Daniel Alarcón - At Night We Walk in Circles

Cayetano announced that he was taking them to the market first. They needed to eat something; if not, the altitude would get to them. Everyone agreed. Cayetano wore a long, padded brown coat and reminded Nelson of a chess piece. A rook, perhaps.

They thought about waiting for a moto taxi, but decided against it: standing still in the cold wasn’t such a good idea. “And anyway, it isn’t far,” Cayetano said. “It only seems that way.”

The three actors ambled behind their host through the town’s mostly empty streets, Nelson and Patalarga each carrying one strap of a green duffel bag the length of a corpse, or a small canoe. It swung between them as they walked. Inside were their supplies, their costumes, the president’s long boots, his white gloves, the smock, the colorful pants, and the rubber sandals Patalarga would wear every evening (and many days) for the next two months. There was even a set of modified tent poles, and a blue tarp, which they could use as a canopy if they were called upon to perform in a light rain. Needless to say, the bag was heavy. Henry, who had fully assumed the role of president from the moment he boarded the bus, carried only his backpack, with a few books and pens, and walked a few steps ahead of the other two, gazing idly at the buildings. He wore the white eye mask raised to his hairline, like a headband. Now and then he made a comment—“What large windows!” or “Look at the workmanship on that wooden door!”—to which no one felt the need to respond.

Everything in San Luis was wet — the gravel streets, the walls of the houses, the hills, even the stray dogs. The puddles on the empty, shadowed streets seemed bottomless.

“It’s been pouring every night,” Cayetano said. The rainy season had started late that year, but now it had come with a vengeance.

“Oh, the rain!” said Henry.

They walked for much longer than seemed possible, until Nelson began to doubt — in his bones, in his gut — the very existence of a market. But it was there, in fact, at the edge of town: a squat concrete building painted blue, topped with a corrugated metal roof. The market was just opening, and it was a smaller but still inspired replica of that city market near where Ixta had realized she was in love: here, vendors unpacked boxes, sliced meat, unloaded vegetables from wooden crates; and Cayetano led the visitors through the corridors, until they stopped before a clean white-tiled counter stacked with elaborate pyramids of fruit. The woman working there greeted Patalarga with a shout, and came around the counter to welcome him properly. She wore her hair in a long braid and had a bright silver pendant around her neck. It was Cayetano’s wife, Melissa. She embraced Patalarga, greeted Henry with similar enthusiasm, and offered Nelson a somewhat formal handshake. There was a baby in a basinet, a little girl named Yadira, asleep in the corner of the market stall. His other two children were at home, he said, preparing the house for their arrival.

While Melissa made juice, they discussed their plans. Henry noted that he hadn’t seen any posters announcing the performance. Not on their walk, or at the market, which he found puzzling. A bus ride into the tour and already he’d acquired the arrogance of a president. Nelson was impressed.

Cayetano’s lips stretched into a thin smile. He unzipped his heavy brown coat, and sighed. “The mayor, you see … He wanted to speak with you first, before we planned the performance. Just to be sure it was appropriate.”

Henry scowled.

“Appropriate how?” Patalarga said, his voice rising. “No dancing girls? No blood?”

“So it hasn’t been planned,” Henry said.

Cayetano shook his head. “Not yet. Not exactly. But we’ll talk to him. He’s eager to talk. He loves to talk. This afternoon. Everything will be fine.”

Melissa served them more of the local breakfast cocktail. Henry and Patalarga muttered between themselves.

“We’ll talk to him now,” Henry said. “The mayor — where can we find him?”

Cayetano looked down at his watch. “But it’s only seven.”

“The people’s work begins early.”

“Why don’t you have rest first? Look at the boy.”

“I’m fine,” Nelson said.

“We’ll take him to the house.”

“I’m fine,” Nelson insisted.

Patalarga nodded reluctantly. Henry, however, shook his head. He patted Nelson on the shoulder, as if to show he understood, then climbed upon the stool where he’d been sitting. No one had a chance to stop him. He began shouting for everyone’s attention. He clapped his hands, asked for a moment. The market workers, along with the shoppers who’d wandered in, slowed now and looked up.

“Dear residents of San Luis! My two colleagues and I — stand up, Nelson! Stand up, Patalarga!”

He waited for them to climb upon their stools before continuing.

“Together,” Henry announced, shouting, “we are Diciembre. You may have heard of us — we are a theater company! From the capital! We would be honored to perform for you this evening, at six p.m. in the plaza, weather permitting. Please come and bring your families! Thank you.”

Then he sat down.

Nelson stayed up for just a moment longer, surveying the market. From this vantage point, he was able to register with great clarity the muted reaction to Henry’s announcement. There was no romance associated with the name Diciembre — there would be elsewhere, in towns all across the mountain regions, but not here. Instead, there was a pause, a collective head-scratching, and then a quick return to the normal rhythms of the market. Vendors resumed their various tasks, the handful of early-morning customers went back to their shopping. Nelson quickly became invisible.

Eventually, Patalarga helped him down. He and Cayetano received the young actor into their arms, and Melissa gave him tea.

“Why does no one believe me?” said Nelson. “I’m fine!”

“Good,” Henry said, without smiling. “We have a show tonight.”

WHEN MAPPING OUTtheir itinerary, Henry and Patalarga had selected San Luis for three reasons. First, a matter of nostalgia: Diciembre had played a show there, nineteen years prior, on their very first tour into the interior. They had fond memories of the place: its placid river; the few cobblestone streets remaining in the center of town; and an old, pretty church with a leaky roof. Compared to the dreary mining camps they’d visit later, San Luis was positively picturesque, and therefore a good place to begin. Second: it was well located, just off the recently repaved central highway, a smooth six-hour ride from the capital. Third: the presence of Cayetano, who’d been loosely associated with Diciembre in the early days — though more as a drinking partner than as an actor. He wasn’t just Patalarga’s cousin, he was an old friend, with a rich understanding of Diciembre and its history. The years had been kind to him: he had a family now, had inherited his father’s land, and money enough to become a prominent member of the community. The war had ended, and the new highway allowed his produce to arrive in the city overnight. Cayetano had risen to the position of deputy mayor of San Luis, something unthinkable to those who remembered the bearded, poorly dressed young poet known for staggering through the predawn streets of the capital back in the early eighties.

“But then, no one thought I’d be a science teacher,” Henry said during our interview. “And no one thought you’d be …” He frowned and looked me over with his ungenerous eye. “Well, you aren’t anything yet.”

I let this go.

Whatever the case, they’d counted on Cayetano to make things run smoothly. They expected to be on the road for six weeks or more; it was important to get a good start. They left Nelson at the house to rest, and the elders of Diciembre went off to speak with Cayetano’s boss and patron, the mayor.