The teacher explained to the old woman in her language that we wanted news of Cesárea Tinajero. The old woman listened to the teacher and looked at us and said: huh. Belano and Lima looked at each other for a second and I knew they were wondering whether the old woman's huh meant something different in Pápago or whether it meant what we thought it did. A good person, said the old woman. She lived with a good man. Both of them good. The teacher looked at us and smiled. What was the man like? said Belano, gesturing to indicate different heights. Medium tall, said the old woman, skinny, medium tall, light-colored eyes. Light like this? said Belano, picking an almond-colored branch from the wall. Light like that, said the old woman. Medium tall like this? said Belano, holding up his index finger to a level suggesting someone on the short side. Medium tall, that's right, said the old woman. And what about Cesárea Tinajero? said Belano. Alone, said the old woman, she left with her man and came back alone. How long was she here? As long as the school, good teacher, said the old woman. A year? said Belano. The old woman looked through Belano and Lima, as if she didn't see them. She looked sympathetically at Lupe, asking her something in Pápago. The teacher translated: which of these men is yours? Lupe smiled. She was behind me and I couldn't see her, but I knew she was smiling. She said: none of them. She didn't have a man either, said the old woman. One day she went away with him and later she came back alone. Was she still teaching? said Belano. The old woman said something in Pápago. She lived in the school, translated the teacher, but she didn't teach anymore. Things are better now, said the old woman. Don't be so sure, said the teacher. And then what happened? The old woman spoke in Pápago, stringing together words that only the teacher understood, but she looked at us and at last she smiled. She lived in the school for a while and then she left, said the teacher. It seems she lost weight, was very thin, but I'm not sure, the old woman gets things mixed up sometimes, said the teacher. Though considering that she wasn't working, that she didn't have a salary, it seems only natural that she would lose weight, said the teacher. She must not have had much money for food. She ate, said the old woman suddenly, and we all jumped. I gave her food, my mother gave her food. She was skin and bones. Her eyes sunken. She looked like a coral snake. A coral snake? said Belano. Micruroides euryxanthus, said the teacher. Poisonous. So clearly you were good friends, said Belano. And when did she leave? After a while, said the old woman, without specifying how much time she meant. For the Pápagos, said the teacher, measuring time is as meaningless as measuring eternity. And how was she when she left? said Belano. Thin as a coral snake, said the old woman.
Later, a little before dusk, the old woman came with us to El Cubo to show us the house where Cesárea Tinajero had lived. It was near some corrals that were so old they were falling apart, the wood of the cross-pieces rotten, next to what must have been a toolshed, although it was empty now. The house was small, with a dried-up yard to one side, and when we got there we could see light through its only front window. Should we knock? said Belano. There's no point, said Lima. So we went walking back again, through the hills, to the old Pápago woman's house, and thanked her for everything, and then we said good night and headed back alone to El Cubo, although really she was the one who was left alone.
That night we slept at the teacher's house. After we ate, Lima settled down to read William Blake, Belano and the teacher took a walk in the desert and went into her room when they got back, and after Lupe and I washed the dishes, we went out to smoke a cigarette while we watched the stars, and made love in the Impala. When we came back into the house we found Lima asleep on the floor with the book in his hands and a familiar murmur coming from the teacher's room, indicating that neither she nor Belano would appear again for the rest of the night. So we covered Lima with a blanket, made a bed for ourselves on the floor, and turned out the light. At eight in the morning the teacher went into her room and woke up Belano. The bathroom was an outhouse in the backyard. When I returned, the windows were open and there was café de olla on the table.
We said goodbye outside. The teacher didn't want us to give her a ride to the school. When we got back to Hermosillo, I had the feeling that not only had I already been over every inch of this fucking land, but that I'd been born here.
JANUARY 23
We've been to the Sonora Cultural Institute, the National Indian Institute, the Bureau of Folk Culture (Sonora Regional Branch), the National Education Counsel, the Records Office of the Ministry of Education (Sonora Region), and the Peña Taurina Pilo Yáñez for the second time. Only at the last was anybody friendly.
Traces of Cesárea Tinajero keep appearing and disappearing. The sky in Hermosillo is bloodred. Belano was asked for papers, his papers, when he requested the old registers of rural teachers, which had to contain a record of Cesárea's destination after she left El Cubo. Belano's papers weren't in order. A secretary at the university told him that at the very least he could be deported. Where? shouted Belano. Back to your country, young man, said the secretary. Are you illiterate? said Belano, didn't you read here that I'm Chilean? You might as well shoot me in the head! They called the police and we went running. I had no idea that Belano was here illegally.
JANUARY 24
Belano is more nervous every day and Lima is more withdrawn. Today we saw Alberto and his policeman friend. Belano didn't see him or didn't want to see him. Lima did see him, but he doesn't care. Only Lupe and I are worried (very worried) about the inevitable showdown with her former pimp. It's no big deal, said Belano, to put an end to the discussion. After all, there are twice as many of us as there are of them. I was such a nervous wreck that I started to laugh. I'm not a coward, but I'm not suicidal either. They're armed, said Lupe. So am I, said Belano. In the afternoon they sent me to the Records Office. I said that I was writing an article for a Mexico City magazine about the rural schools in Sonora in the 1930s. Such a young reporter, said the secretaries, who were painting their nails. I found the following clue: Cesárea Tinajero had been a teacher from 1930 to 1936. Her first posting was El Cubo. Then she taught in Hermosillo, Pitiquito, Bábaco, and Santa Teresa. After that she was no longer part of the teaching force of the state of Sonora.
JANUARY 25
According to Lupe, Alberto already knows where we are, what boarding-house we're staying at, and what car we're driving. He's just waiting for the right moment to launch a surprise attack. We went to see the Hermosillo school where Cesárea had worked. We asked about old teachers from the 1930s. They gave us the former principal's address. His house was next door to what was once the state penitentiary. It's a three-story stone building with a tower that rises above the other guard towers and inspires a feeling of dread. A work of architecture built to last, said the principal.
JANUARY 26
We drove to Pitiquito. Today Belano said that it might be best to go back to Mexico City. Lima doesn't care one way or the other. He says that at first he got tired of driving so much, but now he's gotten to like it. Even when he's asleep he dreams about driving Quim's Impala along these roads. Lupe doesn't talk about going back to Mexico City but she says that the best thing would be to hide. I don't want to be separated from her. I don't have plans either. Onward, then, says Belano. His hands, I notice when I lean over the front seat to ask him for a cigarette, are shaking.