The song ended. There was clapping. The band began playing 'The Washington Post March', and I strolled around the perimeter of the plaza. There was a slight hazard in this. Because the carnival had just ended, Veracruz was full of idle prostitutes, and as I strolled I realized that most of them had come here to the plaza to listen to the band — in fact, the greater part of the audience was composed of dark-eyed girls in slit skirts and low-cut dresses who, as I passed them, called out, 'Let's go to my house', or fell into step with me and murmured, 'Fuck?' This struck me as comic and rather pleasant — the military dignity of the march music, the pink light on the lush trees and balconies of the plaza, and the whispered invitations of those willing girls.
Now the band was playing Weber. I decided to sit on a bench and give it my full attention; I took an empty seat next to a couple who appeared to be chatting. They were both speaking at once. The woman was blonde and was telling the man in English to go away; the man was offering her a drink and a good time in Spanish. She was insistent, he was conciliatory — he was also much younger than she. I listened with great interest, stroked my moustache and hoped I was not noticed. The woman was saying, 'My husband — understand? — my husband's meeting me here in five minutes.'
In Spanish the man said, 'I know a beautiful place. It is right near here.'
The woman turned to me. 'Do you speak English?'
I said I did.
'How do you tell these people to go away?'
I turned to the man. Now, facing him, I could see that he was no more than twenty-five. 'The lady wants you to go away.'
He shrugged, and then he leered at me. He did not speak, but his expression said, 'You win.' And he went. Two girls hurried after him.
The lady said, 'I had to hit one over the head this morning with my umbrella. He wouldn't go away.'
She was in her late forties, and was attractive in a brittle meretricious way — she wore heavy make-up, eye shadow, and thick Mexican jewellery of silver and turquoise. Her hair was platinum, with hues of pink and green — perhaps it was the plaza light. Her suit was white, her handbag was white, her shoes were white. One could hardly blame the Mexican for making an attempt on her, since she bore such a close resemblance to the stereotype of the American woman who occurs so frequently in Tennessee Williams' plays and Mexican photo-comics — the vacationer with a tormented libido and a drinking problem and a symbolic name who comes to Mexico in search of a lover.
Her name was Nicky. She had been in Veracruz for nine days, and when I expressed surprise at this she said, 'I may be here a month or — who knows? — maybe for a lot longer.'
'You must like it here,' I said.
'I do.' She peered at me. 'What are you doing here?'
'Growing a moustache.'
She did not laugh. She said, 'I'm looking for a friend.'
I almost stood up and walked away. It was the way she said it.
'He's very sick. He needs help.' Her voice hinted at desperation, her face was fixed. 'Only I can't find him. I put him on the plane at Mazatlan. I gave him money, some new clothes, a ticket. He'd never been on a plane before. I don't know where he is. Do you read the papers?'
'All the time.'
'Have you seen this?'
She showed me the local newspaper. It was folded so that a wide column showed, and under Personal Notices there was a black-framed box with the headline in Spanish URGENT TO LOCATE. There was a snapshot with a caption. The snapshot was one of those over-bright pictures that are taken of startled people in nightclubs by pestering men who say 'Peecha, peecha!' In this picture, Nicky in huge sunglasses and an evening gown — radiantly tanned and fuller faced — sat at a table (flowers, wineglasses) with a thin, moustached man. He looked a bit scared and a bit sly, and yet his arm around her suggested bravado.
I read the message: Señora Nicky — wishes urgently to get in touch with her husband Señor José — , who has been living in Mazatlan. It is believed that he is now in Veracruz. Anyone who recognizes him from this picture should immediately contact — There followed detailed instructions forgetting in touch with Nicky, and three telephone numbers.
I said, 'Has anyone called you up?'
'No,' she said, and put the newspaper back into her handbag. 'Today was the first day it appeared. I'm going to run it all week.'
'It must be pretty expensive.'
'I've got enough money,' she said. 'He's very sick. He's dying of TB. He said he wanted to see his mother. I put him on the plane in Mazatlan and stayed there for a few days — I had given him the number of my hotel. But when he didn't call me I got worried, so I came here. His mother's here — this is where he was headed. But I can't find him.'
'Why not try his mother?'
'I can't find her either. See, he didn't know her address. He only knew that it was right near the bus station. He drew me a picture of the house. Well, I found something that looks like the house, but no one knew him there. He was going to get off the plane at Mexico City and take a bus from there — that way he'd be able to find his mother's house. It's kind of complicated.'
And kind of fishy, too, I thought, but instead of speaking I made a sympathetic noise.
'But it's serious. He's sick. He only weighs about a hundred pounds now, probably less. There's a hospital in Jalapa. They could help him. I'd pay.' She looked towards the bandstand. The band was playing a medley of songs from My Fair Lady. Nicky said, 'Actually, today I went to the office of death records to see if he had died. He hasn't died at least.'
'In Veracruz.'
'What do you mean?'
'He might have died in Mexico City.'
'He doesn't know anyone in Mexico City. He wouldn't have stayed there. He would have come straight here.'
But he had boarded the plane and vanished. In nine days of searching, Nicky had not been able to find a trace of him. Perhaps it was the effect of the Dashiell Hammett novel I had just read, but I found myself examining her situation with a detective's scepticism. Nothing could have been more melodramatic, or more like a Bogart film: near midnight in Veracruz, the band playing ironical love songs, the plaza crowded with friendly whores, the woman in the white suit describing the disappearance of her Mexican husband. It is possible that this sort of movie-fantasy, which is available to the solitary traveller, is one of the chief reasons for travel. She had cast herself in the role of leading lady in her search drama, and I gladly played my part. We were far from home: we could be anyone we wished. Travel offers a great occasion to the amateur actor.
And if I had not seen myself in this Bogart role, I would have commiserated with her and said what a shame it was that she could not find the man. Instead, I was detached: I wanted to know everything. I said, 'Does he know you're looking for him?'
'No, he doesn't know I'm here. He thinks I'm back in Denver. The way we left it, he was just going to go home and see his mother. He hasn't been home for eight years. See, that's what so confusing for him. He's been living in Mazatlan. He's a poor fisherman — he can barely read.'
'Interesting. You live in Denver, he lives in Mazatlan.'
'That's right.'
'And you're married to him?'
'No — what gave you that idea? We're not married. He's a friend.'
'It says in the paper he's your husband.'
'I didn't write that. I don't speak Spanish.'
'That's what it says. In Spanish. He's your husband.'
I was not Bogart any more. I was Montgomery Clift playing the psychiatrist in Suddenly Last Summer. Katharine Hepburn hands him the death certificate of Sebastian Venable; Sebastian has been eaten alive by small boys, and the mutilation is described on the certificate. It's in Spanish, she says, believing the horrible secret is safe. Montgomery Clift replies coldly, I read Spanish.