my mother once, but she didn’t understand. Even Beth accused me of sounding “philosophically nonsensical” the time I tried to get into a discussion with her about it while we were waiting for the TA to post the grades for our physical oceanography class.
Danilo runs his thumb along the uneven groove at the meeting between two stones. “I’ve thought that before,” he says. He keeps tracing, brooding a little while I stand still in the center of the square tower. Then he says, “I still think this place is ours, though.”
When we step out into the full wash of daylight again, we walk past more rubble and crumbling walls, the foundations perfectly undisturbed, as if the buildings were once little more than tiered cakes, the tops of each simply lifted off. Not far in the distance, white gulls circle over the muddy brown-blue water in the bay.
We walk until we reach a small arched stone bridge. When Danilo strides out to the middle of it and sits, placing his flower bucket behind him, I sit down, too. The sky above us is absolutely clear, although across the bay, a thick swab of pale gray clouds hangs placidly. Our feet dangle nearly thirty feet above the narrow green stream that runs under the bridge, foamy as it curls around the rocks. A plastic grocery bag wound around a tree branch flows silently below us and, after it, the small body of a dead frog, splayed like an open flower. An old mini-refrigerator is lodged in the silt on the bank. Bits of mica schist glint in the sun.
I feel light sitting there, buoyant, the panic that surfaced earlier entirely gone. I have a strong sense of being close to something, even if I don’t know what. Of being on a precipice. As if sitting on the side of that bridge is the same thing as being perched on the edge of my life.
Then, out of nowhere, Danilo says, “You know, you probably shouldn’t take the bus alone while you’re here. The bus system in Panamá is hell. No real routes, no schedules, buses going all over the place. They’re called diablos rojos for a reason.”
“I take buses at home.”
He makes a face. “I don’t know. You should probably just take taxis from now on.”
“How do you know the buses in Chicago aren’t just as bad?”
“People just say it’s crazy here. They say that no one who doesn’t live here would take the bus in their right mind. Do people say that in Chicago?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied. Then, “In Chicago, you have the bears, right?”
It takes me a second to realize he doesn’t mean animals in a forest. “For football, yes, the Chicago Bears.”
“And for baseball?”
“The Cubs.” I say it in English because I don’t know the word for it in Spanish.
Danilo wrinkles his nose. “What is that?”
“A cub is a baby bear.”
He shakes his head. “Lots of bears.”
I laugh.
After another minute, he says, “You know, there are supposed to be treasures in the water. When the pirates came, everybody panicked and dumped all their gold and shit in the river. You know, to hide it. But then most of the residents got killed, so all their stuff is still supposed to be buried down there somewhere.”
I don’t catch everything he says. “ Tesoros means ‘gold’?”
“Could be gold. You know, just valuables. Treasures.”
“It’s all under the water?”
“That’s the story. No one’s ever found anything, though.”
There seems something final about the way he says it, as though he merely brought up the subject for the sake of idle conversation and now is annoyed that the discussion has gone on. I wouldn’t mind asking him more about it—the idea of treasures somewhere beneath our dangling feet is intriguing—but I get the sense that he’s far less academic about exploring topics than I am. He’s more impetuous perhaps, flitting to whatever captures his attention next. I push my bangs off my forehead, but they fall right back down again, rebellious in the humidity.
“Thanks
Danilo runs his thumb along the uneven groove at the meeting between two stones. “I’ve thought that before,” he says. He keeps tracing, brooding a little while I stand still in the center of the square tower. Then he says, “I still think this place is ours, though.”
When we step out into the full wash of daylight again, we walk past more rubble and crumbling walls, the foundations perfectly undisturbed, as if the buildings were once little more than tiered cakes, the tops of each simply lifted off. Not far in the distance, white gulls circle over the muddy brown-blue water in the bay.
We walk until we reach a small arched stone bridge. When Danilo strides out to the middle of it and sits, placing his flower bucket behind him, I sit down, too. The sky above us is absolutely clear, although across the bay, a thick swab of pale gray clouds hangs placidly. Our feet dangle nearly thirty feet above the narrow green stream that runs under the bridge, foamy as it curls around the rocks. A plastic grocery bag wound around a tree branch flows silently below us and, after it, the small body of a dead frog, splayed like an open flower. An old mini-refrigerator is lodged in the silt on the bank. Bits of mica schist glint in the sun.
I feel light sitting there, buoyant, the panic that surfaced earlier entirely gone. I have a strong sense of being close to something, even if I don’t know what. Of being on a precipice. As if sitting on the side of that bridge is the same thing as being perched on the edge of my life.
Then, out of nowhere, Danilo says, “You know, you probably shouldn’t take the bus alone while you’re here. The bus system in Panamá is hell. No real routes, no schedules, buses going all over the place. They’re called diablos rojos for a reason.”
“I take buses at home.”
He makes a face. “I don’t know. You should probably just take taxis from now on.”
“How do you know the buses in Chicago aren’t just as bad?”
“People just say it’s crazy here. They say that no one who doesn’t live here would take the bus in their right mind. Do people say that in Chicago?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied. Then, “In Chicago, you have the bears, right?”
It takes me a second to realize he doesn’t mean animals in a forest. “For football, yes, the Chicago Bears.”
“And for baseball?”
“The Cubs.” I say it in English because I don’t know the word for it in Spanish.
Danilo wrinkles his nose. “What is that?”
“A cub is a baby bear.”
He shakes his head. “Lots of bears.”
I laugh.
After another minute, he says, “You know, there are supposed to be treasures in the water. When the pirates came, everybody panicked and dumped all their gold and shit in the river. You know, to hide it. But then most of the residents got killed, so all their stuff is still supposed to be buried down there somewhere.”
I don’t catch everything he says. “ Tesoros means ‘gold’?”
“Could be gold. You know, just valuables. Treasures.”
“It’s all under the water?”
“That’s the story. No one’s ever found anything, though.”
There seems something final about the way he says it, as though he merely brought up the subject for the sake of idle conversation and now is annoyed that the discussion has gone on. I wouldn’t mind asking him more about it—the idea of treasures somewhere beneath our dangling feet is intriguing—but I get the sense that he’s far less academic about exploring topics than I am. He’s more impetuous perhaps, flitting to whatever captures his attention next. I push my bangs off my forehead, but they fall right back down again, rebellious in the humidity.
“Thanks
Similar Books
