crack-the-whips, the dark chambers of
surprises, the deforming mirrors, the jet-plane trips, the death-defying
motorcycles of drunkenness. Tongues rubberized, their words came out on oiled
rollers, their laughter like sudden geysers.
Just as Lillian sat down there came to her
table a short Irishman with an ageless face and round, absolutely fixed round
eyes. Their roundness and fixity gave his face an expression of extreme
innocence. He greeted her and asked her permission to sit down.
He wore white pants as the Mexicans did, a blue
shirt open at the neck, and Spanish rope shoes, and talked briefly in such a
monotone that it was difficult to hear what he said.
But his pockets were filled with small
fragments from excavations: heads, arms, legs, snakes, flutes, pottery of
various Indian origins. He would pull one of these objects out of his pocket
and hold it for inspection in the palm of his hand. And quietly he would tell
the history of the piece.
He never asked anyone to buy them, but if a
tourist asked: “Will you sell it?” he assented sadly, as if it belonged to a
private collection and he was only a courteous host.
Every time he saw Lillian he showed her one of
the pieces and taught her how to distinguish between the periods, by whether
the piece was clay or stone, by the slant of the eye, the headgear, the design
of the jewels, so that she began to know the history of Mexico.
O’Connor never talked of anything but the new
excavations he had attended, the history of the little fragments. And after
that he would fall into a tropical trance.
The theatrical scenes on the square sufficed
for his happiness—two sailors quarreling, lovers meeting, a Mexican family
celebrating their daughter’s winning of the Carnival beauty-queen contest, men
alone playing chess after dinner. He lived the life of others. Lillian could
see him watching these people until he became them. He sat in his chair
like a body empty of its spirit, and Lillian could sense him living the life of
the lovers, the life of the sailors.
She felt he would understand the story of the
prisoner and laugh with her at her gullibility. But he did not laugh. His eyes
for the first time lost their glassy fixity. They moistened with emotion.
“I wish I had been able to warn you… I never
imagined… To think you rescued the one prisoner who did not deserve it! I never
told you… When I’m not working with excavators and anthropologists I spend all
my time rescuing foreigners in trouble—a sailor who gets nto a brawl with a Mexican; a tourist whose car kills a donkey on the road. If they
are poor, or if they strike a native, the Mexicans are apt to forget them in
jail. This place is filled with people who don’t care what happens to others.
They have come here for pleasure. They are running away from burdens. There’s
something in the climate too. And now you… You went and rescued the one
prisoner who makes a profession of this, who shares with the guide what the
tourists give him, who lives on that, and then quickly returns to jail, to wait
for more.”
Lillian laughed again, irrepressibly.
“I’m glad you’re laughing. I guess I have taken
all this too seriously. It has seemed to me almost a matter of life and death,
to get all the prisoners out. I never quite understood it. Sometimes I forget
them for a few days, go on my expeditions, swim, travel. But always I return to
the jail, to the jailed.”
“When you’re so intent on freeing others, you
must be trying to free some part of yourself too.”
“I never gave it much thought…but the
desperation with which I work, the amount of time I spent on this, as if it
were a vice I had no control over… Opening jail doors, and searching for
fragments of vanished civilizations. Never thought what it might mean… You see,
I came here to forget myself. I had the illusion that if I engaged in
impersonal activities, I would get rid of myself somewhere. I felt that an
interest in the history of
surprises, the deforming mirrors, the jet-plane trips, the death-defying
motorcycles of drunkenness. Tongues rubberized, their words came out on oiled
rollers, their laughter like sudden geysers.
Just as Lillian sat down there came to her
table a short Irishman with an ageless face and round, absolutely fixed round
eyes. Their roundness and fixity gave his face an expression of extreme
innocence. He greeted her and asked her permission to sit down.
He wore white pants as the Mexicans did, a blue
shirt open at the neck, and Spanish rope shoes, and talked briefly in such a
monotone that it was difficult to hear what he said.
But his pockets were filled with small
fragments from excavations: heads, arms, legs, snakes, flutes, pottery of
various Indian origins. He would pull one of these objects out of his pocket
and hold it for inspection in the palm of his hand. And quietly he would tell
the history of the piece.
He never asked anyone to buy them, but if a
tourist asked: “Will you sell it?” he assented sadly, as if it belonged to a
private collection and he was only a courteous host.
Every time he saw Lillian he showed her one of
the pieces and taught her how to distinguish between the periods, by whether
the piece was clay or stone, by the slant of the eye, the headgear, the design
of the jewels, so that she began to know the history of Mexico.
O’Connor never talked of anything but the new
excavations he had attended, the history of the little fragments. And after
that he would fall into a tropical trance.
The theatrical scenes on the square sufficed
for his happiness—two sailors quarreling, lovers meeting, a Mexican family
celebrating their daughter’s winning of the Carnival beauty-queen contest, men
alone playing chess after dinner. He lived the life of others. Lillian could
see him watching these people until he became them. He sat in his chair
like a body empty of its spirit, and Lillian could sense him living the life of
the lovers, the life of the sailors.
She felt he would understand the story of the
prisoner and laugh with her at her gullibility. But he did not laugh. His eyes
for the first time lost their glassy fixity. They moistened with emotion.
“I wish I had been able to warn you… I never
imagined… To think you rescued the one prisoner who did not deserve it! I never
told you… When I’m not working with excavators and anthropologists I spend all
my time rescuing foreigners in trouble—a sailor who gets nto a brawl with a Mexican; a tourist whose car kills a donkey on the road. If they
are poor, or if they strike a native, the Mexicans are apt to forget them in
jail. This place is filled with people who don’t care what happens to others.
They have come here for pleasure. They are running away from burdens. There’s
something in the climate too. And now you… You went and rescued the one
prisoner who makes a profession of this, who shares with the guide what the
tourists give him, who lives on that, and then quickly returns to jail, to wait
for more.”
Lillian laughed again, irrepressibly.
“I’m glad you’re laughing. I guess I have taken
all this too seriously. It has seemed to me almost a matter of life and death,
to get all the prisoners out. I never quite understood it. Sometimes I forget
them for a few days, go on my expeditions, swim, travel. But always I return to
the jail, to the jailed.”
“When you’re so intent on freeing others, you
must be trying to free some part of yourself too.”
“I never gave it much thought…but the
desperation with which I work, the amount of time I spent on this, as if it
were a vice I had no control over… Opening jail doors, and searching for
fragments of vanished civilizations. Never thought what it might mean… You see,
I came here to forget myself. I had the illusion that if I engaged in
impersonal activities, I would get rid of myself somewhere. I felt that an
interest in the history of
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