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"I mean the fake blood--that's what you've got to confess," the waiter said.
"You said might tell," Juan Diego insisted. "Are you telling the nuns or aren't you?"
"I live on tips," was how the waiter put it. Thus was the best place to squirt beet juice on tourists lost to the dump kids; they had to stay away from the outdoor cafe at the Marques del Valle, where there was an opportunistic waiter who wanted a cut.
Lupe said she was superstitious about going to the Marques del Valle, anyway; one of the tourists they'd nailed with the water pistol dived off a fifth-floor balcony into the zocalo. This suicide happened shortly after the unhappy-looking tourist had rewarded Lupe, very generously, for wiping the blood off his shoe. He was one of those sensitive souls who hadn't listened to the dump kids' c
laim that they weren't begging; he'd spontaneously handed Lupe quite a lot of money.
"Lupe, the guy didn't kill himself because his shoe started bleeding," Juan Diego had explained to her, but Lupe didn't feel right about it.
"I knew he was sad about something," Lupe said. "I could tell he was having a bad life."
Juan Diego didn't mind avoiding the Marques del Valle; he'd hated the hotel before he and Lupe had encountered the money-grubbing waiter. The hotel was named for the title Cortes took for himself (Marques del Valle de Oaxaca), and Juan Diego was suspicious of everything to do with the Spanish conquest--Catholicism included. Oaxaca had once been central to the Zapotec civilization. Juan Diego thought of himself and Lupe as Zapotecs. The dump kids hated Cortes; they were Benito Juarez people, not Cortes people, Lupe liked to say--they were indigenous people, Juan Diego and Lupe believed.
TWO MOUNTAIN CHAINS OF the Sierra Madre converge and meld into a single range in the state of Oaxaca; the city of Oaxaca is the capital. But, beyond the predictable interference of the ever-proselytizing Catholic Church, the Spanish weren't all that interested in the state of Oaxaca--with the exception of growing coffee in the mountains. And, as if summoned by Zapotec gods, two earthquakes would destroy the city of Oaxaca--one in 1854, and another in 1931.
This history caused Lupe to obsess about earthquakes. Not only would she say, often inappropriately, "No es buen momento para un terremoto"--that is, "It's not a good moment for an earthquake"--but she would illogically wish for a third earthquake to destroy Oaxaca and its one hundred thousand inhabitants, for no better reason than the sadness of the suicidal guest at the Marques del Valle or the abominable behavior of the balloon man, that unrepentant dog-killer. A person who killed dogs deserved to die, in Lupe's judgment.
"But an earthquake, Lupe?" Juan Diego used to ask his sister. "What about the rest of us? Do we all deserve to die?"
"We better get out of Oaxaca--well, you better, anyway," was Lupe's answer. "A third earthquake is definitely due," was how she put it. "You better get out of Mexico," she added.
"But not you? How come you're staying behind?" Juan Diego always asked her.
"I just do. I stay in Oaxaca. I just do," Juan Diego remembered his sister repeating.
In this state of reflection did Juan Diego Guerrero, the novelist, arrive for the first time in Manila; he was both distracted and disoriented. The young mother of those two small children had been right to offer him her help; Juan Diego had been mistaken to tell her he could "manage." The same thoughtful woman was waiting by the baggage carousel with her kids. There were too many bags on the moving belt, and people were aimlessly milling around--including, it seemed, people who had no business being there. Juan Diego was oblivious to how overwhelmed he appeared in crowds, but the young mother must have noticed what was painfully evident to everyone else. The distinguished-looking man with the limp looked lost.
"It's a chaotic airport. Is someone meeting you?" the young woman asked him; she was Filipino, but her English was excellent. He'd heard her children speaking only Tagalog, but they seemed to understand what their mom said to the cripple.
"Is someone meeting me?" Juan Diego repeated. (How is it possible he doesn't know? the young mother must have been thinking.) Juan Diego was unzipping a compartment of his carry-on bag where he'd put his itinerary; next would come the requisite fumbling in the pocket of his jacket for his reading glasses--as he'd been doing in the first-class lounge of British Airways, back at JFK, when Miriam had snatched the itinerary out of his hands. Here he was again, looking like a novice traveler. It was a wonder he didn't say to the Filipino woman (as he'd said to Miriam), "I thought it was a long way to bring my laptop." What a ridiculous thing to have said, he now thought--as if long distances mattered to a laptop!
His most assertive former student, Clark French, had made the arrangements in the Philippines for him; without consulting his itinerary, Juan Diego couldn't remember what his plans were--except that Miriam had found fault with where he was staying in Manila. Naturally, Miriam had made some suggestions regarding where he should stay--"the second time," she'd said. As for this time, what Juan Diego remembered was the all-knowing way Miriam had used the trust me expression. ("But, trust me, you won't like where you're staying"--that was how she'd put it.) As he searched his itinerary for the Manila arrangements, Juan Diego tried to account for the fact that he didn't trust Miriam; yet he desired her.
He saw he was staying at the Makati Shangri-La in Makati City; he was alarmed, at first, because Juan Diego didn't know that Makati City was considered part of metropolitan Manila. And because he was leaving Manila the next day for Bohol, no one he knew was meeting his plane--not even one of Clark French's relatives. Juan Diego's itinerary informed him that he was to be met at the airport by a professional driver. "Just a driver" was the way Clark had written it on the itinerary.
"Just a driver is meeting me," Juan Diego finally answered the young Filipino woman.
The mother said something in Tagalog to her children. She pointed to a large, unwieldy-looking piece of luggage on the carousel; the big bag rounded a corner on the moving belt, pushing other bags off the carousel. The children laughed at the bloated bag. You could have packed two Labrador retrievers in that stupid bag, Juan Diego was thinking; it was his bag, of course--he was embarrassed by it. A bag that huge and ugly also marked him as a novice traveler. It was orange--the unnatural orange that hunters wear, so they won't be mistaken for anything resembling an animal; the eye-catching orange of those traffic cones indicating road construction. The saleswoman who'd sold Juan Diego the bag had persuaded him by saying that his fellow travelers would never mistake his bag for theirs. No one else had a bag like it.
And just then--as the realization was dawning on the Filipino mother and her laughing kids that the garish albatross of all luggage belonged to the crippled man--Juan Diego thought of Senor Eduardo: how his Lab had been shot when he was at such a formative age. Tears came to Juan Diego's eyes at the awful idea of his hideous bag being big enough to contain two of Edward Bonshaw's beloved Beatrices.
It often happens with grown-ups that their tears are misunderstood. (Who can know which time in their lives they are reliving?) The well-meaning mother and her children must have imagined that the limping man was crying because they'd made fun of his checked bag. The confusion wouldn't end there. It was chaos in that area of the airport where friends and family members and professional drivers waited to meet arriving passengers. The young Filipino mother rolled Juan Diego's coffin for two dogs; he struggled with her bag and his carry-on; the children wore backpacks and toted their mom's carry-on between them. Of course it was necessary for Juan Diego to tell the helpful young woman his name; that way, they could both look for the right driver--the one holding up the sign with the Juan Diego Guerrero name. But the sign said SENOR GUERRERO. Juan Diego was confused; the young Filipino mother knew it was his driver right away.
"That's you, isn't it?" the patient young woman asked him.
There was no easy answer regarding why he'd been confused by his own name--only a story--but Juan Diego did comprehend the context of the moment: he'd not been born Senor Guerrero, but he was now the Guerrero the driver was looking for. "You're the writer--you're that Juan Diego Guerrero, right?" the handsome young driver had asked him.
"Yes, I am," Juan Diego told him. He didn't want the young Filipino mother to feel the least bit bad about not knowing who he was (the writer), but when Juan Diego looked for her, she and her kids were gone; she had slipped away, never knowing he was that Juan Diego Guerrero. Just as well--she'd done her good deed for the year, Juan Diego imagined.
"I was named for a writer," the young driver was saying; he strained to lift the gross orange bag into the trunk of his limo. "Bienvenido Santos--have you ever read him?" the driver asked.
"No, but I've heard of him," Juan Diego answered. (I would hate to hear anyone say that about me! Juan Diego was thinking.)
"You
can call me Ben," the driver said. "Some people are puzzled by the Bienvenido."
