Christine screamed.
Jessica spun around. “What?”
Christine pointed toward the corner of the room. “There’s something up there.”
Jessica looked up. A small olive drab–colored lizard clung to the wall. She exhaled with relief. “Man! I thought it was a tarantula or something. It’s only a gecko.” Jessica walked up to it for a closer look. “They’re good luck.”
“I can’t sleep in a room with lizards crawling around it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Pick one.”
“They won’t hurt you. Besides, they eat spiders.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Don’t be such a wimp.”
“It’s for the children,” Christine said, lying back in the bed. Jessica sat down on the other bed. The springs squeaked beneath her.
“I’m going out to see the city. Want to come?”
“I need sleep. When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. Jim invited us all to dinner.”
“When?”
“Five.”
She glanced at her watch. It was almost two.
“Where are we meeting?”
“The restaurant is in the Plaza. I’ll write the address down for you.” She got up and scribbled the restaurant’s name and address on the back of her airline ticket. “I’m sure they’ll be others from the group downstairs when it’s time to go. Just come with them.”
“All right,” Christine said, rolling over, “I’ll meet you there.”
Jessica stopped in the doorway. “Five o’clock.”
“Five o’clock.”
“Need a wake-up call?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should wear a flea collar around your neck. It might protect you from the gecko.”
“Go away.”
Jessica grinned. “See ya.”
The door shut. Christine rolled over and, clutching her pillow, fell asleep.
Chapter
Eight
As much as I have schemed and planned to the contrary, the most central experiences of my life have all been accidents.
PAUL COOK’S DIARY
When Christine woke, the room’s curtains glowed dim orange. She immediately looked to where the lizard had been and it was still there, which relieved her on two counts—first, she knew where it was, and second, anything that lethargic couldn’t be much of a threat.
She glanced at her watch. It was already ten minutes past five o’clock. She brushed her hair, grabbed her purse, then rushed downstairs hoping to still catch someone from the group. The lobby was vacant except for a middle-aged clerk and a cleaning lady who was spraying plants from a plastic water bottle. She went to the registration counter where the clerk was writing. “Excuse me, sir.”
He looked up and smiled. “Yes, Señorita.”
“Is this restaurant far from here?” She handed him the address.
He glanced at the ticket then back up. “It is far to walk. But by taxi it is not far. It is in the Plaza.”
“How much should it cost?”
“It should be just two soles.”
“Two soles?”
“Yes. Do you have soles?”
“I have these.”
She took out a handful of coins and began to look through them.
“It is this one,” the clerk said, pulling a silver coin from the pile. “Two of them. And you should take this.” He handed her the hotel’s card. “In case you be lost.”
“Thank you,” she said, stowing the money and card in her pocket. “Where is the best place to find a taxi?”
“In the road, Señorita.”
She wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her, but he looked sincere so she just thanked him, returned her wallet to her purse and walked out of the hotel.
Outside, the air was moist and warm and filled with the sound of traffic: the rumbling of older cars, the whining of small motorcycles and the incessant honking of both. A few feet from the door a young man was beating a rug against a lamppost.
Christine was immediately set upon by street vendors hawking their wares. She stopped to look over their offerings. There were small toy llama dolls, sweaters and hats of alpaca wool, and silver and turquoise jewelry on long black velvet-covered trays.
She crouched over a tray and lifted a small pair of sterling earrings. Someone bumped into her. She turned to see a small, tangle-haired boy pulling his hand from her purse. He had her wallet.
“Hey…”
The boy darted off. Just then a man stepped from the crowd and grabbed the boy around the waist, lifting him from the ground. He carried the child over to her. When he was near, he said to the boy, “Devuélveselo a la señorita.” Return it to the woman.
The boy’s eyes darted nervously between the man and Christine. Then he timidly surrendered his catch. “Gracias,” the man said. He gently pried the wallet from the boy’s hands and held it out to her. She put her wallet back in her purse.
“Muy bien. Ahora vete,” the man said to the boy. He set the boy back down on the pavement and the child disappeared like a fish released into a stream.
Christine stared at the stranger. He had long, coffee-colored hair that fell almost to his shoulders beneath a worn, tan leather hat. A leather thong hung around his neck, disappearing into the V of his shirt. His eyes were blue and piercing and his skin was almost the color of the hat, dark from the sun. He had a slightly boyish face yet was rugged-looking, his chin and jaw covered with the start of a new beard. She guessed him to be American or European or maybe Australian, but he did not look out of place. Looking at him, she felt suddenly awkward. “Do you speak English?” she asked.
“Sí, Señorita.” The roughness of his face vanished in a pleasant smile. “Are you okay?” The accent was American.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She stared at him, not sure what else to say but wanting to say more. There was an energy about this man that intrigued her. She asked, “Why did you let him go?”
“Peru has a strict catch-and-release policy with street children,” he said. She realized that he was joking and she smiled. He likewise smiled. “Can I help you get somewhere?”
“I was just about to hail a cab.”
“Allow me.” He stepped to the curb and held his arm out to the oncoming traffic. A small car immediately pulled over.
Christine stepped to the car. “Thank you.”
“¿A dónde va?” the driver asked.
“Where are you going?” the American asked her.
She held out the ticket. “This place. It’s a restaurant.” He looked at the address and said to the driver, “La señorita va al restaurante Inca Wall en la Plaza de Armas.” He turned back to her. “You must be in one of Jim Hammer’s groups.”
“You know Jim?”
“I know him well. He loves that restaurant. Try the cuy.”
“Cuy?”
“It’s a local delicacy.”
“Thank you. I will.”
He opened the car’s door for her. After she had climbed in, he said to the driver, “Señor, el restaurante está al norte de la Plaza de Armas. Gracias.” He turned to her. “He knows where to go.”
“Thank you,” she said again.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Hasta luego.” He shut the door behind her, then walked away as the taxi surged forward, merging into the traffic. Christine was somewhat dazed by the whole experience, and she glanced back once more to see him but he was gone. Hasta luego. Would she see him later?
The cab jostled through the traffic and she sat back in the seat. There were no seatbelts, which, from the look of the car, didn’t surprise her. The tears in the vinyl seats were taped together with duct tape. Rosary beads dangled and swayed from the driver’s mirror. She noticed the driver glance in the mirror at her and she looked away. It frightened her a little; she felt vulnerable.
A few moments later the cab arrived in
the Plaza, stopping before a long row of buildings, Spanish colonial in design.
“That was fast,” she said. She leaned forward, holding out the address. “Could you tell me where this is?”
The driver looked down at her paper, then pointed to a small red door in the stucco-faced frontage. “Está allí,” he said.
“Gracias,” she said, “¿Cuánto?”
“Dos soles.”
She handed him two coins.
“Gracias, Señorita.”
Christine stepped out of the taxi onto the black cobblestone street.
The Plaza de Armas was the center of the historic district of Cuzco and looked much more European than she had expected. The dominating feature of the square was the Cathedral, a large, seventeenth-century Baroque structure, domed, and with two large bell towers. In Incan times the square was called Huacaypata—Warrior Square—and it was here that Pizarro had proclaimed his conquest of Cuzco and the Incan civilization. The Cathedral was a monument to their victory, built on the stone foundation of the palace of the Incan king.
In the center of the plaza was a large central square, its cobblestone walkway in the shape of a Latin cross. On the north end of the square was a green fountain with a swan motif. Christine thought that it looked like an oversized grail, its fluted bowls spilling water into the pool below where satyr-faced mermen sprayed water from their horns.
The perimeter of the Plaza was embellished with stone archways, the portales of the colorful shops of local artisans and restaurateurs.
Almost as quickly as the cab pulled away from the curb, Christine was surrounded by a group of children, dirty-faced, barefooted, their clothes dirty and ragged. They came at her aggressively and in competition with each other, their hands thrust out to her, some with their wares and some just open-palmed. Christine looked at them sympathetically but gripped her purse tightly.
“Pretty lady, postcards for sale, just one sol. Cheap,” a girl said, waving the postcards in front of her. Another child dropped to her feet with a dirty cloth. “Shoe shine, Señorita. I shine your shoes.”
“Chocolate, sublime,” a younger boy said, his eyes white with cataracts, “yummy, chocolate.”
One bright-faced boy of six or seven said, “George Bush, Bill Clinton, Abraham Lincoln, yes, yes, yes.” He held up one thumb and his other hand was out for a donation.
Christine took from her purse a handful of money and gave each child a sol. She walked to the restaurant, still followed by the children, who knew an easy mark when they saw one. They continued to beg until a man standing at the restaurant’s entrance lifted his hand and shouted at them and they ran away.
The man opened the door for her and she stepped inside. The restaurant was cool and dark, with terra-cotta floor tiles and stucco walls. The back wall was painted with an Inca-inspired mural. In the center of the restaurant was a rotisserie spit where roasting meat dropped juice into a hissing fire, filling the room with its aroma. When her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she could see a large group occupying several tables near the back of the restaurant. Jessica was sitting next to Jim and wearing his hat. As she walked toward the group, someone shouted, “There she is.”
Her arrival was met with clapping and cheers and a few groans.
“You made it,” Jessica said.
Christine looked at the others. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“We had a pool going that you wouldn’t find us.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, sitting down. She turned and said to the table behind her, “I hope you all lost your money.”
Everyone laughed.
“What took you so long?” Jessica asked.
“I slept in.”
“Should have gotten that wake-up call,” Jessica scolded.
“No,” Jim said, “She needed the sleep. Best thing for altitude sickness. How are you feeling?”
“I was feeling great. Up until I got pickpocketed.”
“Pickpocketed?” Jessica said.
Jim shook his head and groaned. “How much did you lose?”
“My wallet, for a minute. I got it back. Some American just came out of nowhere and grabbed the kid and made him give it back to me.” Christine said to Jim, “He knew you.”
“He knew me?”
Christine nodded. “He asked if I was with your group.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was kind of tall, with long brown hair—kind of rugged-looking.”
“Sounds dreamy,” Jessica said.
“Paul Cook,” Jim said. “He runs the orphanage we’re going to tomorrow. You must have been near the hotel, he was dropping some things off for me.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Jessica said, and Jim looked at her.
Just then a waitress appeared carrying several large platters. On one of them was some kind of rodent that had been cooked whole. It looked more like it had been prepared by a taxidermist than a chef. She set it in front of Jim.
“What is that?” Jessica asked.
“I’m going to be sick,” Christine said.
“I’d be more inclined to bury it than eat it,” someone said.
Jim smiled, clearly enjoying the shock his meal produced. “It’s fried guinea pig. The Peruvians call it cuy.”
“Cuy?” Christine asked.
“Yeah. Heard of it?”
“Your friend Paul told me to try it.”
Jim grinned. “Yeah, that was Paul.”
The waitress set a platter in front of Jessica. There was a fried banana and a baked chicken breast with yellow rice. “Here, Chris, there’s enough for both of us.”
“I’m starving,” she said. “I could eat anything.” She glanced at Jim’s platter. “Almost…”
They ate at a leisurely pace, and when they had finished eating, they moved out of the restaurant into the plaza. It was dark by that time and evening brought to the square a festival atmosphere. A Peruvian folk band, dressed in the brightly dyed weaves of the traditional Quechuan costume, played in the center of the plaza for the donations tourists would throw them. The storekeepers had moved tables filled with merchandise out to the covered walkways, and the square was reborn as a night market, alive with the sound of commerce, music and crowds.
Jessica and Jim had paired off, leaving Christine feeling a little awkward, and she soon wandered off on her own. There were lovers everywhere and where she had tried to push aside thoughts of Martin, they came back stronger now, like an itch delayed. Heaviness settled in her chest as she meandered between the labyrinth of tables and racks of clothing.
Christine’s mother collected bells, and Christine found a small sterling bell with a llama figurine on top to add to her collection. She bought it for thirty soles. The woman wrapped it in newspaper and Christine stowed it in her pocket.
At another store she rooted through a table of clothes and found a black alpaca vest and a matching man’s hat. She thought Martin would like so she bought them for him as much out of habit as hope.
She spotted Jessica and Jim sitting on the small concrete ledge around the fountain, and when she had finished her shopping, she walked back to them. They didn’t see her approach.
“Hey, guys.”
They both looked over. “Where’d you go?” Jessica asked.
“Just shopping.”
Jessica looked down at the sack she carried. “What did you buy?”
“Stuff. Clothes.”
“Show me,” Jessica said.
Christine suddenly felt foolish for buying something for Martin. “I’ll show you later. I’m going back to the hotel.”
“So soon?” Jim asked. “The night’s young.”
“Younger than I feel,” she said. “I’m a little tired.”
“You know the way back?” Jim asked.
“The desk clerk gave me a card,” Christine said.
“Don’t wait up,” Jessica said.
Christine walked to the street and hailed a cab. Back in the room s
he looked for the gecko, which was still in the same place, and she now wondered if it was even alive. She stowed the bag with Martin’s alpaca vest and hat under her bed. She didn’t want Jessica to see it, as she knew she would scold her for buying them. Still, she scolded herself. Why did she hang on? Martin hadn’t even sent her an e-mail since the day he broke off the wedding.
She knew why. Desperation breeds hope. A counselor had once told her she had abandonment issues. No kidding, she thought. Her own father had left her, first through divorce, then, just a year ago, through death. Now, Martin had left her as well. Could she trust any man to stick around? She turned off the light, then got in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
In the darkness she thought of the gecko. She wondered if it was exclusively a wall-dweller or if it ever came on to the beds. Christine pushed the thought from her mind. She closed her eyes and rolled over in bed, hugging the pillow. Her mind briefly wandered through the day’s happenings. What would tomorrow bring? Then she thought of the man who had saved her wallet. Paul. She wondered what he was doing down here and if she’d see him tomorrow at the orphanage. And on the threshold of slumber she hoped that she would.
Chapter
Nine
Today I overheard an American teenager comparing her deprivation to that of our children, because her parents would only buy her a used car. There are none so impoverished as those who do not acknowledge the abundance of their lives.
PAUL COOK’S DIARY
Jessica had already gone downstairs for breakfast when Christine came out of the shower. She toweled off, then pulled on her Levi’s. They were the loosest they’d been for nearly a decade.
At least the engagement wasn’t a total waste, Christine thought. She finished dressing, grabbed her backpack, then went downstairs to join Jessica.
The ground floor was an open, windowless space with pink plaster walls and travel posters of Cuzco tourist attractions. Jessica was sitting in the corner of the room under a poster of a herd of llamas. She was with two of the people from the group, an older woman with a broad face sporting thick, tortoiseshell glasses and a man, short and plump, with a red face and a pleasant smile.