I had neither a tourist badge nor a rucksack. I trod a narrow implausible line between the two and found myself in the company of Mexicans, who considered themselves tourists but who were taken for hippies or, even worse, for Peruvians. 'Take a good look, Paul,' a Mexican said to me one evening. 'Do I look like a Peruvian?'
'Absolutely not,' I said.
'What is wrong with these people? I am in Cuzco for two days and they stop me in the street and ask me directions! I will tell you one thing — two more days and I am back in Mexico. It may be dirty, but it is not dirty like this.'
The next day, just before nightfall, the Mexicans and I were taking a short cut through some back streets in Cuzco and found ourselves in a damp shadowy courtyard. There were no lights in the low buildings; some laundry hung on a rope. A limping puppy made its way to a puddle and drank, a large torn turkey chortled at us, and two Indian women sat on a bench, drinking maize beer out of plastic beakers.
'I hear music,' said one Mexican. His face lit up, and he went closer to the sound: a dark doorway at the side of the courtyard. He entered, but a moment later he hurried out. 'It is a typical bar.' 'Shall we go in?' I said.
There are no seats,' he said. He seemed anxious to leave. 'I will have my beer at the hotel.'
Off they went, the three Mexicans. I entered the bar, and I understood their hurry. The bar was almost underground; it had a low ceiling and was lighted by six sooty lanterns. In this lantern light I could see ragged Indians, grinning drunkenly and guzzling maize beer from dented tankards. The bar was shaped like a trough. At one end an old man and a very small boy were playing stringed instruments; the boy was singing sweetly in Quechua. At the other end of the trough, a fat Indian woman was frying meat over a log fire — the smoke circled in the room. She cooked with her hands, throwing the meat in, turning it with her hands, picking it up to examine it, then taking a cooked hunk in each hand and carrying it to a plate. An infant crawled near the fire; I had had my look, but before I could leave I noticed three men beckoning to me.
'Here is a seat,' said one in Spanish, and he made room on the bench. That man was drinking maize beer. He urged me to try some. I said I had had some in Huancayo. It was different here, he said. But it did not taste any different to me. It was the same sour taste of rancid porridge.
'It is like African beer,'I said.
'No!' he cried. 'This is good stuff.'
I ordered a regular beer and introduced myself, privately justifying the lie that I was a teacher by telling myself that it was easier to explain what a teacher teaches than what a writer writes. Writing is an impossible profession to describe. And even when the disclosure does not produce bewilderment, it causes exaggerated respect and tends to make conversations into interviews. A geography teacher has a harmless excuse for being practically anywhere.
They were, they said, from the Ministry of Works. Gustavo and Abelardo were architects, and the third, whose name was Napoleon Prentice ('It is a good English name, but I cannot speak English') was a civil engineer. The jobs sounded impressive, but the men were poorly dressed and looked rather gloomy.
'You may not speak English,' I said to Napoleon, 'but I am sure your Quechua is better than mine.'
'I cannot speak Quechua,' said Napoleon.
Gustavo said, 'I know a few words, but that is all. You will have no trouble learning it. It is just like English.'
'Quechua is like English?'
The grammar is exactly the same. For example, in Spanish we say "a book red", but in Quechua they say "a red book". Like English. Go ahead, say it.'
'Red book,' I said in English.
They smiled at the phrase, an English stutter in this sonorous Spanish conversation.
Gustavo said, 'You will have no trouble with Quechua.'
They were not from Cuzco. They were, all three, from Lima. They had been sent here by their ministry to design a housing scheme at Quillabamba, beyond Machu Picchu, on the Urubamba River. Abelardo had just arrived; the other two had been in Cuzco for some months.
'How long will you be here, Abelardo?' I asked.
'A year,' he said, and glanced at the others, shaking his head. Without much conviction he added, 'It is not too bad.'
Napoleon said, 'All the ruins! Interesting!'
I said, 'Are you interested in ruins?'
'No,' said Napoleon. I could tell from their laughter that he spoke for all of them.
'What do your wives think of your being away for so long?' I asked. It was the question everyone asked me. I wondered whether they had a clever reply that I might use later on.
'We are not married,' said Gustavo. 'Do you think married people would go to places like Cuzco and Quillabamba?'
'I am married and I went to Huancayo.'
'That is your affair, my friend. If I was married I would stay home.'
I said, 'I do — more or less.'
'More or less!' screamed Gustavo. He was shaking with laughter. That is really funny.'
Abelardo said, 'It is only single fellows like us who get sent to the terrible places, like Iquitos and Puerto Maldonado.'
'Isn't Iquitos in Ecuador?' I asked.
'Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't,' said Gustavo, laughing. These days it is.'
'I was in Maldonado,' said Napoleon. 'It was awful — hotter than Brazil.'
Abelardo said, 'Lima is nice. Did you like Lima? Yes? There is always something to do in Lima.'
It was clearly going to be a long year for him in Quillabamba.
'But think of all the ruins in Cuzco,' said Napoleon.
Abelardo uttered an obscenity, something like, 'Oh, piss on God's balls!'
'What other countries do you know?' asked Gustavo. 'What about France? Look, how much would I need to live in Paris? How many dollars a day?'
I said, 'About forty.'
He looked discouraged. 'How about London?'
'Maybe thirty,' I said.
'Go to Lima,' said Abelardo. 'It will only cost four.'
'Go to Maldonado,' said Napoleon. 'It will only cost one.'
'And the girls in Lima,' said Abelardo, mournfully.
'There are plenty of girls here,' said Gustavo. 'American, German, Japanese. Pretty ones, too. Take your pick.'
'You will be all right,' I said.
'Certainly,' said Gustavo. 'We will be happy in Quillabamba. We will exchange ideas.'
The small boy and the old man had been playing sad twanging music. It seemed so melancholy, this barefoot boy singing in such a low-down place. The music stopped. The boy took off his cloth cap and went among the tables, collecting coins. We gave him some. He bowed, then returned to his songs.