Tales of a Female Nomad Read Free Page B

I decide that she has forgotten about me, she calls me over.
    “Excuse me,” she says to the man at the front of the line. “I’ll be just a minute. This woman asked me to recommend a restaurant where she could eat alone, and I promised I’d get back to her.”
    He smiles and looks at me. “An Englishman never lets a lady eat alone. I’m John and this is Lionel. We’d be delighted if you would join us for dinner.”
    I look at the woman and then at the men. “Thank you,” I smile to all of them.
    John directs the taxi driver to a small restaurant in Zona Rosa, the elegant part of the city. The
tequila
comes in a shot glass along with a small spicy tomato juice, and we begin our meal, all of us, with
ceviche
cocktails, raw fish “cooked” in a marinade of lime juice with diced peppers, tomatoes,
chiles
, green onions, and
cilantro
. Even before the main courses arrive, they buy me a wilting rose from the old lady who is selling them from table to table.
    My chicken
mole
is fabulous. The three of us drink two bottles of wine and laugh and talk a lot. Lionel is John’s boss, recently arrived from London. He’s about seventy years old, fit and funny. John, who is a few years younger than I, is tall and slim. He has a little twist in his nose and brown hair that flops over his forehead. They are both wearing suits and ties. John has been in Mexico for six months, traveling in back country, negotiating and doing deals and being propositioned by all the eligible young women in the villages he visits. He mentions only the propositions, not what he did about them.
    The men are vague about their mission in Mexico. As the
mariachi
band plays my requests, I have visions of drugs and Mafia and spies. Then Lionel lets slip something about guns. I ask and the answer is evasive. I leave it alone.
    I tell them my story, including my apprehension and fear that my marriage may be over. I can feel the tears in my eyes as I talk. They say nothing except, “Have another glass of wine.”
    We walk back to their hotel, singing songs from the fifties, holding hands like old friends, me in the middle. The streets are empty and our voices are loud. It is half past two; most of Mexico City is sleeping. John and I deliver Lionel to his room. Then we walk down the corridor and around the corner. Suddenly he stops and puts his hands on my shoulders.
    “Rita,” he says, “I think you want to cry.”
    He opens the door to his room and locks it behind us. Then he puts his arms around me and I cry.
    The next morning, I am confused as I walk back to my hotel. Who was that woman who just spent the night with a stranger? Two days ago I could never have done it. In twenty-four years, it has never happened. Is it possible that leaving the country has turned me into someone else?
    I try to look at myself from another dimension, detached and nonjudgmental. This person is not wife, mother, daughter, writer, anthropology student, L.A. sophisticate. She is, of course, all of these things; but alone, without the attachments, she is a woman in limbo, whose identity has been buried in her roles. Away from those roles and alone, she is someone she doesn’t know.
    Clearly, my job over the next two months is not only to think about the state of my marriage and to discover new worlds, but also to uncover the person inside my skin.
    I collect my things and check out of the hotel. They are expecting me today at the Spanish school in Cuernavaca.
    The city bus is crowded. People are pushing. I have switched my backpack onto my stomach so that I can see it, and I am clutching my shoulder bag around the bottom. I’ve been warned about the dangers of city buses, but I like getting the feel of a city by riding the buses.
    Five minutes into the bus ride, approximately thirty-six hours into my adventure, the bus lurches and a couple of teenagers standing next to me are thrown against my side. I fall to the floor. One of the teenagers helps me up. I don’t even know