I am annoyed with
happiness, as always before flight, a tinge
of desperation when climbing, then, seated,
secure. An ounce of pot sewn into my jacket
and twenty thousand dollars in the money
belt. Pretty but not beautiful
stewardesses::::I keep track of one. Rum and
Cokes.
I verify my reservations
for Macchu Picchu. I stand on my
terrace::::Lima, and the Pacific. I half
unpack, take a shower, read, sleep.
After lunch at the hotel I
stroll into the city::::hotel as navigational
star.
I make the call. In ten
days his friend will pick me up.
Hand-made cigarettes, Sweet
and impotent, faintly sage Puerto Rican rum.
In my room before dark. I
watch tv without sound::::a soccer match. I
sleep.
Mountains don't mean; in
the life, the plants, the soils, the paths
themselves::::in the life, all immortal,
caressed; the Sierras::::the Boy
Scouts::::the first time I inhaled cleanness.
I discover in climbing
death demands a certain vigor. Dead animal
smell not given outward, not even my breath
is mean with it; I usually perspire like an
athelete; I'm perspiring on the inside. The
air is immaculate. The guide pulls coca
leaves for us: "To make the climbing
less demanding." Bitter; my head still
heavy, but I use its weight::::to fall
forward. I suck air. Weariness steps out of
the pool::::first sweat, the contradiction
makes me smile::::same smile on the others.
The peak::::the city::::the
ruins::::Macchu Picchu, is cleverly cut
stone, green green grass, weeds. The flood of
writing never comes; I'd expected spirits to
penetrate me that aren't even here; I don't
cry as I'd dreamed; the closest I've ever
come to Nothingness. I sit at the head of the
trail and wait. Those taking photographs have
had an experience.
"I don't want to go to
bed, the child whines, in bed. In bed. I
enjoy it here. Being forced to sleep, but
sleeping, in sleeping preparing for waking,
which is a birth. I've already gone through
birth, but I sleep. Tomorrow I'll wake; I'll
not be weak."
I stop by a small market; a
red cement floor with well-worn well-swept
aisles, meager stock: a husband and wife, a
four year old girl and a five year old boy
pushing in the aisles, pushing behind the
counter, running out the back, running
through to the front, hand-in-hand in front
of the board bench::::they giggle; fruit,
bread, two six-packs of beer.
I walk to the beach, sit on
gray-white sand surrounded on three sides by
chocolate brown cliff, watch gray on gray
horizon, gray swells, gray-white
waves::::protected from breezes but having to
wear two shirts.
"I invent birds in
dreams to escape upon::::ride on their backs
like horses, or clutching their
tail-feathers, or gently being held in their
talons or beaks; sometimes I'm the bird, but
when I'm the bird::::in the middle of
flight::::I forget how to
fly::::fall::::crash::::wake.
"I practice during the
day, flap my arms until exhausted, chase-down
brown and gray rodents, collect twigs and
string."
A man is sitting-leaning on
a rock; he sees me; I continue, sit in my
corner. I take out a beer and raise it; he
stands, takes off his hat and runs fingers
through his hair, slaps the sand off the seat
of his jeans, walks over::::black shoes
grabbed by sand, nods::::smiles, sits next to
me::::at an elegant distance. We shake hands,
introduce ourselves. We stare over the
ocean::::uneven waves cresting, crashing,
foaming to beach, splashing on rock, jumping
up cliff.
"Cigaretta?"
I hand him the pack and he
takes one, give him matches::::it was taking
me four or five matches::::he lights-up with
one.
"Marijuana? Uh,
mota?"
His face catches the sun.
One of us laughs which
starts the other laughing, as if we are
exchanging jokes.
We walk a mile inland to
his home. His children, screaming before our
entrance, stand silent::::unblinking; I sit
at the kitchen-livingroom-children's room
table. Raul's wife quips, glares, prepares
dinner; thick brown soup, mashed beans, black
bread. He comes out of the back room holding
a neatly folded paper::::sets it on the table
and unfolds it: nearly a half-ounce of shiny
flaky chrystal-rocks. He pulls a sheet of
butcher paper from a drawer, picks up two of
the rocks with his fingers and sets them on
the paper quickly folding it into a package;
he offers it on his palm with an open grin. I
smile, stand, reach back and take out my
wallet and hold out what I hastily figure is
forty dollars; he refuses with his other
palm. I shake the bills, cock my head; he
shakes his head smiling-cursing and then
bends around and folds another rock into the
paper::::reaches into my jacket pocket, pats
it; he takes the money and tosses it back
onto the table then shakes my hand, pats my
shoulder. The children have vanished. His
wife cooks stone-faced.
I sit from morning to
mid-afternoon in a small open-front cafe in a
poor section: ten tables, blonde wood stained
dark but the stain worn through to raw
blondness except in the centers::::the one I
sit at dips where the meals are set, I have
to be careful with my glass.
For breakfast: vegetables
and eggs fried together, sliced fruits; four
separate bowls of sauce::::I sample them all;
I drink beer, which annoys the plump Indian
waitress-cook::::she disappears after
breakfast and I grab my own beers out of the
refrigerator.
Donkeys. Fat women.
Fat-faced babies. Lean men. Children playing
chasing games::::a version of hide-and-seek
in which the seeker, when unsuccessful after
only a very short hunt::::to find anyone,
calls the others out of hiding, then they
choose another seeker by way of an elaborate
hand-game. A man carrying plucked chickens
over his shoulder greeted by a man coming
from the opposite direction, the first man
swings the chickens over to the other man,
who turns and continues in the first man's
direction. Old trucks. Old cars. New Mercedes
with sunglassed drivers and passengers
staring at themselves. A few
tourists::::Americans, Europeans, Japanese,
other Latins::::hurrying, rigid except for
the mechanics of walking.
For lunch: baked white fish
stuffed with rice and vegetables, covered
with a spicy white cheese-like sauce; so much
food I become full half-way through::::the
last mouthfuls cold and pasty.
The dozen other patrons are
regulars; they are playful with the
waitress::::she never smiles even to them, or
says anything that sounds jovial or
sarcastic; she talks about me thinking I
can't tell::::perhaps not caring.
"The body of a woman.
The body of a man. The body of a
chicken."
Riding along in a brand new
silver Mercedes. The city, a city to the
South, the coastline, the mountains::::Dano's
house is steeped in artifacts, his father a
millionaire and collector, Dano an investor
and businessman.
"You like it, huh? You
should see it from my parent's house. That
white one on the mountainside; right there;
do you see it?"
He prepares lines as if
martinis. His English well travelled, his
voice used to being listened to, his manners
rich and thorough::::he leans against backs
of couches.
"Those ruins do the
same nothing for me. I have friends who
climb-up at least once a year::::as a ritual.
I haven't been up there since high
school."
He calls Raul a
"cholo"::::his voice mean. He
casually gives me tips about Mexico City
customs while his friend counts the money. He
slips the vest on me.
"You're
perfect::::you're so skinny."
Dropped off at the hotel; I
browse around the shops in the lobby,
pick-out several postcards.\
Rum and Cokes. The man next
to me calls Macchu Picchu a "religious
experience" (Catholic!). I tell him I'd
talked the guide into leaving me
behind::::Incan priests and priestesses
danced around me and chanted for my soul.
He and I play backgammon;
he wins eight games to two. We rest; he
sleeps, I try to sleep::::rehearse confidence
in the reflection of the window, stare
through my reflection down to the black
ocean::::it'll be over soon::::I'll be home.
Sitting on the toilet I
think about removing the vest and ditching it
somewhere on the plane.
I try to
sleep::::uncomfortably warm; close my eyes
and pretend sleep.
Late::::seven
a.m::::scheduled for five-thirty; customs
agents fat with breakfast, erect with coffee.
I feel unnatural and mimick the man ahead of
me. It is hot. Couples dressed well but
light::::older men in suits, the younger
people in short sleeves; the lines move slow:
the customs agents serious::::frowning,
thorough.
I smile. I hand over my
passport. I declare nothing. He stares at me,
at my passport, at me.
"Sir, would you please
follow my assistant to the customs office
where the number of your passport can be run
through our computer?"
The young assistant smiles.
He hands my passport to the
huge well uniformed officer behind the
counter::::every page is examined as if
braille, he even takes it up to his nose::::I
think he's smelling it, but his eyes are
poor! Just then I realize I'm not being seen
by the other passengers.
"Take off your jacket,
please."
He goes through my jacket,
squeezes it, then gestures to the assistant
to frisk me. He paws, rakes, digs fingers
till they hit the canvas vest::::I giggle.
"Your vest,
please::::and your shirt."
I unbutton one button.
"I strongly::::"
"::::No talk!"
He gestures and the vest is
ripped off, my shirt is pulled off quickly,
effortlessly: the vest; the officer strolls
around to my side of the counter, fits his
fingers into the slits between the buttons of
the vest and rips me open, yanks the vest
down-off, lays the vest down on the counter
and tears it as if it is a piece of
paper::::white powder. Two other agents come
in.
"Strip him!"
The assistant fumbles my
buckle open, unsnaps my pants, pushes them
down, then has to pull the bunch up off my
feet so he can untie my shoes; he
hesitates::::looks at my speedos, looks up to
my face::::the officer yells, he slides the
speedos down my legs using both hands, gently
lifts my foot, the other. Four more agents
arrive, lean against walls, a few reach in
with a finger and taste::::smile,
laugh::::slaps on the back of the agent who'd
sent me; the older ones and the younger ones
stare at the vest then at me, serious and
sad, as if sharing my predicament::::I hide
fear with rage::::unsuccessfully.