Denis Johnson - The Stars at Noon

“You must. It’s safe.”

“Why are you talking English?”

“Because I want to talk to you only.”

“What do you mean,” I said, “It’s safe?’’

“Will you come here — today,” he said. “I can’t find the word. Now. Right now you come.”

“Is it about the money? Your friends? I’m looking for your friends.”

“No, it’s another business, something that isn't for me — they don’t tell to me.”

“Who doesn’t tell you?”

“Please come now.”

Nothing ever happened over these phones. “Okay. I’ll get a cab.”

He hung up.

And it was exactly then, I believe, that I made my mistake, the gesture up out of the flames that brought me to the attention of the torturer.

Because I happened to be at a functioning phone, clutching some change in my hand, I dropped in two cordobas and dialed the Inter-Continental. I thought I’d call Mr. Watts Oil and arrange a meeting; I’d fill him in on whatever the Vice-minister was about to tell me — after all, this new issue of “safety” probably arose from the Englishman’s activities as a blabbermouth, it seemed to me.

I’d keep the Englishman abreast, I'd do the Englishman a favor. In this place, a favor!

I didn’t know why I should want to help him even a little.

When I called the Inter-Continental, he wasn’t there. I told them I'd leave a message.

“He has check out.”

Oh. Ah.

“Smart man,” I said. “Do you mean he’s taken his luggage and everything?”

“Yes.”

So the Englishman wasn’t there. I did him no favor.

But I swear to you that I’ve tracked it down to that, each bit of it, going backward, from the moment much later in the holy rain when I finally identified every one of us — you, me, him, the Devil, God

From that moment many lifetimes later in the jungle cathedral, I’ve traced it back step by step to that thwarted, fated try at calling the sucker from Watts Oil: that attempt to help one of these miserable victims. It started there.

NOT TWENTY minutes later I stood at the doors of the Interturismo offices while the Vice-minister, heading me off before I could announce myself to his secretary, warned me, “You down espik espunish, you down espik espunish . .” He introduced me to his secretary himself: “This is Miss America. She doesn’t speak Spanish.”

His secretary, a beautiful young lady in a red pantsuit to whom I’d spoken a good deal of Spanish only yesterday, smiled at me.

The Vice-minister also smiled at me. “It’s no good at all,” he said in English. “A very bad situation.” This last word pronounced, not inappropriately, “stewation.”

He took me into the hallway, and then the staircase. “I think you must begin to move. Go right now. Go to any place. Managua is no good at all.”

“No good at all? That’s not exactly news.”

“The people come from the Department of Defense to talk about you.”

“They will come? Or they already came.”

“Yes, it's not clear, excuse me, they already came a little time ago. This is no good. They were very bad to me, muy brusco. They wish to talk about you.”

“What did they ask you?”

“They want me to help them find you, and we will take away your passport.”

“My pass port! Did you tell them where I live?”

“No. But they can find out. It will be fast.”

“What did I do?”

“Something very bad. Go away of Managua, right now, today.”

“This is crazy. Can’t you come outside and tell me in Spanish?”

“No. We’re finish talking right now. Goodbye. I tell you it’s very bad, it’s enough. Please, for you it’s enough now.”

“Your secretary knows I speak Spanish. I was in here yesterday.”

“Goodbye, Señorita.”

Only last week I’d held his head to my breast, kissed the spots on his scalp showing through the thin hair . . All his life he’d wanted so willing a woman, but these days he was useless. . Only last week! we’d been naked together and his fat thighs had hung down and he’d cried . . “Please,” I said. “Please.”

He began breathing rapidly in a way that meant he was going to be stubborn. “Señorita,” he said reverently and sadly, and shrugged. “No more is possible.”

Okay — no more was possible. “I appreciate what you’ve been able to do,” I forced myself to say.

“You are nice to be courteous,” he said. “And also, goodbye.”

WHEN I got back to La Whatsis I entered the lobby, and it was just as if nothing had ever happened to me and nothing ever would. In the lobby the Señora relaxed and fanned herself slowly with a newspaper, while Radio Tempo sang to her and one more meaningless day died into history. Of course she did; it was crazy to do anything else.

The Englishman was in my room, sitting on the bed. I thought I might be able to save myself if I could just get rid of this man.

“The Señora let you in?” I asked.

“Haven’t I been hiding here all day?”

“What are you planning to do?” I said to him.

“I have no idea what to plan, except that I’d better get to London. And I don’t want to talk to any more Costa Ricans. I thought I’d better ask you about how to proceed.”

“I can’t suggest a thing. You’re all screwed up over at the Inter-Continental, is all I know — anyway, they told me you’d packed up and left.”

“Well, certainly. I left last night.”

“They told me you checked out.”

“Checked out did you say?”

“I could’ve gotten it wrong. It was over the phone. And also, did you know the Department of Defense is after you?” It seemed best not to include myself in this news.

He made a vague limp-wristed gesture. He wasn’t taking this in at quite the rate of presentation.

“You never said anything about those guys; the Defense people.”

“Well, they’re all the same to me. I hadn’t really thought anybody was after me. This OIJ fellow wanted to keep tabs, that was my impression.”

“Listen,” I said, “it’s probably not as serious as we’ve been thinking.”

“I’m absolutely at a loss,” he said. “Absolutely. Completely. I don’t know what to do now.”

“Why don’t you go back to the Inter-Continental and get this taken care of? Confront them? Staying here won’t help.”

“I don’t think I should confront anybody. I don’t want to be detained in this country. I’ve got to get back to London right away.”

“Well you can’t stay here, honey. I’m sorry, but that’s the condensed version. If I let you stay I’ll end up wishing I’d never met you.”

“Please help me,” he begged, goddamn him, “somebody’s got to check the hotel for me. And somehow I’ve got to change my airline reservation without being detained. If you’d please give me some assistance, if you’d check for me at the hotel in person. . Wait, that’s it, that’s just the thing — you go to my hotel, ask for me in person . .”

He seemed to be fixating on this idea of asking for him at the hotel. Did he expect I’d find him in? “Look,” I told him, “I promise I’ll try to change your airline reservation, and straighten out your life, and what else, help you get dollars somehow — I’m seeing these two guys tomorrow, in fact. I’ll ask about what they can do with an American Express card, or whatever you carry.”

“I’ve got traveller’s checks.”

“On you?”

“On me?”

“I mean do you have them with you?”

“No,” he said, “they’re at the hotel.”

“There’s nothing at the hotel, they say. The lady said your luggage was gone.”