Part 13 (1/2)
”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.”