Part 27 (2/2)

Two hours later I landed in Guatemala City.

At the taxi stand outside La Aurora International Airport, I took a piece of paper out of my pocket. On it I had written the address the address the consulate receptionist had given me on the phone. I got into a cab and read the address to the driver. He nodded, and soon we were in Zone 1, which is the central part of the city, where all the oldest buildings are.

I had always thought the city was a study in contrasts. Poverty was the primary theme, with block after block of rudimentary concrete and corrugated-steel structures. But here and there an office building rose to fifteen or twenty stories, and colonial architecture stood in other places like jaded members of a royal family enduring the unwashed presence of their downtrodden subjects.

There was far less Spanish influence than I was used to seeing in other Mexican or Central or South American cities. That was to be expected, since Guatemala City, or ”Guate” as the locals called it, had been only a tiny village until the late 1700s, when the Spanish government arrived after earthquakes had destroyed the original capital of that part of their empire. The Spaniards had enjoyed only a few decades to leave their mark before their reign ended. Meanwhile, great cathedrals and grand government buildings had already been standing for two centuries in places like Guadalajara, Mexico, and Bogota, Colombia.

Still, for such a small, impoverished country, Guate could be something of a surprise. There was a sense of energy about the town. People on the sidewalks all seemed to have someplace to go. Traffic was a disaster, of course. Drivers went everywhere at top speed. They obviously viewed stoplights as mere suggestions. White stripes for traffic lanes and stop signs were ignored altogether. But my driver seemed to take it all in stride, so I relaxed and enjoyed the trip across town.

We followed Avenida La Reforma for fifteen or twenty blocks, a nice broad boulevard with lots of trees. It ended at a large traffic circle around a monument to some Guatemalan hero. From there, the driver took a series of smaller streets. I saw a large stadium on the right, called Cuidad Olimpica, or Olympic City, and a few blocks farther, a railroad museum on the left. After that, the neighborhood started to get older, with more and more colonial Spanish influence.

At 9A Calle, the cabbie took a right, and two blocks farther along he pulled to the curb. I looked out to see a small restaurant between a dentist's office and a shoe store.

”This is it?” I asked in Spanish.

He nodded, ”The address you gave me is the restaurant there, yes.”

I paid him in quetzals, the Guatemalan currency named after the national bird. I got out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. Across the street was a city block shaded by trees. A sign said Columbus Park. In the center of the block rose a limestone monument, and around it were dozens of ficus trees. Underneath the trees I saw old men sitting on benches and in folding chairs. Some of them had set up folding tables to play dominoes. It reminded me of the old men at the benevolence society in Pico-Union. It was a peaceful scene, and somewhat unexpected, since Guatemala City was the murder capital of the world.

Turning toward the address I had been given, I saw a hand-painted sign above the door to the restaurant, black letters against a red background-El Pollo Gordo. The Fat Chicken. On either side of the entrance were seven or eight small tables, surrounded by the kind of cheap white plastic chairs you can buy anywhere for four or five dollars. On the tables were logos for the local beer companies: Victoria, Brahva, and Gallo. Somehow I doubted I would find Valentin Vega inside, but as Simon might have said, one never knew.

I went in. There were six tables along the right wall and a counter on the left, facing the kitchen, which was right there in the same room. In the back a very fat woman sat in a little booth, surrounded by thick gla.s.s. Although the crime was bad in Guatemala, bulletproof gla.s.s for a restaurant cas.h.i.+er surprised me.

All the tables were empty. I didn't want to sit at the counter, since that would put me sideways to the door, so I went to the cas.h.i.+er and said, ”Can someone serve me outside?”

”If you want,” she said.

I went back outside and took a seat near the door, with my back to the wall. I put my bag on the sidewalk beside my chair. I folded my hands on the table and waited.

About five minutes later, a small man came out the door to stand beside my table.

”You want something?” he asked.

”Yes, please. A beer in the bottle, some grilled chicken, and some bread.”

”We do not have chicken.”

”But it is the Fat Chicken.”

He shrugged.

I said, ”All right. In that case, a beef filet, very well done.”

”We have pork.”

”All right. Bring me pork, but cook it very well, okay?”

He shrugged again, then went inside.

Ten minutes later he came back out with a beer. It was room temperature. I sighed and took a drink. In half an hour, he came out with a plate. On it were three pork chops, two slices of bread, and a mound of steaming vegetables. He put the food in front of me.

I said, ”I have no knife or fork.”

He turned to go back inside.

I said, ”Please.”

He returned and stood beside the table. I put a pair of one hundred quetzal bills on the table, worth about twenty-five dollars. I said, ”It would be a great tragedy if this excellent food became cold while I wait on a fork.”

Looking at the money, he shrugged. Then he went back inside.

He was out again in a few seconds, with a fork, a knife, and a cloth napkin. I gave him the two bills. ”What is your name?” I asked.

”Ernesto.”

”My name is Malcolm, Ernesto. As you can tell from my accent, I am a visitor to your fine country. Could you recommend a good hotel nearby?”

Ernesto frowned with concentration. It seemed to cause him pain to think. Then suddenly he brightened. ”La Posada Elena.”

”An excellent name. Where would I find it?”

”Why, it is right there, on the other side of the park.”

”I see. And may I ask you one favor?”

Ernesto shrugged. ”You can always ask.”

”Would you please tell Valentin Vega I am waiting for him here?”

”I do not know this man.”

I nodded. ”Well, some people at the Guatemalan consulate in Los Angeles, California, gave me this address for him, so maybe he will come by. I will eat this excellent food and then sit here and wait for him if that is okay.”

Ernesto shrugged, then went back inside, and I began to eat. The food was surprisingly good. I ate it leisurely and then sat back to nurse the warm beer. There was no hurry. I was there to be seen, after all.

Ernesto reappeared and took away the plate. I ordered another beer and asked him to get it from the refrigerator this time. The two hundred quetzal bills had the desired effect. He returned more quickly than before, and the beer was slightly cooler.

The street was one way, from my left toward the right. I watched the cars and trucks roar past. I watched the old men over in the park. I watched pedestrians pa.s.s by along the sidewalk. I finished the beer, picked up my bag, and went inside the restaurant, looking for a restroom.

On my way back outside, I pa.s.sed Ernesto, who was sitting at the counter reading a newspaper. I asked him for a mineral water. He stood up, went into the kitchen, and came back with a clear bottle. I took it, thanked him, and went back outside to the same chair, where I dropped my bag to the sidewalk and sat down to watch the cars and trucks and old men and pedestrians.

Children started walking past, laughing and jostling each other, the boys in black slacks and white s.h.i.+rts, the girls in white s.h.i.+rts and black-and-blue plaid skirts. Most of them wore backpacks. Some carried books. I decided a school down the street must have just let them out for the day.

A man and woman pa.s.sed me and went into the restaurant. It was good to know there were other customers. I would have hated to see the place go out of business.

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