals this time. The dark, dreary bunker had been empty, except for Wendy and the disfigured barmaid who kept bringing her drinks. I'd been visiting that place in my dreams for nearly a week now, usually in the company of Cuauhtémoc, who'd turn up presumably to watch over me. He'd become my inseparable companion in that world as well as in this one.
At this moment, he was perched on the backrest of the chair, watching me write. I was only halfway finished when there was a rap at the door. It was Wendy.
"Jeff and I talked it over," she said. "Would you like to travel together with us? We'll be leaving within the hour."
Her invitation was hardly a surprise, but I didn't feel ready to accept without first discussing it with MacClayne. I had some misgivings and I wanted to reach a consensus with him. I glanced at him; he was looking at me.
"Maybe you'd like to take a few minutes to decide?" she said.
"Yes, I think we would," I said. She left and closed the door behind her.
MacClayne nodded and said, "That jeep should be able to get through if anything can. What do you say?"
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. "We're talking about crossing 200 kilometers of mapless jungle with people we hardly know," I began. "If things get stressful, even a simple thing like changing tires--"
"Can you get to the point?"
"I'm trying to sum it up."
"Don't sum it up. Just tell me.
"Please!" I said. "Let me talk, and I'll tell you."
"Okay, go ahead. I won't interrupt."
I paused and tried to think of where to begin. "There is something I want to tell you," I said. "About Wendy."
"You don't have to explain anything. Your past affair with her is not something I care to hear about."
"Would you please listen."
"Normally I find details of these amorous intrigues boring, but if it's of importance I'll bear with you."
For a moment I debated over whether to just drop it. No, I felt I had to tell him. "I don't know Wendy," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. I can't remember ever seeing her before in my life."
"You seemed to know her last night. I got the impression she was your friend. Now you tell me you don't know her?"
"Yes," I said. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"Does it matter?"
For a moment I stood there not knowing what to say to that, meanwhile, MacClayne continued.
"Wendy seems like a nice person, and I don't see what your objection is," he said. "She has the vehicle, and you know this country and can find the road. If we pool our skills and resources with those people, I think we can get through to Lázaro."
I saw that MacClayne wasn't about to pass up this chance to ride to Lázaro in that jeep, and I also guessed that he'd fallen under the spell of Wendy's charm. This wasn't an argument I could win, and maybe there was nothing worth arguing about. Perhaps my premonition about traveling with Wendy was unfounded. Anyway, it seemed wise to take it gracefully, and I said with a grin, "You did present me very well last night. Wendy probably thinks I'm an expert on this country."
"You are knowledgeable. And as I told you last night, you don't have to be so damn modest."
"I'll tell Wendy we're going with."
She was out in the courtyard, carrying things to the jeep.
"I'm so glad you're coming!" she said enthusiastically when I told her of our decision. "I'd hate to be venturing into that jungle without you."
It seemed that I'd been appointed pathfinder, and I couldn't help feeling honored, albeit somewhat trepidatious at the same time. While Wendy and Jeff completed their preparations, I went back to our room, tossed my things in my pack, and was then about to sit down with my journal when it occurred to me that I should ask doña Matilda what she might have noticed about the American couple.
"Not many foreigners come here," doña Matilda said. "You were the first in quite a while. And then those two drove up. The woman spoke some Spanish. She asked about you."
"What did she ask?" I said.
"Many things. First she asked 'which one is Olaf?' I told her you were in your early twenties, and much younger than your partner."
"Really?" I told the lady how Wendy had greeted me by name. I wondered how she'd known it.
Doña Matilda laughed heartily. "I think she saw it in the hotel register when she signed in."
I nodded to myself. Now that it had been explained, it all fell into place. I said, "Could I see the register?"
"Of course you can."
My name was legible. However, MacClayne had scribbled his indecipherably. This could explain how Wendy knew my name, but not MacClayne's. And it began to dawn on me that beyond that, she'd shown no knowledge of me. She'd remarked on how I'd "changed"--she could have invented that to give her fabrication a ring of authenticity.
Five or six travelers had signed the register after us. Strangely, no Wendy and Jeff were there. However, while the other names were Spanish, two were Anglo-Saxon: Jane and Bob Bradbury.
I heard the sound of footsteps passing through the entrance. I glanced around and saw Wendy carrying a bundle, presumably to load in the jeep. She apparently didn't notice me as she went by, and, once she'd passed, I thanked doña Matilda. Then I stretched out my arm for the bird to hop on, and headed back to our room.
MacClayne was sitting on his cot, reading a book about the mystery of B. Traven as I came in the door. His bag lay in the middle of the floor next to my pack, ready to go.
Should I mention the register and tell him how I just solved another real-life mystery? No, not now. Someday after this was done and over with I might tell him about this Jane Bradbury thing, but right now he probably didn't want to hear it.
It appeared that my premonition about Wendy could be right after all. What sort of a person was she? A con artist? More likely, she was playing some kind of game. I'd known people who did things like that, for the fun of it, apparently. Probably harmless. Nevertheless, was it wise to travel with such unknown people into an unknown jungle?
I felt alone in this quandary. At that moment, Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my lap. I hugged him tightly and no longer felt so alone. "Mi compañero," I said. "Mi pajarito."
He put his head under my arm, and I gave him another hug.
I decided to leave things as they stood. Wendy didn't know that I knew, and it might be best to play along with her and see what came of it.
MacClayne laid down his B. Traven book and stood up. "I think it's about time now," he said. "Shall we see if they're ready?"
As we approached their room, Wendy stuck her head out the door. "Jeff needs more time. Another ten minutes."
We returned to our room, and the ten minutes passed. I went to see. They needed another ten. That also passed.
"What's the holdup?" MacClayne wondered. He'd barely said that when we heard shouting and yelling from across the courtyard.
"Fucking bitch!"
"Don't call me that! You--"
"Alcoholic bitch!"
"You're the alcoholic!"
A door slammed and footsteps came in our direction. There was a knock on our half-open door. Wendy wanted to talk with me.
MacClayne returned to his book without so much as a visible sigh. Perhaps he was resigned to something like this. Cuauhtémoc hopped up on my arm, and I accompanied Wendy to the restaurant of the evening before. She ordered a beer for herself and a coffee for me. Water for the bird.
"Jeff's drunk on his ass," she said.
I nodded, and noted to myself that she was still calling him Jeff, not Bob, the name I'd seen in the register.
"It's all he's done on this trip," she was saying. "Drink, drink and more drinking. I think he's scared, can't handle it. Mexico seems to frighten him."
Wendy's beer arrived and she chug-a-lugged a good half, then poured out a lengthy torrent of complaints about Jeff and his endless drinking. She concluded with saying, "I can't go out into the jungle with a drunk like that."
"No, best not to," I agreed.
"Damn alcoholic!"
"Does he always drink like this?"
"On his days off, he often does. But no, even for him, this is pretty extreme."
"What does he do for a living, if I may ask?"
"He's a geologist."
"Really? Where did he study?"
"Stanford."
I almost sighed with envy. "The geology department there is well known."
"It's a name that opens doors in the job market."
"That too," I said.
"That too? What else would there be?"
"The opportunity to study a fascinating subject under some of the world's leading scholars," I said.
"Yes, that's true," she said. "You know, it's so easy to forget that there's more to life than just making money."
It struck me that Wendy was probably quite good at both making and spending money. I wondered what sort of work she did. Maybe it would come up. "There's a lot of fascinating geology in this region," I said. "I suppose Jeff--"
"Jeff doesn't see it. I've been trying to get him to look at it, but he's lost all interest in geology. Seems to hate it."
"I've heard that can happen to people," I said. "It's sad."
"Well, he's in management now, so he doesn't have to deal with it. And, he makes good money."
"That always helps," I said. I thought of how I had to skimp and save. I couldn't even buy Chayo the dress I'd wanted to.
"Otra cerveza, por favor," Wendy said to the waitress, then back to me, "Do you think I drink a lot?"
Without waiting for my reply, she continued, "Normally I hardly drink at all. You drink the water here, don't you? Maybe you're used to it. Myself, I don't want to take a chance on getting sick. That would spoil this whole vacation. Jeff doesn't seem to understand that, keeps telling me to take it easy on the beer. Really embarrassed me last night. Women aren't supposed to drink in his opinion. But he can. Nevertheless he was the one who got drunk. Did you notice that?"
"Yes, it was fairly obvious."
"He's always the one who gets drunk. But I'm sorry to be bothering you with all this."
"It's okay. It helps to talk."
"Thank you for being a good listener," she said.
The waitress brought the beer, and Wendy took a sip. "I'm sorry! Here I order beer for myself and forget about you," she said, and glanced at my coffee cup which was still nearly full. "Can I order something else for you?"
"Not really, but thank you anyway," I said. "You haven't told me what you're doing these days. Back in California, I mean."
"I didn't?" She smiled that teasing smile of hers.
"No, you told me all about me, but nothing about yourself."
She opened her purse and took out a business card which she gave me. Wendy Carson, it read, and below was the name and address of a real estate firm in Los Angeles.
"So, you sell houses?" I said.
"Yes, and last year I even made more money than Jeff." She smiled that sweet, malicious smile that appeared on her face every so often. "Jeff hates that."
"I guess some guys do," I said. "So I've heard, anyway."
"The male ego. But you seem like a guy who could handle a thing like that."
I smiled and said, "I can believe you're a good salesperson."
"I am," she laughed and took a draught of beer.
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc. He was far more quiet than usual, as if he were taking this all in.
"I never saw a rooster without a comb before," she said.
"He used to be a fighting cock." I told her briefly about the bird's career in the cockpits.
"Could you train him to do tricks?"
"Tricks?"
"You know. To fly through a hoop and things like that."
"Oh no. I wouldn't want to make him into a circus animal," I said.
Wendy looked at the bird, then emptied her glass of beer and ordered another.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Sure."
"How did you know my name is Olaf?" I said. Although doña Matilda had given me the answer, I was curious to hear what Wendy might say.
She smiled broadly. "I remembered it from somewhere."
"Where?"
"The hotel register."
She'd tossed that out so casually that it caught me unexpectedly. She continued. "And you're perhaps also wondering why I signed in as Jane Bradbury?"
"Huh?"
"I saw you in the office this morning looking at the register," she said, and smiled as I shifted slightly in my seat.
"It's okay," she said patting my arm. "I would've done exactly what you did. In my business I always run a background check. It's no crime to be resourceful."
I wasn't sure whether I was being complimented or manipulated. Probably both. I'd seen through her game and I thought I had the edge on her, but no. This was a person who could perhaps even out-bullshit MacClayne. For a moment I felt a swell of irritation, but then it struck me as funny and I laughed.
"I like you," she said, her hand still on my arm. "You've got a sense of humor."
"You did have me puzzled last night," I said. "But yes, I'm wondering why you play this name game."
"I do that sometimes."
"Any particular reason?"
"Not really. I guess I just like to be mysterious."
I took a sip of my coffee.
"So," Wendy said. "It's my turn to ask something, okay?"
"Go ahead."
"You have an accent. What is it?"
"Norwegian."
"I should have guessed. Olaf is a Norwegian name, isn't it? You speak English so well. You must've lived in America quite a while."
"I was born there."
"Oh," she said. And for a brief moment I had the satisfaction of seeing Wendy look sheepish. But within an instant she recovered and said, "You're also mysterious."
I grinned and took another sip of coffee.
"It's cold by now, isn't it?" she said. "Let me order you another cup. And let's have some breakfast. I'm treating. How about huevos rancheros?"
"This is Michoacán," I said. "I think huevos rancheros is something they have up north, probably in Sonora."
Wendy sighed and gave me a look of admiration. "You know the culture and customs of this country," she said. "There must be some local dish you might recommend?"
"Beef with beans and tortillas is always good."
Wendy ordered us each a plate, and then said to me, "So how did you get that accent? You're not originally from California, are you?"
"I grew up in Minnesota. Nobody back there ever told me I had an accent," I said. "Actually when I first arrived in California I thought people there sounded strange, though I'm used to it by now."
She laughed.
Our food soon arrived.
"I was thinking," Wendy said as we began to eat. "I can still give you and MacClayne a ride to Lázaro."
"Is Jeff in any condition to travel?"
"I'm leaving him."
"You . . . , you are?"
"The jeep is mine," she said.
"But will Jeff be okay?"
"That's his problem."
Cuauhtémoc crapped on the floor. Fortunately I'd placed a napkin there.
"You mean you'd just abandon him?"
"I'm tired of being his sweet, loving, eternally patient wife."
I thought of the guy I'd met the evening before. Hardly a charming fellow, and I was surprised to find myself concerned about him. "He doesn't seem to know any Spanish at all," I said. "Too bad he didn't learn a little bit of tourist Spanish at least."
"He could have taken classes when I did," she said. "He made no effort whatsoever."
"The poor guy might never find his way to the bus stop," I said, then bit my lip as I remembered my own experience of missing three buses in a row back in Tecomán.
"He never had any difficulty finding a liquor store," she said. "But yes, he's a big baby!"
"You didn't see that in him before?"
"I did, but not like I do now. I've always seen him in his own element. This trip has been an eye opener for me."
"I can imagine," I said. "Don't get me wrong. I think it's good that you live your own life. But first I think you should take Jeff back to California."
"And waste my vacation?"
"Well, you could take him to an airport," I said. "To where somebody speaks English. How about Manzanillo? It can't be much more than a couple hours' drive from here."
"Can't you see I hate the bastard?"
"You hate him?" Her outburst caught me by surprise.
"What would you expect? After all he's put me through!"
"Well, I--"
She glared at me as if she were about to bite me, then shook her head and in a softer voice, "Olaf, you're a kind, loving person."
The squall seemed to be over. I was amazed at how quickly this woman went from sweet to angry and back to sweet again. Not even MacClayne changed moods that fast. Was this an act?
"You don't like Jeff," she was saying. "I caught that last night. The bad vibes between the two of you. But you care about him. You care about people. You're good-hearted."
"I don't think of myself as being good-hearted," I said.
"You're unpretentious," she said. "And that too is part of being a good person." She took my hand in hers and stroked it softly. "So you think I ought to take him to the airport in Manzanillo?"
I nodded. "If my guess is right, he'd be glad to go home."
"He would." She sighed. "It would cost me a day," she said, musing to herself, then took a bite of tortilla and chewed it slowly. "Tell you what. I'll do it."
"Good. I think that would be the right thing."
"I'll be back here by tonight and ready to start out for Lázaro in the morning," she said. "You'll wait for me?"
"Huh?"
"We'll set out together in the morning. The three of us. You, me and MacClayne."
A horrible idea, I thought to myself. Waiting a day would have been okay, but 200 kilometers with Wendy could be bad weather. The seductive way she was smiling at me gave me an even worse feeling. Somewhere out there along the coast we'd come to a secluded beach, and . . ., I could picture how Chayo would feel. And she would know. But whether or not she knew wasn't the really important thing, because even if she didn't know, I would know, so it would hurt her anyway.
I missed Chayo terribly! That feeling shot through me as I sat there talking with this woman who was not Chayo. The fact that Wendy was gorgeous and sexy and charming made me miss Chayo all the more. Someday I'd take Chayo with me on this journey and we'd travel this road together. But first I had to find the way myself. This journey was a pilgrimage that had to be completed, and somewhere at the end of this road I would find Chayo.
"Olaf. Are you there?"
It was Wendy's voice, and I looked up. "I'm sorry," I said. "I was just thinking about something."
"You looked like you were in another world; you had the sweetest smile on your face."
"Really?" I chuckled to give the impression that it was nothing significant. I was embarrassed to think she'd caught a glimpse of my private world.
"Yes really," She said teasingly. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone: "So. In the morning we're going to Lázaro."
"I can't," I said. "MacClayne and I are in a hurry to be moving on."
Wendy's face fell, and she gaped at me. "You mean-- You mean you'll just take off and leave me hanging? "
I felt a surge of guilt, feeling I was abandoning her. My rational mind advised me that was not the situation.
"How could I make it through that jungle? Me. A woman alone."
I tried to think of something. "There are other roads," I said.
"Other roads," she repeated, sounding irritated.
"Some are paved and in good condition, Do you have your map?" On it I showed her the road to Colima City, which then went through the Valley of Infiernillo and turned south at Nueva Italia. Wendy was glaring at me, and I could sense her anger rising, but she said nothing till I finished.
"Do you expect me to do something like that?" she demanded.
"It's the best way to Lázaro, and from there it's an easy drive to Acapulco. It's probably as safe as traveling in California, and you do have a working knowledge of Spanish. I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you were up to it."
"There's something you're not telling me."
"I told you what I know," I said. "I've been on part of that road, not all of it. But I'm sure--"
"It's another woman, isn't it?"
"Huh?"
Wendy smiled ironically.
"Yes, there is," I said.
"You must be very much in love with her," she said. Her anger seemed gone. She seemed very sympathetic.
"Yeah, I guess I am," I said a bit sheepishly.
Wendy laughed. "Don't say you guess! Say you love her! Don't you read any of that romantic Spanish poetry? ¡La quiero con toda mi alma! Stuff like that! That's what women like to hear."
"Tienes razón," I said with a grin. "Sí es verdad. La quiero muchísimo."
Wendy stopped laughing, and her smile faded.
I expected her to ask about my fiancée, who she was and where we'd met. But she didn't. We finished our breakfast in silence, and then started back towards the hotel.
"Anyway, since I've taken up so much of your time, maybe I can give you two a ride to La Placita?" she said at last; her voice was a little cool.
"I'd appreciate that, and I'm sure MacClayne would," I said. Other than horse trails, there was only that one road in or out of Aquila, so we'd have to go back the way we came and start out from La Placita. I guessed that buses from here didn't run too frequently.
Wendy and I walked back to the hotel where we parted. MacClayne scowled at me and set the B. Traven book down when I came in the door, "You've been gone for two hours!" he snorted.
"What?" I was caught by surprise.
"Am I supposed to wait here all day while you go chasing around with your ex-girlfriend?"
For a moment I glared at him, and was nearly overcome by a sudden urge to scream irrationally. Fuck you! I wanted to say. But I took a deep breath, sat down on my cot and shook my head. Keep your cool! I said to myself. Just keep your cool.
Cuauhtémoc hopped up beside me, looked at MacClayne with hackles raised and clucked angrily.
MacClayne paused to look at the bird and finally burst into a broad grin. "You think I deserve a scolding? Well, maybe I do," he said to the bird, then to me, "I'm sorry, maybe I spoke a bit hastily."
I took another deep breath, and said, "You did, but that's okay. I want you to know that Wendy's not my ex-girlfriend, and I'm not chasing her. Anyway, she's leaving Jeff, and so they won't be going to Lázaro. But she offered us a ride to La Placita, and we're leaving now. She went to get her car keys."
We took our things and went out to meet her by the jeep. Wendy wasn't there yet. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
Finally I went back into the courtyard to see what might be the problem. Wendy wasn't in sight. The door of their room was closed, and I was about to knock when I heard sounds of heavy breathing, moaning.
"So what's the holdup this time?" MacClayne asked when I returned to where he was waiting by the jeep.
I told him.
"So they're kissing and making up?"
"No doubt that's what's happening," I said.
"Let's just go."
We walked down to the plaza and sat down at the bus stop. MacClayne wasn't quite as exuberant as he'd been the afternoon before, but he was still in good spirits. The irony of this whole situation seemed to amuse him.
"As Apatzi will have it," he remarked with a chuckle.
"Yes, as Apatzi will have it," I said. It was a phrase we'd come to repeat to each other quite often as sort of a tongue-in-cheek ritual.
"Or maybe it was Urð who determined the outcome of this round?" MacClayne said.
"Not exactly," I said. "Urð set up our appointment with Wendy. But it was we, the four of us in our collective interaction with each other, who determined the outcome."
"So that's that how it works?" He chuckled again.
"Yes, Urð assigns the tasks, we work them out as best we can, and the results are ours collectively, though not necessarily what we might wish. As Chayo would say, 'Urð puts us on camera, but we write the script.'"
continued in Chapter 31
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