Still the Same Man by Jon Bilbao Page A

car.
    Everyone there was Mexican. When Joanes, the professor, and his wife showed up, conversations stopped and all eyes fell on them.
    “Good afternoon,” said Joanes as he got out of the car. And he repeated his greeting in different directions, turning to each of the various huddles of people.
    They responded with nods and murmurs.
    The professor also got out. His wife stayed in the car.
    One of the Mexican men was slaving away at a barbecue constructed out of a metal gas drum cut in half lengthways and mounted on sawhorses. On seeing them, he walked toward the newcomers, wiping his hands with a cloth. Joanes guessed the man was about fifty. He was built like a barrel and had one lame leg. His right foot swung, tracing an arc as he walked, and this movement drew attention to his sneakers, which had air vents snipped into the instep.
    “Afternoon,” said the Mexican man, introducing himself as the hotel’s owner, “How can I help you?”
    The professor piped up before Joanes could get a word in.
    “My wife and I had a setback on the bus that was taking us to Valladolid, and we had to get off halfway through our journey. We were forced to,” he clarified. “Now we’re looking for accommodations for the night. In Los Tigres, they directed us this way. But before I say more, may I have a glass of water?”
    The owner of the establishment went over to a table where a group of women were preparing platters of food and returned with two glasses of water.
    “I’m sorry, we’re out of ice.”
    The professor took the glasses and lifted them up to the light.
    “Is it mineral water?”
    “I’m sorr y?”
    “Is it purified?”
    The Mexican man nodded unconvincingly. The professor threw him a disapproving look and went over to his wife, who drank holding the glass with both hands and spilling part of its contents down her chin. The professor stood beside her, stroking her hair. Once she’d finished, the professor offered her the other glass, which she also gulped down. Then the professor whispered something to her, to which she nodded, once again with a pained expression. Finally, the professor went up to the table of food, where he helped himself to more water and drank.
    “Do you have any rooms?” Joanes asked the hotel owner.
    “You’re in luck. I have one. The last one. Do want to see it?”
    “Just one?”
    The hotel owner nodded and pointed toward the elderly couple.
    “Are they your parents?”
    “God no.”
    The professor walked back over to them, and Joanes gave him the bad news.
    “It wouldn’t be possible, for example, to relocate someone?” the professor proposed. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement.”
    “I’ve got people crammed in like sardines,” the hotel owner answered. “Six or seven to a room. I’m not going to move them just to make more room for you.”
    “Is there room in any of the other hotels in Los Tigres?” interrupted Joanes.
    “There aren’t any other hotels in Los Tigres. Do you want to see the room?”
    “We may as well, now that we’re here,” Joanes said.
    The owner called over a vacant looking girl who was seasoning the meat for the barbecue.
    “My daughter. She’ll show you the room. I have to attend to the food. If you’re happy with what you see, come back down and we can talk.”
    The professor told his wife to wait for them a minute, and he and Joanes followed the girl. Inside there was nothing vaguely resembling a reception desk. In fact, there was nothing really resembling a hotel. And this impression was heightened when they stopped in front of a room with no number on the door. The girl opened it and invited them to go in.
    It was pretty large, and reasonably clean. The floor was tiled and the walls painted a muted tone of green. By way of furniture there was a bed, and next to that a bedside table with a lamp, then one sole chair set aside in the corner. A print of the Virgin of Guadalupe hung over the bed. The window faced out