The Sunflower: A Novel by Richard Paul Evans Page A

have two of them apiece. Outside of customs there are two men who will take the bags from you and recheck them onto our next flight. Once they have your luggage, just wait inside the terminal. We only have a few hours before our next flight, so do not wander off. Do not leave the airport,” he said firmly, glancing meaningfully at the two boys who had delayed the flight. He walked through his group handing everyone immigration declaration cards. As he got to Christine, she asked, “Having fun?”
    “It’s like herding cats.”
    “Get any sleep?” Jessica asked.
    “I never sleep on these trips. How about you two?”
    “I slept like a log,” Jessica said.
    “Not enough,” Christine said.
    “Well, you can catch up in Cuzco. By the way, this is a good time to exchange money. The exchange rate in the airport is better than at the hotels.”
    “How much should we change?”
    “Maybe fifty dollars. You won’t need much for now.”
    As Jim watched over the group’s stragglers, Jessica and Christine passed through Immigration, pulled four suitcases from the carousel and lugged them through Customs. As promised, two Peruvian men, both young and wearing white tank tops, Levi’s and sneakers, stood outside the terminal with a large baggage cart and holding a sign that read PUMA-CONDOR EXPEDITIONS . They left their luggage with the men, then went inside the terminal. They exchanged some money, then wandered around while they waited for the rest of the group to arrive.
    When Jim came, he led them to another gate, where they boarded a smaller plane. They touched down in Cuzco around one in the afternoon.
    Even before the plane’s hatch opened, Christine could feel the effects of the altitude; her head ached and it felt as if her sinuses were going to explode. The temperature was unseasonably cool for Cuzco—much cooler than in Lima, and Christine wrapped her arms around herself as they walked outside to the airport’s parking lot.
    She stopped to look around. The Cuzco airport was considerably smaller than the Lima international, but the ratio of foreigners to natives was higher. As the heart of the Incan civilization, Cuzco attracted a steady flow of foreign tourists.
    In the middle of the parking lot was a large concrete obelisk capped with a bronze bust of the airport’s namesake. Modern billboards surrounded the airport with laptop and cell-phone advertisements, all in Spanish. At one end of the airport was a soccer field and at the other, near the bus-loading zone, were a row of small wooden stalls with Peruvian handicrafts. While Jessica went to peruse the shops, Christine sat down on a curb and watched their luggage being loaded into the bus’s belly. Her light-headedness increased, and she rested her head in her hand. Jim walked up behind her and sat on the curb next to her. “How’s it going?”
    “Okay.”
    “Still tired?”
    “I have a headache.”
    “Probably altitude sickness. We’re eleven thousand feet up.” After a moment he said, “I’ll get you something for it.” He stood back up and walked across the lot to a woman wearing a white top hat and bright Quechuan attire. He handed her a coin, and she handed him a small plastic bag filled with dark green leaves. He brought it over to Christine.
    “Here.”
    “What is it?” she asked, examining the leaves.
    “Coca leaves.”
    “Coca? Like cocaine?”
    “Same leaf. But it’s for tea. It will help with altitude sickness. You can get some hot water at the hotel.”
    Christine looked at the leaves warily.
    “Don’t worry, you won’t fail your company drug testing.” He walked back to the bus and went inside to talk to the driver.
    Just then Jessica walked up wearing a colorful shawl. She looked at the bag in Christine’s hands. “What’s that? Cocaine?”
    “It’s tea,” Christine said.
    “I want to try some.”
    “I’ll share.”
    She held up her arms and spun around, whirling the shawl. “What do you think?”
    “It’s