button. “I didn’t hate you because you lied. I hated you because you could think so clearly. Always three thoughts ahead. Saying just the right things to get me to love you. You did it so well.”
“I’ve never had anything else in my life that meant anything except you,” I said. “And then I blew it.” She didn’t seem impressed. “I only lied once,” I added.
“You only got caught once.” She opened her handbag and began fishing through it,sighing. “You’ve been easy to forget.” She found a small bottle of lotion and squirted some on the back of her hand.
“Really? Then I won’t pester you any longer. I’m not going to the Matamoros. I’ll stay in La Paz for a few days and then go home.”
“I’ll rescind your ticket.”
“I can afford a one-way back to the States. Maybe I’ll stay here longer, on vacation. Write up your competitors.”
“Please, Jacob. I can’t joke about this. I need you.”
“I know. Tell me about Hilary. I want to get started.”
“Not here. I’ll be in La Paz tomorrow night.” She took one of her business cards out of her wallet, scribbled on it, and gave it to me. It said, “Pig & Whistle, Calle Goitia 155, 9:00 Thursday.”
“Is your parents’ picture still in there?” I asked softly, nodding at her wallet.
She looked away, as if I had shown her something disgusting.
“No,” she said. “That’s all over.”
“I’m sorry, Pilar. Everything I do around you is wrong, but I can’t stop trying to prove myself. I’ll do anything you need, and if afterwards you tell me to fuck off forever”—I thought of Kenny—“I’ll be satisfied. As long as you forgive me first. Why can’t I get started? Why can’t you tell me everything now?”
“I want to! But I don’t yet have”—again she searched for the word—“the data.” Her blunted gaze found my face again. “But we’ll talk tomorrow night.”
I nodded. The important thing was that I had another date.
She left to meet her Colombians at the gate. I retrieved Kenny, who was nervously examining his
Idiot’s Guide to Speaking Spanish
.
“Let’s find a taxi,” I said.
Chapter 7
I had met Pilar almost three years before on a press trip with Guilford Associates, the travel-industry PR agency. I often accompanied the Guilford Gang on their minivan hauls through deservedly overlooked domestic hinterlands, such as East Tennessee (the press packet was entitled “There’s More to Pigeon Forge than Dollywood”), upstate New York (“Breathless in Buffalo”), and west-central Florida (“Swimmin’ with the Manatees”). My fellow “journalists” onthese trips were usually midwestern housewives and househusbands who contributed sporadically to the travel pages of their free local weeklies or retirees who wrote for the sorts of senior-oriented magazines you don’t even find in doctors’ offices. In general, established writers refuse such inglorious offers, but I jumped on any sort of free travel, having lots of free time, all the energy and shamelessness of youth, and no reputation to protect. Already I was discovering that a healthy revenue stream of new pleasures was essential to my peace of mind and self-respect. I had even begun to scorn those who waded in the static pleasures of family and career, despite my nagging suspicion that maybe those people were as happy as they appeared.
That summer, the Ecuadorian Tourist Board, ignorant of Guilford’s reputation and short of cash, hired the agency to organize an all-expenses week in the Ecuadorian rain forest. Guilford dubbed it “Witch Doctors, Piranhas, and Sloths: Oh My!” With this trip, Guilford was finally able to attract the attention of those Sunday
New York Times
–level travel writers who would not normally have deigned to open a Guilford envelope, let alone read past the line in the itinerary that said: “Spend night 1 at homey Ramada in laid-back Benson’s Hole.” Unfortunately for the ETB’s budget, Guilford chose
“I’ve never had anything else in my life that meant anything except you,” I said. “And then I blew it.” She didn’t seem impressed. “I only lied once,” I added.
“You only got caught once.” She opened her handbag and began fishing through it,sighing. “You’ve been easy to forget.” She found a small bottle of lotion and squirted some on the back of her hand.
“Really? Then I won’t pester you any longer. I’m not going to the Matamoros. I’ll stay in La Paz for a few days and then go home.”
“I’ll rescind your ticket.”
“I can afford a one-way back to the States. Maybe I’ll stay here longer, on vacation. Write up your competitors.”
“Please, Jacob. I can’t joke about this. I need you.”
“I know. Tell me about Hilary. I want to get started.”
“Not here. I’ll be in La Paz tomorrow night.” She took one of her business cards out of her wallet, scribbled on it, and gave it to me. It said, “Pig & Whistle, Calle Goitia 155, 9:00 Thursday.”
“Is your parents’ picture still in there?” I asked softly, nodding at her wallet.
She looked away, as if I had shown her something disgusting.
“No,” she said. “That’s all over.”
“I’m sorry, Pilar. Everything I do around you is wrong, but I can’t stop trying to prove myself. I’ll do anything you need, and if afterwards you tell me to fuck off forever”—I thought of Kenny—“I’ll be satisfied. As long as you forgive me first. Why can’t I get started? Why can’t you tell me everything now?”
“I want to! But I don’t yet have”—again she searched for the word—“the data.” Her blunted gaze found my face again. “But we’ll talk tomorrow night.”
I nodded. The important thing was that I had another date.
She left to meet her Colombians at the gate. I retrieved Kenny, who was nervously examining his
Idiot’s Guide to Speaking Spanish
.
“Let’s find a taxi,” I said.
Chapter 7
I had met Pilar almost three years before on a press trip with Guilford Associates, the travel-industry PR agency. I often accompanied the Guilford Gang on their minivan hauls through deservedly overlooked domestic hinterlands, such as East Tennessee (the press packet was entitled “There’s More to Pigeon Forge than Dollywood”), upstate New York (“Breathless in Buffalo”), and west-central Florida (“Swimmin’ with the Manatees”). My fellow “journalists” onthese trips were usually midwestern housewives and househusbands who contributed sporadically to the travel pages of their free local weeklies or retirees who wrote for the sorts of senior-oriented magazines you don’t even find in doctors’ offices. In general, established writers refuse such inglorious offers, but I jumped on any sort of free travel, having lots of free time, all the energy and shamelessness of youth, and no reputation to protect. Already I was discovering that a healthy revenue stream of new pleasures was essential to my peace of mind and self-respect. I had even begun to scorn those who waded in the static pleasures of family and career, despite my nagging suspicion that maybe those people were as happy as they appeared.
That summer, the Ecuadorian Tourist Board, ignorant of Guilford’s reputation and short of cash, hired the agency to organize an all-expenses week in the Ecuadorian rain forest. Guilford dubbed it “Witch Doctors, Piranhas, and Sloths: Oh My!” With this trip, Guilford was finally able to attract the attention of those Sunday
New York Times
–level travel writers who would not normally have deigned to open a Guilford envelope, let alone read past the line in the itinerary that said: “Spend night 1 at homey Ramada in laid-back Benson’s Hole.” Unfortunately for the ETB’s budget, Guilford chose
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