John Irving - Avenue of Mysteries

Wouldn’t he be happier returning to Manila? Juan Diego mused. But there was an in-flight brochure to look at; he looked longest at the map, with disquieting results. Palawan was the farthest westward of the Philippine islands. El Nido, the resort on Lagen Island — off the northwestern tip of Palawan — was the same latitude as Ho Chi Minh City and the mouths of the Mekong. Vietnam was due west across the South China Sea from the Philippines.

The Vietnam War was why the good gringo had run away to Mexico; el gringo bueno’s father had fallen in an earlier war — he lay buried not far from where his son could have died. Were these connections coincidental or predetermined? “Now there’s a question!” Juan Diego could hear Señor Eduardo saying — though, in his lifetime, the Iowan hadn’t answered the question himself.

When Edward Bonshaw and Flor died, Juan Diego would pursue the same subject with Dr. Vargas. Juan Diego told Vargas what Señor Eduardo had revealed to him about recognizing Flor in the postcard. “How about that connection?” Juan Diego would ask Dr. Vargas. “Would you call that coincidence or fate?” was how the dump reader put it to the atheist.

“What would you say to somewhere in between?” Vargas asked him.

“I would call that copping out,” Juan Diego answered. But he’d been angry; Flor and Señor Eduardo had just died — fucking doctors had failed to save them.

Maybe now Juan Diego would say what Vargas had said: the way the world worked was “somewhere in between” coincidence and fate. There were mysteries, Juan Diego knew; not everything came with a scientific explanation.

It was a bumpy landing at Lio Airport, Palawan — the runway was unpaved, a dirt landing strip. Upon leaving the plane, the passengers were greeted by native singers; standing aloof from the singers, as if bored by them, was a weary-looking water buffalo. It was hard to imagine this sad water buffalo charging or trampling anyone, but only God (or Dorothy) really knew what Leslie’s wild boys (or one of them) may have done to provoke the beast.

Three boats were required the rest of the way, though the El Nido resort on Lagen Island wasn’t a long way from Palawan. What you saw of Lagen from the sea were the cliffs — the island was a mountain. The lagoon was hidden; the buildings of the resort circled the lagoon.

There was a friendly young spokesman for the resort to greet Juan Diego upon his arrival at El Nido. Consideration had been given to his limp; his room, with a view of the lagoon, was only a short walk to the dining hall. The misfortunes leading to poor Leslie’s sudden departure were discussed. “Those boys were a bit wild,” the young spokesman said tactfully, when he showed Juan Diego his room.

“But the stingings —surely those stinging things were not the result of any wildness on the boys’ part?” Juan Diego asked.

“Our guests who swim are not usually stung,” the young man said. “Those boys were seen stalking a monitor lizard — this is asking for trouble.”

“Stalking!” Juan Diego said; he tried to imagine the wild boys, armed with spears made from mangrove roots.

“Ms. Leslie’s friend was swimming with those boys —she wasn’t stung,” the young spokesman for the resort pointed out.

“Ah, yes — her friend. Is she—” Juan Diego started to ask.

“She’s here, sir — I take it you mean Ms. Dorothy,” the young man said.

“Yes, of course — Ms. Dorothy,” was all Juan Diego could say. Had last names gone out of style? Juan Diego would wonder, albeit briefly. He was surprised how pleasing a place El Nido was — remote but beautiful, he thought. He would have time to unpack, and perhaps limp around the perimeter of the lagoon, before dinner. Dorothy had arranged everything for him: she’d paid for his room and all his meals, the young spokesman for the resort had said. (Or had poor Leslie paid for everything? Juan Diego wondered, also briefly.)

Juan Diego didn’t know what he would do at El Nido; he was definitely questioning the idea that he truly liked the prospect of being alone with Dorothy.

He’d just finished unpacking — he had showered and shaved — when he heard the knock on his door. As knocks go, this one wasn’t tentative.

That would be her, Juan Diego thought; without looking in the peephole, he opened the door.

“I guess you were expecting me, huh?” Dorothy asked. Smiling, she pushed past him, bringing her bags into his room.

Hadn’t he figured out what kind of trip he was taking? Juan Diego was thinking. Wasn’t there something about this trip that felt preternaturally arranged? On this journey, didn’t the connections seem more predetermined than coincidental? (Or was he thinking too much like a writer?)

Dorothy sat on the bed; slipping off her sandals, she wiggled her toes. Juan Diego thought her legs were darker than he remembered — maybe she’d been in the sun since he’d last seen her.

“How did you and Leslie meet?” Juan Diego asked her.

The way Dorothy shrugged seemed so familiar; it was as if she’d watched Esperanza and Lupe shrug, and Dorothy was imitating them. “You meet so many people in airports, you know,” was all she said.

“What happened with the water buffalo?” Juan Diego asked.

“Oh, those boys!” Dorothy said, sighing. “I’m so glad you don’t have kids,” she told him with a smile.

“The water buffalo was provoked?” Juan Diego asked her.

“The boys found a live caterpillar — it was green and yellow, with dark-brown eyebrows,” Dorothy said. “Werner put the caterpillar up the water buffalo’s nose — he stuck it all the way up one nostril, as far as it would go.”

“Much tossing of the head and horns, I imagine,” Juan Diego said. “And those hooves — they must have made the ground shake.”

“You would snort, too, if you were trying to blow a caterpillar out of your nose,” Dorothy told him; it was clear she took the water buffalo’s side. “Werner wasn’t that badly trampled, considering.”

“Yes, but what about the stinging condoms and the transparent fingers that swam vertically?” Juan Diego asked her.

“Yeah, they were creepy. They didn’t sting me, but that kid’s penis was nothing anyone could be prepared for,” Dorothy said. “You just never know who’s going to be allergic to what — and how !”

“You just never know,” Juan Diego repeated; he sat down on the bed beside her. She smelled like coconut — maybe it was her sunscreen.

“I’ll bet you’ve missed me, huh?” Dorothy asked him.

“Yes,” he told her. Juan Diego had missed her, but until now he’d not realized how much Dorothy reminded him of the sex-doll statue of Guadalupe — the one the good gringo had given him, the statue Sister Gloria had disapproved of from the start.

It had been a long day, but was that why Juan Diego felt so exhausted? He was too tired to ask Dorothy if she’d had sex with poor Leslie. (Knowing Dorothy, of course she had.)

“You look sad,” Dorothy was whispering. Juan Diego tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. “Maybe you should eat something — the food is good here,” she told him.

“Vietnam,” was all Juan Diego managed to say. He wanted to tell her that he’d been a new American once. He was too young for the draft, and when the draft ended, the lottery drawings didn’t matter. He was crippled; they would never have taken him. But because he’d known the good gringo, who had died trying not to go to Vietnam, Juan Diego would feel guilty for not going — or for not having to maim himself or run away in order not to go.

Juan Diego wanted to tell Dorothy that it troubled him to be so geographically close to Vietnam — on the same South China Sea — because he’d not been sent there, and how it bothered him that el gringo bueno was dead because the luckless boy had tried to run away from that misbegotten war.