Mystery on mystery. Bewildering, dreamlike, almost hallucinatory—I could make no sense out of any of it. This alien ritual left me feeling more thoroughly alone and out of place in Pelpel than ever before.
And yet, in the giddy and tense carnival atmosphere of the moment, nearly everyone was cheerful and friendly. They clustered around me, offering me drinks, cigarettes, rough macho handshakes, splay-toothed grins, winks, nudges. Through the air came the cracking boom of the loudspeaker, the voice furry and distorted, calling out the twists and surprises of the race. It was all but impossible for me to comprehend. Was that Alejandro in the lead, now? Or the Norteamericano? Was he saying that Lezaeta’s car had gone spinning off the track passing the quebrada? And had someone else overturned just outside Sabroso? It was dreamlike, yes, eerie, confusing—little blips and fragments of information, alternating with static, cheering, shouting, and torrents of the bewildering local dialect. The crowd was wholly caught up in it, following each event of the race with wild excitement. They seemed to be making bets constantly—not just on the ultimate winner, so far as I could tell, but on who would be in the lead at certain key points along the course, and even on who would get through the race without a spin-out or a stall—and the hundred-peso notes were going swiftly from hand to hand. Whenever the Norteamericano racer was mentioned, the cheering grew more intense and the people surrounding me laughed and clapped as if to tell me that they liked me more and more because my valiant countryman was performing so well. I wondered who this American racer might be and what he was doing in these parts and whether he would make it safely to Pelpel that evening. It had been too many weeks since I had had a coherent conversation with someone whose language I understood.
The race appeared to be reaching its climax now.
Sotomayor, the Greek’s brother-in-law, came swaggering up out of the chaos. He loomed ominously over me, at least a foot taller than I am, though I doubt he weighed a hundred forty pounds—a knifeblade of a man, matador-thin, cold, unfathomable. He glowered at me and said icily, “You will not win.”
I had no idea what to say.
“You will lose,” he said, as though he felt he needed to clarify his first statement.
I shrugged. He was drunk and wobbling, and I was so captivated by the sudden and unexpected friendliness of everyone else around me that I resented having Sotomayor spoil the mood of cordiality. Something possessed me and I tugged my wallet our of my pocket. In a reckless way—on this expedition I had no funds to waste—I pulled out five hundred-peso notes. The Chilean peso was then worth something like three cents, so a hundred pesos was no great fortune, but I could hardly stand to lose even the fifteen dollars that the five bills represented. Nevertheless I glared up at Sotomayor and said, “On the Norteamericano to win. Cinco cientos.”
“You bet with me?”
“I bet, yes.”
Sotomayor laughed. With a vast flamboyant gesture of his great spidery arms he drew forth a purse from a money belt and counted out ten hundred-peso notes, holding each one up so that I could count along with him. His eyes gleamed mockingly in the glaring light of the plaza lamps. He was giving me odds of two to one, unasked—a gesture of contempt, of humiliation. He swept my bills from my hand, folded them into the ten he was holding, wrapped them all in a wad and handed them to fat Aguirre, the lawyer, who stood nearby and somehow had been appointed keeper of the stakes in that moment.
The crowd was screaming. It was all but impossible to make out the announcer’s words now.
I said to Aguirre, “Do you know where the racers are at this minute?”
He pointed past the finish line and vaguely up the dark highway. “Two kilometers from Pelpel.”
Even on that dreadful road it wouldn’t take long to cover two kilometers. The race was almost over. The screaming was frantic. Along with everyone else I looked toward the finish line. I still was unable to understand how the race could possibly end in Pelpel; I imagined the leading drivers barreling down the narrow road, passing between the tin-roofed shacks, roaring across the finish line into the plaza, smashing willy-nilly into the church wall, piling up in a great flaming mound of wreckage, car upon car upon car—
Sudden silence. The voice of the announcer, cracking with the strain:
“Alejandro…Godoy…Norteamericano…Alejandro…Norteamericano…Norteamericano…Norteamericano primero…”
Silence.
Everyone frozen, peering out into the night.
“Norteamericano wins! Alejandro second! Godoy third!”
Wins? How? Where?
At the far side of the plaza they were tearing down the finish line, pulling off the streamers, fluttering them like banners, and the two flag-bearers were capering about, waving the flags. A mad celebration was beginning, a wild crazy leaping and prancing. But where were the cars?
The road was empty. The race was over and no one had arrived in Pelpel.
I began to understand, but I could not believe that I understood what I thought I understood. I had to find Panagiotis. In the madness of the plaza, with everyone going berserk and hundred-peso notes flapping about like confetti, it was not easy to get to the far side, but I pushed and elbowed my way across and finally entered the cantina. The Greek sat wearily slouched behind the bar, face shiny with sweat, eyes glossy, a drink in one hand and a microphone in the other. He smiled and nodded when he saw me.
“You drove well,” he said.
“I?”
“Very well. We are proud of you.”
I sat down facing him. “The race was imaginary?” I asked.
“No le entiendo.”
“Imaginary. You made it up. You invented it. You sat here all evening with that microphone, pretending that a race was going on out in the desert, right?”
“Yes.”
“And the Norteamericano who was racing—he was me?”
“Yes.”
“And the people believe all this? They think there really was a race?”
Panagiotis grinned. “In Pelpel life is very quiet. This is the most real race we have. This is how we pass the time in Pelpel. The people of Pelpel understand what is real and what is not real, better than you think.”
“How—often do you have a race?”
“Whenever we need it. Perhaps every two, three months. Sometimes more often. We did this now, in your honor.”
“And let me win?”
“Because you would be more popular in Pelpel,” said Panagiotis. “You did not have many friends here. Now everyone is your friend in Pelpel.”
“Except Sotomayor,” I said.
And just then, as if on cue, Sotomayor and his cronies entered the tavern. There was a black gleam in Sotomayor’s eyes that I hope never to see again anywhere. He looked at me with loathing and at his brother-in-law with absolute rage, and said something quick and curt in Spanish that I could not understand but which made a sound like the spitting out of teeth. He pointed to me, to Panagiotis, to the microphone. It was very quiet in the cantina. The pharmacist, Mendoza, laughed nervously, but it did not break the tension.