Sunsets of Tulum. Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett
or he will leave without you.”
“No,” Reed said. “It’s not important.”
As he pushed the hotel keycard into the slot on 1114, he decided a little day trip was in order. In less than ten minutes he was back at the lobby, the Murakami book under his arm.
“How do I get to the bus station?” he asked.
An Orange from Paradise
The Cancún transit terminal was incongruously modern compared with the surrounding houses and one-story collections of little Internet cafés, pawnshops, and tortilla stands. The air smelled of chili and exhaust and flowers and roasting corn. Two nondescript dogs were trotting around in the traffic, noses to each other’s rears, oblivious to the honks of the battered automobiles that were barely avoiding them. Reed winced as one taxi took a turn too quickly and clipped one of the dogs with its bumper. The animal yelped, rolled, then limped off around the corner, wiser but unharmed.
“You looking for a hostel, man?” a scrawny blond hawker asked in an Australian accent. “I got a great place, perfect for you—just ten bucks. You’ll love it.”
“Sorry, not looking.”
“Come on, just let me show you. You need a place to stay, right?”
Reed pushed past him and into the terminal. A bus had just pulled up and people were disembarking, a stream of families with two, three, or even five children, all with dark skin and bright, sparkling eyes, wearing bright colors. A group of backpackers, their hair in dreadlocks and wearing Guatemalan print clothes, pressed by in a cloud of patchouli and body odor. Two women in their mid-thirties had matching bright-red roller suitcases, each with a big Canadian flag sewn onto the outside. They seemed at a loss as to where to go next. As they walked outside Reed heard the Australian start in at them with his need-a-place-to-stay harangue.
“Yes?” the girl at the counter said, from behind a Plexiglass shield. Small openings were cut at head level and at the desk where the money was exchanged. She was wearing a dark blue pinstriped uniform and had her ebony hair in a tight bun.
“Tulum.”
“Ciento veinte pesos, por favor.”
“Are dollars okay?”
“Sixteen dollars.”
He counted out a ten, a five, and a one and placed them at the semicircle cut into the thick Plexiglass. A draft sucked them through the opening, as if on cue. She counted them primly and smiled, then handed him his ticket.
“Gate number twelve, Sir. Next bus leaves in five minutes. You can board anytime.”
Reed chose a window seat on the passenger’s side, about two-thirds of the way back. He eased himself into the plush velour, surprised at how nice the vehicle was. The hotel clerk’s description had made him expect something with chickens in the overhead bins, guys carrying goats, mothers with unwashed children. Instead, there was a bathroom in the back, three televisions spaced throughout playing a thriller with Alan Rickman, who was, of course, a deliciously nasty bad guy. No one did it better, Reed thought. Rickman’s scorn was just as pleasing in the heavy Mexican dubbing, but it sounded so close to the actor’s real voice that it seemed as if Rickman was speaking Spanish from the start. Reed reclined his seat, settled back in the soft foam, and smiled.
Laurel should be here, he thought. If she could see me now. Then he abruptly changed his mind. She would hate it. She’d be worried about getting some infectious disease from the seat cushions. And that’s if she’d even allow herself to come on the bus at all. Which she wouldn’t. If Laurel were here they’d still be there at the pool, fighting and frustrated.
Almost as soon as he’d thought that, he missed her. What if the bus crashed, what if something happened? Maybe she’d never know why he was on the bus or what he was heading off to do. It would be a weird final punctuation mark in their pages together. He should call her.
And then he remembered: his cellphone was still at the hotel, charging.
“Damn it,” he hissed, standing up suddenly. “Excuse me. Pardon…”
As he pushed his way down the aisle, the driver climbed in, shut the doors, and there was a hiss of air from the brakes.
“Wait!” he said.
Everyone was staring at him. An old lady motioned with her hand for him to move to the front, that it was okay to get off. But he stayed in the aisle, stood there, his heart pounding. It was only a couple of hours. He could live without the cellphone. Just return the book and that would be that.
As the bus kicked up dust and backed out of the parking space, Reed found his seat and again sat down. It was out of his control now. Laurel or Dan or anyone could call, and if they did, they’d have to leave a message, that was all.
The reception here’s just terrible. I’m only on one bar even now, yeah, just now, talking to you.
He could smooth it out, unruffle the feathers.
Just relax and enjoy the ride.
Seated around him was a mix of construction workers, women carrying produce in plastic grocery bags, and a few grubby tourists, mostly younger twenty-somethings with cameras and dusty carry-ons. Reed had grown up thinking you had to watch your stuff in these places, but no one seemed particularly concerned about theft. In fact, shortly after the bus engine rumbled to life, a girl’s wallet slipped out of her loose linen pants and was immediately returned by the Mexican sitting behind her after he politely tapped her on the shoulder. Reed wondered how much of the “dangerous Mexico” he’d imagined up to now was all a creation of the American media, of stupid stereotypes ingrained into him from xenophobic sensationalists. Instead of feeling stressed, he realized that even in the busy bus station he’d felt more at peace than he had in a long, long time. It was already better than the hotel or the pool.
And fuck the cellphone: didn’t every study show that people should unplug once in a while?
Reed pushed the seat back, wriggled into the cushion, and stared out the window as the bus rolled through the Cancún he would never have gotten to see. A flock of bright-green birds exploded out of a cluster of bushes like fluff-covered emeralds. The palms trees rustled, their fronds bending like a hula dancer’s skirt in the breeze. Construction workers manhandled jackhammers, kicking up clouds of dust, which caught the morning rays as if the sun had trained a spotlight on them. A feral black cat, long and graceful, darted across the road. There could be big cats out there too, he remembered overhearing: jaguars, panthers, ocelots. Somewhere off to the west a lagoon held real crocodiles. He’d seen television programs about places like Yucatán, on public television, flipping through the channels at two in the morning after his wife was gone. All of it seemed like a haze. Was this the place where those giant lizards were? Komodo dragons, he thought they were called. Or was that Indonesia?
The vehicle slowed for a speed bump and was instantly surrounded by Maya ladies in their white embroidered dresses holding peeled oranges up for sale through the open windows. Two seats in front of him a woman bought a bag from a stunning girl, beautiful but barely five feet tall, whose long black hair reached down to the small of her back like rich molasses spilling from her shoulders. She saw him through the window and smiled.
“¡Señor! ¡Diez pesos! ¡Diez pesos, por favor! “
He shook his head, keeping the dusty window up. The girl put her hands together quickly in a “please.”
“Okay,” he said, and reached to open the window, but the bus had already started to move. It pulled away and the girl stared at him, smiling and shaking her head.
Too late, he thought. Damn.
The matron in the seat two rows in front of him sucked an orange. She turned back and offered him one over a young pair of construction workers wearing dusty jeans and flannel shirts.
“Es bueno,” she said. “¡Muchas vitaminas!