the blade through the air above Isabel’s chest and sliced off the snake’s head in one clean stroke.
For hours after that, though her sheets were covered in blood, neither Mercedes nor Rosalba could get Isabel to move. She had no idea how long she remained frozen there, breathing her shallow breaths.
“You see,” Isabel told me, “it’s as if I can still feel that snake on my chest. And I’m waiting for the morning when it will go away.”
Nine
I N THE LOBBY of the hotel I have noticed a smell. The smell of bodies. This is because there is no soap in
la isla;
the people cannot bathe. There is water—cold water—but they have no soap. When the waiters bring me my coffee in the morning, I tip them with bars of soap.
I am sitting at the little table I have staked out for myself. It has become my place. It helps under these conditions to establish routines, create familiar things. My table, my room, my waiter, my shower curtain, my Major Lorenzo. I am trying to read the newspaper, but it is difficult to concentrate because of the sound of breaking balls.
A pool game is going on in earnest in the corner. I listen to the clacking of balls, the groans of players as they miss their shots. I get up and chalk a cue. “Rack them up,” I say to the group of Dutch boys. One of the blond men smirks as he puts the balls in the triangle, but one of the few things I know how to do in this world is play pool. My father had me racking balls on our basement pool table when I could barelysee over the rail. I notice that two balls are missing. “You break,” I tell him. And he smashes the cue ball toward the center of the triangle. The ball makes odd, sliding movements along the green felt, which is torn, and the slate beneath it is not lying flat.
The table is old, circa 1950s. My guess is that someone dug it up out of a storage room in one of the casinos, where it had been sitting in dampness for the past thirty years. The Dutchman’s break sinks one ball, then he scratches. It is my shot and I line up a combination, put a little English on, and watch the cue ball wobble across the table. No one is sure where anything will go, but the five ball sinks into the side pocket. Though I’d been aiming for the seven in the corner, everyone applauds.
“Nice shot,” a young woman says. She is wearing a short red dress and has pretty dark hair. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asks me. I know that I’ve seen her before too. I finish my game, though it is all hit-or-miss. I sink a few balls, but lose. When I return to where I had been sitting, the woman in the red dress is sitting there.
“¿La molesto?”
she asks me. “All the tables are filled.”
“No problem,” I tell her, “please join me,” though I notice that the tables aren’t filled.
“My friends are here too,” she says, pointing to my extra chairs.
“Them too,” I say.
Her friends also have short skirts, thick makeup on. They wear giant gold earrings, the size of door knockers. One wears a pink and black spotted jumpsuit. There aren’t many women with the body for this kind of a jumpsuit, but this woman has one. They introduce themselves. Their names are María, Eva, and Flora and they remind me of thethree birds on my dentist’s drill when I was a girl. Which birdie is singing? Dr. Yeagar used to ask as he drilled.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” María, the woman in the red dress, says.
“Probably just from the other day,” I reply.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, “it was a long time ago.”
“So,” says Eva, who has red lipstick and wears a short skirt, “you just get here?” Suddenly I recognize her as the woman who was with one of the Finnish men. María, who is smiling, was with the dwarf. “Yes, just yesterday.”
“Oh, where you from?” María asks. “Canada?”
“No, America, actually.”
“America? This is America,” says Flora, in the black and pink spandex.
“The United States,” I
For hours after that, though her sheets were covered in blood, neither Mercedes nor Rosalba could get Isabel to move. She had no idea how long she remained frozen there, breathing her shallow breaths.
“You see,” Isabel told me, “it’s as if I can still feel that snake on my chest. And I’m waiting for the morning when it will go away.”
Nine
I N THE LOBBY of the hotel I have noticed a smell. The smell of bodies. This is because there is no soap in
la isla;
the people cannot bathe. There is water—cold water—but they have no soap. When the waiters bring me my coffee in the morning, I tip them with bars of soap.
I am sitting at the little table I have staked out for myself. It has become my place. It helps under these conditions to establish routines, create familiar things. My table, my room, my waiter, my shower curtain, my Major Lorenzo. I am trying to read the newspaper, but it is difficult to concentrate because of the sound of breaking balls.
A pool game is going on in earnest in the corner. I listen to the clacking of balls, the groans of players as they miss their shots. I get up and chalk a cue. “Rack them up,” I say to the group of Dutch boys. One of the blond men smirks as he puts the balls in the triangle, but one of the few things I know how to do in this world is play pool. My father had me racking balls on our basement pool table when I could barelysee over the rail. I notice that two balls are missing. “You break,” I tell him. And he smashes the cue ball toward the center of the triangle. The ball makes odd, sliding movements along the green felt, which is torn, and the slate beneath it is not lying flat.
The table is old, circa 1950s. My guess is that someone dug it up out of a storage room in one of the casinos, where it had been sitting in dampness for the past thirty years. The Dutchman’s break sinks one ball, then he scratches. It is my shot and I line up a combination, put a little English on, and watch the cue ball wobble across the table. No one is sure where anything will go, but the five ball sinks into the side pocket. Though I’d been aiming for the seven in the corner, everyone applauds.
“Nice shot,” a young woman says. She is wearing a short red dress and has pretty dark hair. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asks me. I know that I’ve seen her before too. I finish my game, though it is all hit-or-miss. I sink a few balls, but lose. When I return to where I had been sitting, the woman in the red dress is sitting there.
“¿La molesto?”
she asks me. “All the tables are filled.”
“No problem,” I tell her, “please join me,” though I notice that the tables aren’t filled.
“My friends are here too,” she says, pointing to my extra chairs.
“Them too,” I say.
Her friends also have short skirts, thick makeup on. They wear giant gold earrings, the size of door knockers. One wears a pink and black spotted jumpsuit. There aren’t many women with the body for this kind of a jumpsuit, but this woman has one. They introduce themselves. Their names are María, Eva, and Flora and they remind me of thethree birds on my dentist’s drill when I was a girl. Which birdie is singing? Dr. Yeagar used to ask as he drilled.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” María, the woman in the red dress, says.
“Probably just from the other day,” I reply.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, “it was a long time ago.”
“So,” says Eva, who has red lipstick and wears a short skirt, “you just get here?” Suddenly I recognize her as the woman who was with one of the Finnish men. María, who is smiling, was with the dwarf. “Yes, just yesterday.”
“Oh, where you from?” María asks. “Canada?”
“No, America, actually.”
“America? This is America,” says Flora, in the black and pink spandex.
“The United States,” I
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