The Furthest City Light (35 page)

I gazed down at myself, at the sheet tucked around my feet, at the unfamiliar slip I was wearing, and suddenly felt ashamed. Was there no limit to how much I could take from these people? Apparently not. “Thank you, Sonia. Thank you for everything. I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden.”

Sonia waved her hand dismissively. “You weren’t such a burden. Amelia and some of the other neighbors helped and mostly you just slept. But now you have to eat. You’ve lost weight and we’re all jealous.” She was joking of course. She’d lost at least ten pounds since Jorge disappeared.

“It’s my new diet plan,” I said. “Maybe we can make some money selling it to all the rich overweight people in Managua. You do the manicures, I’ll do the counseling.”

She grinned and nodded. “And then we can be rich and overweight ourselves. But first,” she looked down at the table, “your soup is getting cold.”

After I drank the soup, Sonia brought me a plate of rice and beans, which tasted better than any gourmet meal I’d ever had in the States. While I ate as much as I could, Sonia filled me in on the latest news: Tomas, it seemed, had had another “episode” and assaulted an older man, but after things were explained, the victim had forgiven him. A neighbor’s husband had left her for a widow who lived around the corner. And there were rumors the
cordoba
might be devalued again.

***

By the end of the week, I felt well enough to get out of bed and take little walks around the neighborhood. As I grew stronger, I begged Sonia to let me do the shopping and whatever errands she wanted to fob off on me. I also tried to clean the house, but she wouldn’t allow it. Finally, she agreed to let me do all the dishes.

Edward, the new boarder who lived in my bedroom, was a pleasant man in his fifties, a retired schoolteacher from the Bay Area. He was polite and unobtrusive, but his Spanish was almost nonexistent. Whenever he was around—which wasn’t often—I did my best to translate conversations between him and Sonia. When I found out he didn’t have a Spanish/English dictionary, I gave him mine. He thanked me profusely and told me he’d been searching all over Managua and hadn’t been able to buy one. He was so grateful I thought he was going to cry. From then on, I never saw him without the dictionary. Like a security blanket, he took it with him everywhere, even to the bathroom where I heard him telling imaginary people his name was Edward, that he lived in California, and that he was grateful for the food.

While I convalesced, I made no effort to contact anyone except Vickie. Each time I called, however, the answering machine announced she was out of town on a river trip. A river trip? During our nine years together, she’d never expressed any interest in rafting or canoeing. She didn’t really like boats. Sometimes she even got seasick, like the time we took the ferry from Boston to Provincetown. What the hell was she doing on a river trip? And with whom? So much for her sitting around the house pining for her absent lover.

Although I was definitely getting better, I knew I wasn’t “well.” After walking a couple of blocks, for instance, I’d have to stop and rest awhile. If I didn’t, I’d feel dizzy and slightly nauseous. I still had my core strength, but it had dwindled from an ocean to a pond, too precious now to waste on unimportant tasks. And though my mind was clear again, it wasn’t quite as nimble; sometimes it stumbled, which scared me more than my newfound fragility. Be patient, I counseled myself, and stay calm. Whatever was wrong with me had burrowed deep into the cells of my body and set up camp. Instinctively, I understood that a direct confrontation would be futile. For the time being, we would have to coexist. In a few months, with a little bit of luck and plenty of rest, I’d be fine.

Despite all of the above, I felt strangely content. When my fever broke for the last time, something else had broken too: my longtime alliance with righteous sadness. I wasn’t singing in the rain, but I wasn’t railing against it either. Like everyone around me, I didn’t approve of the way things were, but I no longer
resisted
them. For one thing, it took too much energy.

For weeks, I’d wondered how Sonia and her fellow Managuans did it, how they persevered. How they walked the line between ridiculous optimism and deadly despair. Now I understood. And—now that I understood—it was simple: hopeful resignation, a state of mind in which you mostly focused on the present and hoped that things might improve sometime in the distant future. In the meantime, you lived, you helped your friends, they helped you, you went to parties, drank rum and danced. And, if you were so inclined, you prayed.

That was it. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you will die. Until I’d spent six weeks in Nicaragua, it had seemed like the most counterintuitive advice in the history of the world. In fact, though, it was the only sane response to the human condition.

During my seventh week, I left three more messages on Vickie’s answering machine, but she was still on her river trip. At some point, I realized I had no idea which river she was even talking about—the Arkansas near Canon City, the Green in Utah, or maybe the Colorado running through Glenwood Springs? Hell, I didn’t even know which state she was in. In the old days, this would have been inconceivable. I’d have known the smallest details of her day, how many patients she’d treated, when she’d stopped for lunch, what she’d eaten, when she’d be returning home. But the old days, of course, were over. In the meantime, my girlfriend was floating down a river having fun without me. Which was a good thing, sort of.

Ultimately, it was my father who got me out of the country. If I hadn’t started thinking about him, I might have stayed much longer. But one morning while I was lying on my cot waiting for the dawn, I remembered jogging with him along the dunes near Provincetown. It had been warm enough to run without a jacket but still a little foggy, the sun just beginning to break through, a quintessential Cape Cod summer morning. I could smell the ocean and the purple salt spray roses that lined our path. Our feet made soft slippery sounds as we ran along the hard-packed sand, heading for the beach at Herring Cove.

Now and then, we saw men emerging from behind the dunes, a popular place for sex, and every time my father called out, “Good morning!” Although by then he was a full professor at Boston College, he treated everyone the same, whether you were the president of his college or the waitress who poured his coffee. It was in early June, about six months before his heart attack. He’d just turned fifty-six. I recalled how strong he looked that day (those gorgeous calf muscles, his military posture), how hard it was to keep up with him. Although children often think their parents are better looking than they really are, he was truly handsome, a Jewish Robert Mitchum with a wicked grin and a full head of thick black hair.

Suddenly, I realized I was only twenty years younger than my father when he died. And like my father, I’d misjudged my body, had assumed it could withstand whatever stress was heaped upon it. If I didn’t start taking better care of myself, I might not last any longer than he did. Convalescing in a country under siege was better than not convalescing at all, but I had options. Unlike everyone around me, I could leave.

I sat up in bed and decided that I needed to get out as soon as possible and spend the next few months in a place where life was easier, where I could truly rest and recover. Someplace not currently at war and where the poverty and suffering was at least partially hidden from the tourists. In short, I needed a vacation.

Although I considered traveling to a country where I’d never been before, like Bali or Australia, I knew I lacked the strength to go anywhere new or exciting. In the past few months, I’d used up the last of my lifetime’s allotment of adventure. I was living on credit now and whoever inhabited my body in the next incarnation would probably have to spend her entire life waiting tables in a diner somewhere in Kansas or Oklahoma.

***

The night before I left Managua, Sonia invited a few of her friends and neighbors over for a going-away party. Naturally everyone and their relatives showed up, including Tomas who seemed to have forgotten that he’d ever tried to shoot me. Earlier in the day, Sonia and I set up a dozen borrowed chairs on the patio and strung a few extra lightbulbs along the high cement wall. We made fried potatoes and beans with cream. Amelia volunteered to mix up a batch of lemonade and rum. From eight o’clock until we pushed everyone out at two, we danced, drank and talked passionately about politics.

Edward, the boarder who shared the house with me and Sonia, had invited a few members of his brigade and toward the end of the night, I found myself sitting in a corner of the patio surrounded by a group of earnest, good-hearted North Americans who wanted advice about leaving tips for their hosts and whether they should disassemble the bleachers inside the community center the day before some flooring was supposed to be delivered.

I looked around the group and shrugged. “Well, the official policy on tips is this. You’re paying for your room and board so it’s an equal exchange. Charity is unnecessary, patronizing and possibly insulting.” I paused. “But I think small gifts are acceptable.”

One of the women nodded and said, “That makes sense.” She’d been introduced as one of Edward’s former colleagues who’d taught history and math for over thirty years. “May I ask what you think is an appropriate gift?”

I shook my head. “You should ask someone else. Personally, I’m leaving anything I think Sonia can use, and most of my cash as well.”

The group burst out laughing, clearly enjoying my candor. I felt like a celebrity being interviewed by a small gaggle of fans who hung on my every word.

“What about the bleachers?” Edward asked.

I started to chuckle. “You mean taking them apart and hauling the pieces outside before you actually see the promised flooring? I thought you were kidding.”

Someone snickered and then they all simply nodded.

I crawled into bed around three, dangerously exhausted, but couldn’t fall asleep. I told myself I was just anxious about the taxi that was supposed to pick me up at six, but of course it was much more than that. My life in this dear godforsaken country was coming to an end. Like a bad but totally compelling relationship, I couldn’t imagine staying for even one more day, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving either.

A few hours later, I was standing in the living room with my duffel bag slung across my shoulder. I’d hidden a wad of cash in the drawer where Sonia kept her sheets and towels. She would find it in the next few days but I’d be gone by then. The taxi was honking and Sonia was hugging me goodbye.

“
Gracias por todo,”
I whispered in her ear.
Thank you for everything
.

She nodded and hugged me closer. “
Buena suerte, mi amiga.” Good luck, my friend.
As if I were the one staying in the war-torn country and she was the one getting out.

And then I was climbing into the back of the cab and heading for the airport. For the length of the ride, I sat with my face pressed up against the grimy window trying to memorize the way everything looked. An hour later, as I scurried up the rickety metal stairs into the belly of the plane, as I settled into my seat and waited for the doors to close, and as the plane skidded down the bumpy runway and finally lifted off, I knew exactly how that tiny privileged group of survivors felt as they huddled in their lifeboats and watched from a safe distance as the Titanic slowly sank into the dark frigid waters of the North Atlantic ocean. Sickeningly guilty, but so incredibly relieved.

As the plane gained altitude and the land disappeared from view, I couldn’t decide which I regretted more: coming or leaving.

***

Twelve hours later, I was wandering like a ghost through the Dallas airport waiting for my next plane, the one that would take me directly to Zihuatanejo. It hadn’t occurred to me that the culture shock entering the United States might be worse than what I’d experienced landing in Nicaragua. The minute I stepped off the plane, I was caught up in a stream of busy, self-absorbed, thoughtlessly happy people. Decent folks who knew nothing about what we were doing in Nicaragua and who wouldn’t have believed me if I told them. I’d be just another liberal kook, as annoying as the Hare Krishnas buttonholing people on their way in and out of the bathrooms.

As I floated through the crowd, I couldn’t get over how well-dressed everyone looked (even the little kids), how casually they slung their two-hundred-dollar leather bags over their shoulders and took a couple of bites out of their expensive sandwiches before dumping the rest into trash cans as they hurried past. In my flip-flops, torn khaki pants and cheap cotton T-shirt, I felt like an intruder from the wrong side of the tracks, that I’d snuck into some high-society ball and it was only a matter of time before the butler noticed and ordered me out.

I tried calling Vickie, but the phone was busy. So she’d finally returned from her trip. I poked my head into a couple of stores, but had to leave almost as soon as I walked in. I couldn’t believe all the useless gadgets for sale and how much food there was everywhere. I wanted to yell, “This is obscene!” But I didn’t, not because I was afraid to sound crazy, but because I thought no one would agree with me.

Every time I passed a phone, I tried Vickie’s (and my) number, but it was always busy. I felt a little feverish and hoped the traveling hadn’t set me back too far. Eventually, I ended up in the women’s bathroom where I stared at myself in the mirror searching for some changeless quality to hold onto, some familiar steadiness reflected around my eyes or mouth that I could be sure of. I drank endlessly from the water faucet, then sat down in one of the stalls and stared at the door. Someone had scrawled, “My heart belongs to Frank,” and underneath that, perhaps as an afterthought, “but my cunt belongs to Darrell.” Poor Frank, I thought.

At least it was quiet. After ten or fifteen minutes, the wooziness passed and a feeling of not exactly peace but something distantly related to it, settled over me. I was ready for the next chapter.