The Travel Writer (12 page)

“Not today. Or they wouldn’t have let us go.”

“My head hurts again.”

“Take a nap.”

After he left, I sat in the hotel’s café beside its plate-glass windows and took notes on the day’s events in my messiest handwriting—messy on purpose, because I wanted to render them spy-proof, and messy also because my fingers couldn’t yet stop trembling. I wrote what I remembered until my hands relaxed and the writing became dangerously legible. Meanwhile, I ate
salteñas
—doughy pastries, pregnant with meat and juice—and drank coffee in the restorative sunshine.

A thick woman in a grim pantsuit entered the otherwise vacant café and served up what was meant to be a bright smile in my direction, then followed it up, like the infantry following up an artillery assault. She introduced herself in Spanish as the manager of the hotel and asked if I was ready for my tour.

“Certainly,” I said. I folded my notebook and rose. I was still a professional.

She left the café, not even turning her head to see if I was following her. I knew her type. She disliked glad-handing, and journalists, and probably guests as well. Some hotel managers are born with a charming hospitality; some manage easily to fake it; and some struggle with the wrong career for years. She would be happiest in her office, ordering linens and double-checking invoices.

“You know the history of our hotel? It began in 1911 as a cinema—the most fashionable in La Paz.”

I looked at the series of photos on the wall of her office; the first featured gray men and women with hats, filing into something called the Biógrafo París, an old movie theater.

She continued reciting the history of the hotel—its initial conversion to a hotel, its failure, its recent reopening, and all the famous people who either stayed here or saw movies here, none of whom I’d heard of—as I pretended to study the photo gallery on her wall. Perhaps my article on Hilary should be accompanied by gritty black-and-white pictures of forlorn Bolivian street children and hard-nosed Condepa operatives. Would
Esquire
go for that? Unfortunately, Pilar was right—I was still a lousy photographer, despite what I claimed in my query letters.

The woman droned on; did she even care that I wasn’t listening? You could never know what was important to whom. Why would the case of Hilary preoccupy the higher-ups and the knee breakers of Condepa? One dead American girl. Or not dead, according to Pilar. If I died, would travel writers and not-quite lovers come searching for me, as we searched for Hilary? Would political parties terrorize the searchers? I lingered in front of a photo of a phalanx of horses, all facing a sergeant in uniform and being stared at by a curious crowd. Everyone in that photo was dead. Their influence had stirred the water of other lives, but the ripples had died long ago, and only their memory—if that—was left. How influential was Hilary’s life! But only now, when she was gone. She might have smashed her car on the way home to New Jersey and no one but a few friends and family would have known or cared. Kenny would have mourned her, arrived in a wrinkled suit and gnarled tie at her funeral, towered awkwardly over a cadre of dutiful Folgers colleagues, but no reporters would have shown up. I would have stopped by to pay my respects to my first editor, had I been told, but who would have told me?

The woman had fallen silent.

“What a beautiful history,” I said.

The woman’s pride flared up in a satisfied smile.

“Yes. We only hope that the Gran Hotel París of today is worthy of its past.”

“Is anything worthy of its past? But this hotel is a marvel.”

She beamed slyly, as if I’d managed to compliment a small but expensive set of earrings, all but hidden by her hair.

To reward me, she lifted from her desk a photo in a dull pewter frame and explained that the figure at the head of the banquet table in the picture was a former president of Argentina. (I didn’t catch his name. Not Perón—I only knew Perón.) A man like that must have paid well for the room, I thought, unless the hotel had given it away free for the publicity. But all those flunkies at the table, all his servants, secretaries, and underlings—surely he paid for them too. After all, Argentina was a rich country, compared to Bolivia.

I heard footsteps behind me. Antonio had entered. He froze when he saw me and looked away.

“What’s up, Antonio? Is it finished yet?” she asked him.

“Yes. Finished. Very well. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Wait,” I said.

Antonio raised his eyebrows, as if hoping the muscles in his forehead would pull up his lips into some semblance of an eager-to-please smile. His fiery, sleep-deprived eyes bulged from his head.

“Antonio is the night clerk,” said the manager. “This is the end of his weekly double shift. It’s time for him to go to bed.”

She smiled with a proprietary gleam. Her exhausted employee was still ready to deliver customer satisfaction, after a double shift, and his uniform was unstained and unwrinkled.

“I have a few questions for him,” I said.

The manager waved a promotional brochure in my face.

“Antonio is a graduate of our finest school of tourism,” she said. “Have you seen our special offers? I am certain our honeymoon discount will be especially attractive to American tourists.”

I took the brochure from her to get it out of my face; meanwhile, Antonio was cautiously turning away.

“But I have one question more,” I said. “Some questions.”

He was walking through the doorway, oblivious to my urgent tone, like a distant father in a dream.

“Tell me,” said the manager.

“Wait!”

His footsteps down the hallway were like an insolent chuckle. I thought of chasing him, but even if I could tackle him from behind, how could I force him to tell me the truth? What could I threaten him with? What if he fought back?

As I hesitated, the manager rattled off the rack rates for single rooms with views, double rooms with views, interior rooms, executive rooms, and suites. I surrendered to the clatter of her voice and glanced down at the brochure. It was in both English and German.

“Where will your article be published? Last year we received an excellent review from the Spanish newspaper
El Mundo
.”

“With luck it will appear in
Condé Nast Traveler
and certainly in the next edition of my guidebook.”

As if the American public was clamoring for an updated edition of the
Caravan Guide to Bolivia and Ecuador
. I wondered if the hotel had been reviewed in
La Razón
, or any other Bolivian paper. Perhaps it scored poorly after Antonio tried repeatedly to wheedle an interview for a copydesk job. More likely no reviewer had bothered, or been encouraged. Since few Bolivian leisure travelers could afford to stay at the Gran Hotel París, there wasn’t much point in giving a freebie to a writer for the “Weekend Escapes” section of the Sucre or Santa Cruz papers. The (unpaid) woman at the ramshackle La Paz tourist office, located above a pharmacy across from the city hall, once said to me, “We Bolivians never get
anything
for free.” I agreed: Bolivians paid for American loans with defoliation campaigns, still poorer peasants, more dire need for more aid. Only the corrupt officials got freebies, by skimming from the top. Like me, in a sense. But I skimmed only from the rich. A Robin Hood out for himself.

“Where are you going next?”

She wanted to know if I’d be writing up one of her rivals.

“To the Hotel Matamoros.”

“The Matamoros? I don’t like it. It attracts foreigners, but they travel immediately from the airport in El Alto to the Yungas, without stopping for a night in La Paz. Why not? We have tried to do business with them. Certainly their guests would enjoy a weekend at a historic hotel in the premier city of Bolivia. They are not interested. We are not their type of hotel: too traditional, too historic. The Hotel Matamoros is not good for tourism in Bolivia, only for itself. And now they are getting just what they deserve. I hear they have had to close an entire wing. So many guests have canceled because of the disaster of the American journalist.”

“Nonetheless, many politicians appear to support the hotel. Condepa? I have heard rumors.”

“Condepa?” She laughed derisively. “What do taxi drivers and fruit sellers know of tourism? A thriving tourism industry would bring jobs to La Paz, but they follow their leaders,
who take little pinches of money from the Matamoros and think they’re getting rich. Condepa is of no significance.”

“Isn’t this the party that controls El Alto?”

“Until the next scandal finishes them, yes.”

“Really? They seem very … influential.”

“Among poor people and Indians, yes.”

“I think Antonio is a member of Condepa.”

She shuffled a little on her heels, wondering whether she should be indignant.

“Perhaps. Why not? The political affiliations of my employees do not interest me. Did he give you any literature? If so, I will reprimand him.”

“I think he may have … advised some persons in the party that I was interested in the case of Hilary Pearson.”

“The case of whom?”

“The American journalist you spoke of.”

“Ah, yes. I am familiar with this case. Very sad.”

She tried to express her sorrow by frowning but managed only to look irritable.

“Tell me,” I said, “in your opinion, is it possible—a little possible—that Condepa had something to do with the disappeared American journalist?”

“Why?” She laughed uncertainly, hoping what I’d said was a joke. She probably knew most jokes went over her head. “In any case,” she said, “the Hotel Matamoros was all built on narcotrafficking money. That is a well-known fact.”

She said nothing more, and I demanded no proof, which she wouldn’t have had anyway.

I arrived at the Pig & Whistle at 6:45, bearing a copy of
La Razón
to pass the time—Pilar liked to unplug her professional habits, such as punctuality, when she was off duty. The P & W advertised itself as Bolivia’s most authentic English pub (there wasn’t much competition). The Union Jack and scarves from various Premier League soccer teams were pinned to the dark paneled walls; a stuffed bulldog gaped stupidly from a perch over the whiskey and pisco bottles; the kitchen served Lake Titicaca trout, but it was fried and came with french fries that were mushy with vinegar. The nightly live music was local, however, and improbably popular.

I ordered a Paceña beer and sat at the corner of the bar, where I could keep my eye on the
door.
La Razón
was useless. I couldn’t muster the concentration to tackle anything more than the first paragraph of any article, even the merciless recap of the Bolivian national soccer team’s latest humiliation in Brazil. I tried starting from different spots on the page, hoping a sentence would catch my interest.

“One more?” the bartender asked, startling me. I shook my head, both to waken my senses and to refuse. Another beer and I’d have to pee, and risk her walking in, not seeing me, and turning around in disgust. It was after 7:00. You should have relieved yourself ten minutes ago, I told myself. That was my chance, and I missed it. I pretended even harder to read. The chatter around me grew louder, like the noises of the jungle just before sunrise. People began taking the stools beside me, brushing against my back, glancing irritably at my newspaper, which took up valuable bar space.

She wasn’t going to come. Wasn’t there one thing I could trust in this world?

The girl next to me asked what I was reading. Her black hair was pulled straight back from her forehead, so that her eyebrows stood out like a pair of crows flying across an overcast sky. Another girl peered over her shoulders, breathlessly observing her friend’s boldness.

“Nothing. The newspaper. Tell me,” I said, “why can you never trust women?”

The friend lurking behind giggled. She was taller, less slim, and wore a sleeveless top. Her bare shoulders were like brown softballs.

“Are you waiting for a girl?” the friend asked, unwilling to be left out. “Who is she?”

“A woman worth nothing.”

I find it easy to affect the puffed-out chest of manliness when I speak Spanish to strangers.

“Are you in love with her?”

“No,” I lied. “I’ve only been in love with one girl. This other one, she’s just a distraction.”

“What happened to the one you loved?”

“She disappeared. Would you like to see a picture?”

I fished from my pocket and unfolded one of the Pearsons’ Xeroxes of Hilary.

“I remember her! The poor American girl that disappeared from the hotel,” the girl with the pulled-back hair said. She now looked like a young cafeteria lady. “They posted her photo at the university. How tragic! Are you looking for her?”

“Yes. But I’m never going to find her.”

I studied the foamy dregs of my empty glass. Where was Pilar? What if she were crouching below the bar, eavesdropping on my fibs? I would assure her that
she
was the lover I meant, that love to me was such a daunting subject I could only approach it obliquely, through
metaphors or lies.

“Do you know what it’s like to be in love?” I asked.

The food-service girl nodded solemnly. I wiggled my empty bottle at the bartender.

“So do I. But now love is death, for me,” I said.

I would never make such an embarrassingly trite assertion in English; even if the sentence just flashed through my mind, I would bite it off half finished. But to me a word in Spanish is just a symbol of a word in English, and therefore I can convince myself, especially after a drink or two in a darkened bar, that even the most maudlin of ideas is fresh, subtle, and heartfelt.

“Everything that was happiness for me is now pain,” I said. “Can you understand that? Because I know I’ll never find her.”

Her friend gasped, moved and gratified to find such a dramatic gringo in a gringo bar. How often do life’s wonders come as advertised?

“Maybe she’s still alive,” the food-service girl said. “Maybe she still loves you. Love for me,” she explained, “is something that can never die, that lives on and on, that even death cannot kill.”