House Arrest Read Free Page B

hard roll and black coffee I’d been given at the airport. He nods, satisfied with my reply. Major Lorenzo—a small, compact man with a thin mustache and wire-rimmed glasses—has taken charge of my case. He seems somewhat embarrassed, sorry to put me through this. When he met me at the airport, he shook my hand.
    He is a go-between, and someone else has given him his orders. In fact, it seems as if he is as ignorant of the details of my case as I am. Or else he is good at pretending. When I asked him if he could explain what the difficulty was, he said, “I am sorry, but I have not been informed. I am just taking care of … how do you say it, the red tape.” He grinned when he found this expression. We both laughed, a hearty laugh that friends might share over a beer.
    We drive swiftly now past the crumbling arches of colonial houses, some held up by ancient scaffolding. Others have no roofs. The frames of windows stand empty, open to the sky. They are taking me to the hotel where I will stay until I can be returned to where I came from. That is what I have been told. We turn right on to the Miramar, the wide road that follows the sea.
    Along the sea there is a wall. Spray rises from it. I gasp as a young man dives off for his afternoon swim. On the Miramar, houses once owned by the rich stand with their fading crimson, sun-drenched yellow, cobalt blue facades in need ofpaint. In these houses ten families now live. We come to a red light but do not stop.
    We turn, then zigzag down side streets, until we arrive at the main square. Major Lorenzo’s aide opens my door, offering me a hand. His fingers on my arm are warm and sticky, and for the first time I notice that unlike Major Lorenzo he is wearing a gun. When he steps away, I pause in the bright sunlight, which burns hot on my face.
    Tipping my head back, I gaze at the Hotel España. It is an old Spanish—style building with an arching portico, thick columns. Scarlet and yellow bougainvillea dangle from its balcony. A vine, the color of mangoes, climbs up the columns. Across the street in the main square people linger on benches, and I want to stroll down its crisscross paths, beneath the shade of its royal palms, but Major Lorenzo takes me gently by the arm, ushering me inside.
    Everything in the lobby is wicker—white wicker—and the walls are painted white. There are creamy sofas and overstuffed armchairs. Light pours in through the huge windows, which are open, as ceiling fans whirl, turning warm air. A woman sits in a fluffy chair, staring into space, probably waiting for someone who is late. Two Jamaican men in linen suits and red ties sit hunched over a pad of paper, smoking cigarettes.
    Though I stayed here the last time, I hardly recognize the place now because it has been refurbished to meet the new demand in the tourist trade. Its dark, stuffy lobby has been replaced with all this wicker and light. It is a modest but decent hotel, one our guidebook only gives a brief mention to, short shrift really, but at a glance I think it is much better than the full-service ones we advise for tourists. This hotellacks in modern conveniences (no air-conditioning or room service), but its floor and ceiling are now brightly decorated in mosaics in the old Spanish style. I will expand our entry on it during my stay.
    Major Lorenzo asks if I want a view of the plaza. He tells me that from this room if I stand on my balcony I can see the sea. I think this is a very nice suggestion. The last time I was here I was given a room with a curtain across one wall. When I flung the curtain back, it revealed a brick wall.
    It takes a long time for them to prepare my room. While I am waiting, I have a cup of coffee in the bar. I sit at a table and order a
café con leche
and toast, since it has been hours since I last ate. After the waiter takes my order, he doesn’t leave. Instead he stands there, looking at me oddly. “You have been here before,” he says, beaming. He is a