Z with fresh vigor, and
rearranged my routine: I slept from nine in the morning till three in the
afternoon, and as soon as I woke up (hot, sweating and feeling like I’d been
buried) I would slip out, bypassing reception so they wouldn’t see me and give
me some chore (there were always plenty waiting to be done). Once outside I felt
free, and walked quickly down the avenue past the other campgrounds to the Paseo
Marítimo, and then into the historic center, where I had my breakfast in peace
while reading the paper. Right after that I would start looking for them,
supposing that Caridad and Carmen were still together, combing the neighborhoods
of Z from north to south, from east to west, always in vain, mumbling to myself
and remembering things it would have been better to forget, making plans,
imagining I was back in Mexico, enveloped in an unmistakably Mexican energy,
eventually concluding that both of them had left town. But one day, on the way
back to the campground I stopped on the esplanade beside the port, and saw her:
she was in the crowd that had gathered near the beach to watch a hang-gliding
competition. I recognized her immediately. I felt good in the pit of my stomach;
I wanted to go over and touch her back with my finger. But something warned me
not to, something I couldn’t pin down at the time. A semicircle of spectators,
all staring up into the sky, had gathered around the jury’s dais; I stayed on
the edge of the crowd. A red hang glider, the color of its sail matching the
sunset sky, took off from the hill overlooking the town; it glided down over the
slopes of the hill, then rose before reaching the fishing port, flew over the
yacht club, and seemed for a moment to be heading east over the sea. The pilot,
a dark, hunched figure, was barely visible because of the angle of the glider.
At the castle up on the hill, another competitor was already preparing for
take-off. I had never seen anything like it. Suddenly I felt absolutely at ease
among the growing shadows, which were gradually joining up to construct a real
darkness within the summer night. I could have passed for a tourist; in any
case, no one was paying me any attention. By this stage the red hang glider was
only a few yards from the circular target on the beach; there were a few shouts
of encouragement as he came in to land. Then the white hang glider pushed off
from the castle; the last competitor was a Frenchman, so the loudspeaker
informed us. Suddenly a breeze lifted him high above the launch ramp. Caridad
was wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt and black pants; like everyone else she
had turned her gaze from the pilot who was landing to the one who had just taken
off, who seemed to be having some trouble controlling his glider. Something
about Caridad, something about her back and her hair, triggered a familiar but
brief and almost imperceptible feeling of strangeness and danger. I could tell
from the applause that the pilot of the red hang glider had landed. I decided to
go a little closer. The three judges on the dais were looking at their watches
and cracking jokes; they were all very young. Along the esplanade, groups of
boys and girls were ceremoniously packing away the previous competitors’
equipment. A guy who I guessed was a pilot, though certainly not the one who had
just landed, was sitting on the sand, very near the water’s edge, with his hands
on his knees, hanging his head. Next to me someone remarked that the white hang
glider was coming in to land from the hill instead of from the sea. I thought I
could see signs of anxiety, and of pleasure, on the faces of the better informed
spectators. That was clearly not the right way to approach the strip of beach
where the judges were waiting. Up in the air, the pilot tried to steer his craft
toward the port so he could go out over the sea, but he was losing altitude and
couldn’t seem to correct his trajectory. I moved away from the crowd and tried
to find a place in the garden
rearranged my routine: I slept from nine in the morning till three in the
afternoon, and as soon as I woke up (hot, sweating and feeling like I’d been
buried) I would slip out, bypassing reception so they wouldn’t see me and give
me some chore (there were always plenty waiting to be done). Once outside I felt
free, and walked quickly down the avenue past the other campgrounds to the Paseo
Marítimo, and then into the historic center, where I had my breakfast in peace
while reading the paper. Right after that I would start looking for them,
supposing that Caridad and Carmen were still together, combing the neighborhoods
of Z from north to south, from east to west, always in vain, mumbling to myself
and remembering things it would have been better to forget, making plans,
imagining I was back in Mexico, enveloped in an unmistakably Mexican energy,
eventually concluding that both of them had left town. But one day, on the way
back to the campground I stopped on the esplanade beside the port, and saw her:
she was in the crowd that had gathered near the beach to watch a hang-gliding
competition. I recognized her immediately. I felt good in the pit of my stomach;
I wanted to go over and touch her back with my finger. But something warned me
not to, something I couldn’t pin down at the time. A semicircle of spectators,
all staring up into the sky, had gathered around the jury’s dais; I stayed on
the edge of the crowd. A red hang glider, the color of its sail matching the
sunset sky, took off from the hill overlooking the town; it glided down over the
slopes of the hill, then rose before reaching the fishing port, flew over the
yacht club, and seemed for a moment to be heading east over the sea. The pilot,
a dark, hunched figure, was barely visible because of the angle of the glider.
At the castle up on the hill, another competitor was already preparing for
take-off. I had never seen anything like it. Suddenly I felt absolutely at ease
among the growing shadows, which were gradually joining up to construct a real
darkness within the summer night. I could have passed for a tourist; in any
case, no one was paying me any attention. By this stage the red hang glider was
only a few yards from the circular target on the beach; there were a few shouts
of encouragement as he came in to land. Then the white hang glider pushed off
from the castle; the last competitor was a Frenchman, so the loudspeaker
informed us. Suddenly a breeze lifted him high above the launch ramp. Caridad
was wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt and black pants; like everyone else she
had turned her gaze from the pilot who was landing to the one who had just taken
off, who seemed to be having some trouble controlling his glider. Something
about Caridad, something about her back and her hair, triggered a familiar but
brief and almost imperceptible feeling of strangeness and danger. I could tell
from the applause that the pilot of the red hang glider had landed. I decided to
go a little closer. The three judges on the dais were looking at their watches
and cracking jokes; they were all very young. Along the esplanade, groups of
boys and girls were ceremoniously packing away the previous competitors’
equipment. A guy who I guessed was a pilot, though certainly not the one who had
just landed, was sitting on the sand, very near the water’s edge, with his hands
on his knees, hanging his head. Next to me someone remarked that the white hang
glider was coming in to land from the hill instead of from the sea. I thought I
could see signs of anxiety, and of pleasure, on the faces of the better informed
spectators. That was clearly not the right way to approach the strip of beach
where the judges were waiting. Up in the air, the pilot tried to steer his craft
toward the port so he could go out over the sea, but he was losing altitude and
couldn’t seem to correct his trajectory. I moved away from the crowd and tried
to find a place in the garden
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