Chapter 3
It was a comfortable bus, hermetically-sealed, and air conditioned. I felt disconnected from the humid landscape of southern Mexico that was moving past me. I had two distractions on my way to Tuxtla Gutierrez, Chiapas: a copy of Rimbaud’s
A Season in Hell and a bag of toasted pumpkin seeds. There were too many pages of poetry and not enough seeds, and soon the book was my only distraction.
It was an unlikely environment in which to develop my French reading comprehension. I finally abandoned the text itself and reread, several times, the biographical notes in the preface. It occurred to me to draw in one of the margins a picture of Rimbaud, as I imagined him in the last part of his short life, trading beads with African natives and sipping from a tall gin and quinine. He was using a few volumes of his poetry to stop open the door of his grass hut. I drew him with a long face and bags under the eyes. The caption I put below read, “I’d trade it all for a good croissant.”
I was rather pleased with my irreverent depiction, but a few dozen kilometers later, guilt drove me to scribble out the picture. Furthermore, I was determined to make a new drawing of a young idealistic Rimbaud. I was only able to produce, however, a big smile and a large bottle of red wine. The rest of the drawing remained a blank until I filled in the spaces with verb conjugations and a working model for a realignment of the National Football League.
Finally, I ran out of ways to amuse myself, and I considered pulling the envelope from my back pocket and reading its contents for the first time. Due to the course of action I had chosen for myself, there was really no reason for it to be avoided any longer. The pages were moist with perspiration and threatened to tear as I unfolded them.
The first paragraph was an enthusiastic congratulation for Roger Panker. I continued reading. I memorized the name and address of the school, the name of the principal, and the name of the teacher I was going to replace: Crescencio Siberio de la Veracruz. He was in the United States, in a middle school, filling Panker’s vacancy which, coincidentally, was located in Tempe, the same city where I lived, but that wasn’t really so strange. Roger and I had run into each other along the major route going into Mexico from Arizona. Classes in Tuxtla Gutierrez were to begin the following day. Apparently, I would be able to get there in time.
My arrival in Tuxtla happened in the darkness of predawn, and my first impressions of the city were negatively distorted by the bus’ circuitous approach to downtown past the locked-up storefronts of dubious lunch counters and untidy hair salons.
The over-assertiveness of the taxi drivers annoyed me, so I determined to walk to my new place of employment. Also, it was a good idea to conserve my resources. I had changed all my dollars to pay for the bus ticket, and the the small amount left over would have to sustain me until my first paycheck. I asked an attractive young Mexican woman in the waiting room to give me directions.
“Where is the Chapultepec section?” I asked her.
“Why do you want to go there?” she asked.
“Why not?” I snapped back.
“Don’t you want to get a room, so you can get washed up and get ready to look around?” She obviously mistook me for a tourist. “I can recommend some good inexpensive hotels,” she offered.
“You’re a steerer aren’t you?” My directness was disconcerting to her.
“Well, the hotels pay my commission. It doesn’t cost you anything.”
“Get serious. You know they raise the price to compensate for what they pay you, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need a room now. I’m going to work.”
She looked at me strangely. “What kind of work do you do in Chapultepec?”
“I’m a history teacher.”
She looked at me up and down and said unconvincedly, “Perhaps they had a hard time locating a teacher in Mexico.”
“Maybe so,” I evaded.
“Classes won’t begin for another two hours. Why don’t you check into a hotel?”
“I’d rather sit down and have a strong cup of coffee.”
“There’s a place near here,” she said slowly, “where I like to go drink coffee, when I have money.” She emphasized the last part. A deaf and blind man could have fallen into that opportunity to extend an invitation.
“Would you like to join me?” I asked.
She smiled. Her eyes were tiny green globes of innocence, but her grin was an invitation to sensuality. Whatever her true disposition, one thing was certain.
She had me completely in her power.
She walked close beside me on the way to the coffee house. I was carrying my luggage on my back.
“Business has been slow,” she explained. “The tourists are afraid of the Zapatista rebels.”
“They’re far from here aren’t they?”
“Two hours away, in the mountains.” She motioned subtly with her head toward the east. “If you’re planning a trip from Germany, even two hours seems too close. The tourists would rather go to the Yucatan or to the nude beaches in Oaxaca.”
“I can imagine that,” I responded.
The coffee house was a tiny place with only three brightly painted wooden tables. The walls were covered with dried palm fronds to provide atmosphere. The native brew they served was potent, and the first sip did more than wake me. It made my thumbs tingle. Soon the muscles in my face became so taut, I was obliged to smile. I wish the oily doughnut I ordered would have been as tasty.
Now that she was sitting across from me it was obvious what it was that had attracted me to her. It was her large breasts prominently displayed in a tight low-cut sweater. Her perfectly shaped legs were revealed to me below the hem of her tight black skirt. I realized she was dressed like that to get the attention of male travelers. It certainly had worked for me. There was nothing indecent about what she did. Everyone needs to do something to make a living. It was annoying, however, for travelers who don’t need help to find their way around.
Complementing her provocative clothing, she wore hippie beads. I found this to be a welcome indicator of her character. She was laid-back and interested in cool things. We enjoyed our conversation together and found we had a great deal in common. She liked poetry, classic rock, and Guatemalan textiles. She hated war and injustice.
“It’s seven o’clock,” she declared suddenly, looking at the wristwatch of another patron. “You need to get to work.” She explained the public transportation routes I would need to use as she walked me to the bus stop.
“What’s your name?” I called out as the collective taxi approached us.
“Catalina. What’s yours?”
“Hogan, but please call me Hogie.”
“Good luck,” she called out with sincerity.
I’m not sure if she was wishing me luck in my job or luck in finding a seat on the Volkswagen bus. Two passengers separated just enough to leave sitting space for one buttock. The driver launched the vehicle forward while I was still trying to accommodate my luggage, and my other buttock was left flying.