When they were gone, I unpacked, clothes to the hangers on the back of the door and into the one dresser drawer in four that actually slid open. The room was tiny, shared disproportionately with the Holy Family, dolls dressed and bewigged on top of my bureau, Mary holding the baby. I deposited the straw hat over their three heads. A single bed lined the opposite wall, an intrusive piece of furniture with head and footboard. There were two windows, one to the street and one opening into the courtyard. Down there the parrot whistled and called. I could have sworn she said “I’m Elvis Presley.”
I was feeling a little better. Or so I thought until I encountered the last item in my suitcase. I had layered a gray sweater across the bottom. As I drew it out, the little room filled with a waft of Rebecca’s perfume. The sweater had not been worn for a full year but had retained in its fibers—as it seemed to me now—its last hug, before the hugging ceased. She had come up behind me as I stood at a window. I lifted it with both hands and buried my face in it for a long time, breathing deeply, until the scent negated itself and vanished. Then I returned it to the bottom of the suitcase, which I shoved under the bed.
I considered calling her, finding a phone and just letting her know, a matter of civility, that I had arrived safely, had a room of my own and a pot to piss in. In fact, as the well-heeled owner and director of my classy escuela just told me, everything is “hunky-dory.” But it was not the time to call, not yet.
FIVE
At eight o’clock the next morning I sat in the courtyard of the school, surrounded by tubs of flowers and the civilized murmur of two dozen voices in assorted languages. The voices belonged to the other students, some of whom were already at work with tutors at tables set up in the sheltered periphery.
Carlos Méndez buzzed about. He had just made a little speech of welcome to all newcomers, explaining the immersion system of language study and emphasizing his “one personal request,” that Guatemalan politics and current affairs not be discussed here on “these neutral school grounds,” either in class work or personal conversations. Neutral between what and what, I wondered, but didn’t ask. No one did. He actually requested a show of hands in promise. I raised mine, not high, a palm up, as others did—everyone, I assumed.
I sat alone with a cup of coffee, waiting for my “very fine tutor” to arrive. The hiatus was welcome. The sun had not yet cut through the morning mist and a moist sweet warmth enveloped the courtyard. In a tree just a few yards from me, two tiny yellow birds flew from branch to branch. The guard who had admitted me yesterday was now gardening, turning the earth under rose bushes. A woman in Mayan clothing made fresh coffee in an urn.
So far I’d met two of the other students, a Peace Corps veteran with a long gray ponytail, back now to polish his Spanish for another project, and a nun from Belgium in a white habit, and one of the teachers, a young man from El Salvador I hoped would turn out to be my own tutor. But he was not. My tutor was delayed by a personal matter, Carlos Méndez told me, but she should be here any moment.
So I knew it would be a woman, and I was thrown off guard when a man entered the courtyard. Nothing else I saw in that first glance told me otherwise—height, shoulders, chinos, white long-sleeved shirt, a black baseball cap with the Yankees logo, and the stride of a lanky guy, a little lift at the top of each step. He was carrying a big multi-colored bag. I rose uncertainly as he approached me. “Buenos días,” I said.
“Señor Peterson?” The voice was light, clearly feminine.
I nodded.
“Me llamo Caterina. Yo soy su tutora.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said. I was startled by her height. If she was shorter than me, it was not by much. I surveyed the ground we stood on, to see if it was even. It was, and she was wearing sneakers.
“Six two,” she said, following my eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She extended her hand. It was thin, muscular. I released the grip quickly. If it were not for her height I’d have classified her as Guatemalan, or of some Latin American origin, dark eyes, black hair—tucked up into that cap, I saw now.
“Shall I call you señora?” I asked. She was wearing a wedding band.
“Oh. No. Solo Caterina.” Her lips worked, as if she was resisting a smile. “Don Teodoro?”
It took me a second. “No,” I answered. “Solo Ted, please.”
“Good. In that case, I’m Catherine.”
“North American,” I said, feeling a letdown.
“Catherine O’Brien, potato Irish from Milwaukee. I married a Guatemalan.” She paused, the little smile returning. “Disappointed? You wanted a chapín?”
“A what?”
“A nacional?”
“No. Makes no difference.”
“Actually, it’s unusual for this school to pair male and female anyway, but it seems I was the only available tutor.”
“I think I’m lucky to have one at all. Even a Yankee fan.”
“Oh, the hat. Actually, I’m not a fan, of anything. Shall we get down to business?” She pulled a notebook out of her bag.
“You’re the boss,” I said.
She nodded, as if there were no question. “Let’s talk English for a while. We’ll be immersed in Spanish soon enough. Here’s how things go. We’ll be working all day, five days, six hours a day, with a two hour noon break, and assignments to do in the evening. We’ll speak Spanish almost entirely and we expect you to speak Spanish in your residence, at meals, and as much as possible in all other outside contacts. Spanish TV, radio, newspapers. Does that seem manageable to you?”
“I’ll limp along,” I said. I was judging her age. She could be younger than she looked. Her face was narrow, bones prominent. A few threads of gray in her hair caught the light where they had escaped the cap. No make-up.
“We usually start with a diagnostic test,” she said. “But first I’d like your own estimate of where you stand, with the language, that is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, good, that’s something to build on.” She gave a short laugh. Her laugh, unlike the rest of her, was round and mellow, as if another person lived inside her for that purpose. “Your application doesn’t mention language courses, high school or college.”
“I took French and Latin. Not that I remember much.”
“Not Spanish?”
“No.”
“So, then, you’ve never studied Spanish and you have no proficiency.”
I didn’t answer, though she gave me several seconds, her eyes on my face. There was an intensity about her that put me on edge, a certain alertness that brought something to her eyes—not a spark, but a further darkening of the irises.
“What brings you here, to language school?” she asked then. “Do you mind telling me?”
Did everybody here ask personal questions? “Well, it’s not a passion for the language, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” she answered dryly, “passion is the furthest thing from my mind. I just think it might help if I have some idea of what you’re hoping to get here. You can study Spanish anywhere, of course.”
“I have some family business to take care of,” I told her.
“All right. Is there any aspect of the language you think might be important, in doing this business?”
There was no way to even contemplate an answer to that.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t care a rat’s patooty about your personal business. All I want is to do the job right. If you can’t help me, that’s