Part 36 (1/2)

”It's another world, Landon. You know what the big panic there is this week? A cult of ecstatic evangelical Christians who 'hypnotize' women in the shopping malls and steal their babies to raise as soldiers to the Lord. G.o.d knows how much of it is true. These guys don't bathe, and dress in heavy coats with big beards all year round. I mean, freaky, really freaky.”

”They hypnotize women?”

”Weird, yeah? And the *driving*! Anyone over the age of fifty who knows how to drive got there by being an apparat in the Soviet days, which means that they learned to drive when the roads were empty. They don't signal, they straddle lanes, they can't park -- I mean, they *really* can't park. And drunk! Everyone, all the time! You've never seen the like. Imagine a frat party the next day, with a lot of innocent bystanders, hookers, muggers and pickpockets.”

Landon looked at her. She was animated and vivid, thin -- age had brought out her cheekbones and her eyes. Had she had a chin-tuck? It was common enough -- all the medical tourists loved Russia. Maybe she was just well-preserved.

She made a show of sniffing herself. ”Phew! I need a shower! Can I borrow your facilities?”

”Sure,” he said. ”I put clean towels out in the kids' bathroom -- upstairs and second on the right.”

She came down with her fine hair slicked back over her ears, her face scrubbed and s.h.i.+ning. ”I'm a new woman,” she said. ”Let's go somewhere and eat something, OK?”

He took her for pupusas at a Salvadoran place on Goat Hill. They slogged up and down the hills and valleys, taking the steps cut into the steep sides, walking past the Painted Ladies -- grand, gaudy Victorian wood-frames -- and the wobbly, heavy canvas bubble-houses that had sprung up where the big quake and landslides had washed away parts of the hills.

”I'd forgotten that they had hills like that,” she said, greedily guzzling an horchata. Her face was streaked with sweat and flushed -- it made her look prettier, younger.

”My son and I walk them every day.”

”You drag a little kid up and down that every *day*? Christ, that's child abuse!”

”Well, he p.o.o.ps out after a couple of peaks and I end up carrying him.”

”You *carry* him? You must be some kind of superman.” She gave his bicep a squeeze, then his thigh, then slapped his b.u.t.t. ”A fine specimen. Your wife's a lucky woman.”

He grinned. Having his wife in the conversation made him feel less at risk. *That's right, I'm married and we both know it. This is just fun flirting. Nothing more.*

They bit into their pupusas -- stuffed cornmeal dumplings filled with grilled pork and topped with shredded cabbage and hot sauce -- and grunted and ate and ordered more.

”What are these called again?”

”Pupusas, from El Salvador.”

”Humph. In my day, we ate Mexican burritos the size of a football, and we were grateful.”

”No one eats burritos anymore,” he said, then covered his mouth, aware of how pretentious that sounded.

”Dahling,” she said, ”burritos are *so* 2005. You *must* try a pupusa -- it's what all the most charming Central American peasants are eating now.”

They both laughed and stuffed their faces more. ”Well, it was either here or one of the fatkins places with the triple-decker stuffed pizzas, and I figured --”

”They really do that?”

”The fatkins? Yeah -- anything to get that magical 10,000 calories any day. It must be the same in Russia, right? I mean, they invented it.”

”Maybe for fifteen minutes. But most of them don't bother -- they get a little metabolic tweak, not a wide-open throttle like that. Christ, what it must do to your digestive system to process 10,000 calories a day!”

”Chacun a son gout,” he said, essaying a Gallic shrug.

She laughed again and they ate some more. ”I'm starting to feel human at last.”