sheet.
The old blue truck groaned on. It was a Pierce-Arrow from the ’20s, with an upright cab like a telephone booth and light external fenders of the type you see on motorbikes today. It was older than the other trucks, and smaller, and rode like a carriage on weak leaf springs that creaked.
With the engine under stress, they passed a scrappy settlement and turned onto the main cross-island road.
They came upon a string of solid villages with paved streets and good houses—verandas, hedges, lattice trim—a pond below the wreckage of a white great house, then for miles, on rolling land, long rows of young banana trees just planted by United Fruit. Guards rode up and down the verge on horses—some of them with guns.
From there, the road was like a lashing whip, and the old truck rose and fell along its dips and rises, flanked by humps of land in terraced cultivation—tenant farms of beans and cabbage next to ample citrus groves whose owners had new cars and concrete villas.
The truck made frequent stops, and Estrella dropped her head each time. This way she wouldn’t feel compelled to wave.
Although she was grateful that they’d slapped their hands against the truck to make the driver stop, and had gripped her arm and helped her in, Estrella held the workers in contempt. They’d failed. They were dirty and poor, and wore their tattered clothes on bodies in decay.
In their company she felt as if her bath had been a waste. Above them hung a tender stink that slipped inside her body when she sighed or made a sharp intake of breath—as she did on seeing a man unearth a booger from his nose and crush it on his sleeve.
The stores would be closed when she got to Seville, which meant she’d be going to bed without a job, and waking up without a future in the morning, after sleeping who-knows-where.
“Which part you going?” somebody asked.
Without looking she replied, “I going town.”
By now she was the only person standing, and was staring at the road behind her as it faded into dusk.
She felt the heat of eyes on her, and when she looked she saw a woman leaning forward to reveal the man who’d asked. He was in his twenties, with a handsome face spoiled in places by a rash, and as she peered at him Estrella wondered why he didn’t hide it with a beard.
“Which part you coming from?” he asked.
The leaning woman put her elbows on her knees, and now the man looked like her bidet.
Estrella answered, “Far.”
“Far like far where? Every far has a name.”
“Farther than you’d want to go.”
“How you know that?”
“I ain’t know that. And I ain’t care that you know I ain’t know that. Worse, I ain’t care what you want to know for.”
“Suppose I have important reasons?”
“I’d say ‘good for you.’”
“Well, it must be good for me. Because I want to know so I could go and see you mother and thank her. For she made a lovely girl like you.”
When the laughter in the truck had died, he pointed at the woman in his lap and said, “Don’t worry. Me and her ain’t nothing. When she gone I’ll take you.”
“If you know where I want to go, you wouldn’t say that.”
“How you know for sure?”
“Well, you old enough. If you did want to go you’d be gone already.”
“Maybe I was waiting for you.”
“Some kind o’ things can’t cook in the same pot,” she said, annoyed but also quite amused. “Some things together is poison. Like cornmeal and rum. You ever drink that?”
“No.”
“Next time I see you, remind me, and I promise to make some for you.”
The people in the truck began to laugh again.
“You hair pretty,” he said almost shyly. “You have Indian in you?”
“No.”
“You want some?”
“You’re a blasted fool. You know that?”
“Stop acting like you vex. I can see you want to laugh.”
“It have children just like you, you know. They fill they eye before they fill they belly. They always asking for big plate o’ food and when
The old blue truck groaned on. It was a Pierce-Arrow from the ’20s, with an upright cab like a telephone booth and light external fenders of the type you see on motorbikes today. It was older than the other trucks, and smaller, and rode like a carriage on weak leaf springs that creaked.
With the engine under stress, they passed a scrappy settlement and turned onto the main cross-island road.
They came upon a string of solid villages with paved streets and good houses—verandas, hedges, lattice trim—a pond below the wreckage of a white great house, then for miles, on rolling land, long rows of young banana trees just planted by United Fruit. Guards rode up and down the verge on horses—some of them with guns.
From there, the road was like a lashing whip, and the old truck rose and fell along its dips and rises, flanked by humps of land in terraced cultivation—tenant farms of beans and cabbage next to ample citrus groves whose owners had new cars and concrete villas.
The truck made frequent stops, and Estrella dropped her head each time. This way she wouldn’t feel compelled to wave.
Although she was grateful that they’d slapped their hands against the truck to make the driver stop, and had gripped her arm and helped her in, Estrella held the workers in contempt. They’d failed. They were dirty and poor, and wore their tattered clothes on bodies in decay.
In their company she felt as if her bath had been a waste. Above them hung a tender stink that slipped inside her body when she sighed or made a sharp intake of breath—as she did on seeing a man unearth a booger from his nose and crush it on his sleeve.
The stores would be closed when she got to Seville, which meant she’d be going to bed without a job, and waking up without a future in the morning, after sleeping who-knows-where.
“Which part you going?” somebody asked.
Without looking she replied, “I going town.”
By now she was the only person standing, and was staring at the road behind her as it faded into dusk.
She felt the heat of eyes on her, and when she looked she saw a woman leaning forward to reveal the man who’d asked. He was in his twenties, with a handsome face spoiled in places by a rash, and as she peered at him Estrella wondered why he didn’t hide it with a beard.
“Which part you coming from?” he asked.
The leaning woman put her elbows on her knees, and now the man looked like her bidet.
Estrella answered, “Far.”
“Far like far where? Every far has a name.”
“Farther than you’d want to go.”
“How you know that?”
“I ain’t know that. And I ain’t care that you know I ain’t know that. Worse, I ain’t care what you want to know for.”
“Suppose I have important reasons?”
“I’d say ‘good for you.’”
“Well, it must be good for me. Because I want to know so I could go and see you mother and thank her. For she made a lovely girl like you.”
When the laughter in the truck had died, he pointed at the woman in his lap and said, “Don’t worry. Me and her ain’t nothing. When she gone I’ll take you.”
“If you know where I want to go, you wouldn’t say that.”
“How you know for sure?”
“Well, you old enough. If you did want to go you’d be gone already.”
“Maybe I was waiting for you.”
“Some kind o’ things can’t cook in the same pot,” she said, annoyed but also quite amused. “Some things together is poison. Like cornmeal and rum. You ever drink that?”
“No.”
“Next time I see you, remind me, and I promise to make some for you.”
The people in the truck began to laugh again.
“You hair pretty,” he said almost shyly. “You have Indian in you?”
“No.”
“You want some?”
“You’re a blasted fool. You know that?”
“Stop acting like you vex. I can see you want to laugh.”
“It have children just like you, you know. They fill they eye before they fill they belly. They always asking for big plate o’ food and when
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