them.
“Look how dirty the car’s become,” Paulo said after a few minutes. “I think I’ll wash it.”
“The owner of the motel wouldn’t like to find out people are using water for washing their car. We’re in the desert, remember?”
Paulo didn’t answer. He stood up, took a roll of paper towels from the car, and began to wipe away at the dust. Chris remained seated.
He’s upset. He can’t sit still,
she thought. “I’ve got something serious to tell you,” she said.
“You’ve done your work very well, don’t worry,” he answered, as he used up one paper towel after another.
“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about,” Chris insisted. “I didn’t come here to do work. I came because I thought our marriage was beginning to fall apart.”
She feels the same way I do,
he thought. But he continued with his cleaning.
“I’ve always respected your spiritual search, but I have mine, too,” Chris said. “And I’m going to go on with it. I want you to understand that. I’m going to continue attending mass.”
“I go to church, too.”
“But what you’re doing here is different, you know? You chose this way of communicating with God, and I’ve chosen a different one.”
“I know that. I don’t want to change.”
“But meanwhile”—she took a deep breath, not knowing what his response would be—“meanwhile, something is happening to me. I want to speak to my angel, too.”
She stood and went over to him. She began to gather the paper towels scattered on the ground.
“Do me a favor,” she said, looking directly into her husband’s eyes. “Don’t leave me in the middle of the road.”
Chapter 22
T HERE WAS A SMALL DINER NEXT TO THE gas station.
They sat near the window. It was early in the morning, and the world was still quiet. Outside was the desert, the immense, packed surface … and silence.
Chris missed Borrego Springs, Gringo Pass, and Indio. In those places, the desert had a face: mountains, valleys, stories of pioneers and conquistadors.
Here, though, the immense emptiness was all there was to see. And the sun. The sun that before long would color the world yellow, raise the temperature to 115 in the shade, and make life impossible.
The man behind the counter took their order. He was Chinese, and spoke with a strong accent—he could not have been here for very long. Chris imagined how many times the world had turned to bring the Chinese man to this luncheonette in the middle of the American desert.
They asked for coffee, bacon, and toast, and sat there in silence.
Chris looked at the man’s eyes—they appeared to gaze to the horizon, the eyes of one whose soul had grown.
But no, he was not engaged in a holy exercise, or trying to develop his spiritual side. His was thegaze of boredom. He wasn’t seeing anything—not the desert, not the road, and not even the two customers who had come in so early in the morning. He limited himself to the motions required—put the coffee in the coffeemaker, fry the eggs, say, “Can I help you?” or “Thank you.” The meaning of his life appeared to have been left behind, or to have disappeared in the immensity of the treeless desert.
The coffee came. They began to sip it, in no hurry. They had nowhere to go.
Paulo looked at the car outside. It had done no good at all to have cleaned it two days before. It was covered with dust once again.
They heard a sound in the distance. In a few minutes, the first truck of the day would drive past. The man behind the counter might put his boredom and eggs and bacon aside, and go outside to try to find something, wanting to be a part of the world that was on the move, the world that passed by his diner. It was the only thing he could do; watch from a distance as the world went by. He probably no longer even dreamed of leaving the luncheonette behind and hitching a ride on one of the trucks to somewhere else. He was addicted to silence and emptiness.
The sound grew
“Look how dirty the car’s become,” Paulo said after a few minutes. “I think I’ll wash it.”
“The owner of the motel wouldn’t like to find out people are using water for washing their car. We’re in the desert, remember?”
Paulo didn’t answer. He stood up, took a roll of paper towels from the car, and began to wipe away at the dust. Chris remained seated.
He’s upset. He can’t sit still,
she thought. “I’ve got something serious to tell you,” she said.
“You’ve done your work very well, don’t worry,” he answered, as he used up one paper towel after another.
“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about,” Chris insisted. “I didn’t come here to do work. I came because I thought our marriage was beginning to fall apart.”
She feels the same way I do,
he thought. But he continued with his cleaning.
“I’ve always respected your spiritual search, but I have mine, too,” Chris said. “And I’m going to go on with it. I want you to understand that. I’m going to continue attending mass.”
“I go to church, too.”
“But what you’re doing here is different, you know? You chose this way of communicating with God, and I’ve chosen a different one.”
“I know that. I don’t want to change.”
“But meanwhile”—she took a deep breath, not knowing what his response would be—“meanwhile, something is happening to me. I want to speak to my angel, too.”
She stood and went over to him. She began to gather the paper towels scattered on the ground.
“Do me a favor,” she said, looking directly into her husband’s eyes. “Don’t leave me in the middle of the road.”
Chapter 22
T HERE WAS A SMALL DINER NEXT TO THE gas station.
They sat near the window. It was early in the morning, and the world was still quiet. Outside was the desert, the immense, packed surface … and silence.
Chris missed Borrego Springs, Gringo Pass, and Indio. In those places, the desert had a face: mountains, valleys, stories of pioneers and conquistadors.
Here, though, the immense emptiness was all there was to see. And the sun. The sun that before long would color the world yellow, raise the temperature to 115 in the shade, and make life impossible.
The man behind the counter took their order. He was Chinese, and spoke with a strong accent—he could not have been here for very long. Chris imagined how many times the world had turned to bring the Chinese man to this luncheonette in the middle of the American desert.
They asked for coffee, bacon, and toast, and sat there in silence.
Chris looked at the man’s eyes—they appeared to gaze to the horizon, the eyes of one whose soul had grown.
But no, he was not engaged in a holy exercise, or trying to develop his spiritual side. His was thegaze of boredom. He wasn’t seeing anything—not the desert, not the road, and not even the two customers who had come in so early in the morning. He limited himself to the motions required—put the coffee in the coffeemaker, fry the eggs, say, “Can I help you?” or “Thank you.” The meaning of his life appeared to have been left behind, or to have disappeared in the immensity of the treeless desert.
The coffee came. They began to sip it, in no hurry. They had nowhere to go.
Paulo looked at the car outside. It had done no good at all to have cleaned it two days before. It was covered with dust once again.
They heard a sound in the distance. In a few minutes, the first truck of the day would drive past. The man behind the counter might put his boredom and eggs and bacon aside, and go outside to try to find something, wanting to be a part of the world that was on the move, the world that passed by his diner. It was the only thing he could do; watch from a distance as the world went by. He probably no longer even dreamed of leaving the luncheonette behind and hitching a ride on one of the trucks to somewhere else. He was addicted to silence and emptiness.
The sound grew
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