back roads. The fear is that if we tail the bus, the guards at the checkpoints might get nervous and decide to put on a law-abiding show for the Americanos in the pickup. Best to give the bus wide berth. Since it will be making stops along the way to load and unload passengers, we’ll grab a bite at the restaurant first. We should arrive in Santiago around the same time for our rendezvous.
Homero and I accompany Piti, Eseline, and Ludy, but just as we’re crossing the street, a bus is pulling out. We hurry over to the dispatcher, whose face drops the minute he sees us. Our bus just left. Furthermore, now there’s an added problem. “You didn’t say anything about a baby. I’d rather take ten men and as many women as take a baby.”
“But why?” I’m puzzled. If the point is keeping out Haitians who will take jobs away from Dominicans, Ludy has a long ways to go before she’ll be any kind of competition.
I never do get an answer as to why a baby is such a big issue. Later, Homero will surmise that the dispatcher had been willing to take twenty-two hundred because a bus was about to leave—a kind of fire-sale price. But now, with more time, the dispatcher has some elbow room to dicker. We end up paying an additional thousand pesos for the baby. The family will be on the very next bus, the dispatcher confirms, pocketing the bills.
When will that be?
“When it fills,” he tells us. Meanwhile, so as not raise suspicions, Piti and Eseline should go stand out of sight at the back of the station. He gestures with his chin. He will come get them when it’s time. He turns to Homero and me with a look that says, Scram.
While Homero waits, I walk back with Piti and Eseline, both big-eyed and nervous. We embrace, and something about our arms around each other, the baby in the middle, feels like a moment requiring spiritual punctuation. But what to say and to whom? It is an interesting moment when an agnostic feels compelled to lead a prayer. “Please, God, keep this family in your loving gaze. Bring us safely together in Santiago.” When I open my eyes, Piti and Eseline have bowed their heads, their eyes closed, their foreheads fervently creased. Only Ludy is looking at me, a little smile playing on her lips. I suppose if there is a God, this is how he would make a visitation, on the sweet face of a child.
Back at the dark, wood-paneled restaurant in the Gran Hotel Raydan, Bill and Eli have already been seated at a table, noses buried in their menus, as if reading two engrossing novels. Our waiter, a portly, middle-aged fellow whom Homero remembers from previous visits, is named Castro. “¿Cómo está la revolución?” I joke with him.
Castro sighs. He must hear this a lot. He has a tired, humorless face, a man who expects the worst and is not often disappointed. He, too, has had a long day, and it’s only two in the afternoon. And we are a complicated foursome: two vegetarians (Eli is a flexible vegetarian—so as not to cause a problem, he’ll eat meat if that’s all there is); a man who wants chivo as good as the one he ate in Moustique (Bill); and another who wants the delicious plate he ate the last time he was here, but he can’t remember what it was (Homero). In the silence after our order is finally settled, we clink glasses.
“To Piti and Eseline and Ludy!”
A half hour later, as we ourselves are driving away from the hotel, we see another bus pulling out of the station across the street. I try to make out faces, but the windows are tinted so I can’t see who’s riding inside. But since this might be the bus that carries Piti and Eseline and Ludy, I give it a lucky name as it roars away, God Bless , Merci Jésus, like the tap-taps we saw earlier today.
Mèsi, Jezi, mèsi
The trip back to Santiago seems endless, and later, I figure out why: I am living two parallel lives.
In one life, I am riding in a silver four-wheel-drive 2009 Toyota pickup, stopping at some of Homero’s favorite haunts,
Homero and I accompany Piti, Eseline, and Ludy, but just as we’re crossing the street, a bus is pulling out. We hurry over to the dispatcher, whose face drops the minute he sees us. Our bus just left. Furthermore, now there’s an added problem. “You didn’t say anything about a baby. I’d rather take ten men and as many women as take a baby.”
“But why?” I’m puzzled. If the point is keeping out Haitians who will take jobs away from Dominicans, Ludy has a long ways to go before she’ll be any kind of competition.
I never do get an answer as to why a baby is such a big issue. Later, Homero will surmise that the dispatcher had been willing to take twenty-two hundred because a bus was about to leave—a kind of fire-sale price. But now, with more time, the dispatcher has some elbow room to dicker. We end up paying an additional thousand pesos for the baby. The family will be on the very next bus, the dispatcher confirms, pocketing the bills.
When will that be?
“When it fills,” he tells us. Meanwhile, so as not raise suspicions, Piti and Eseline should go stand out of sight at the back of the station. He gestures with his chin. He will come get them when it’s time. He turns to Homero and me with a look that says, Scram.
While Homero waits, I walk back with Piti and Eseline, both big-eyed and nervous. We embrace, and something about our arms around each other, the baby in the middle, feels like a moment requiring spiritual punctuation. But what to say and to whom? It is an interesting moment when an agnostic feels compelled to lead a prayer. “Please, God, keep this family in your loving gaze. Bring us safely together in Santiago.” When I open my eyes, Piti and Eseline have bowed their heads, their eyes closed, their foreheads fervently creased. Only Ludy is looking at me, a little smile playing on her lips. I suppose if there is a God, this is how he would make a visitation, on the sweet face of a child.
Back at the dark, wood-paneled restaurant in the Gran Hotel Raydan, Bill and Eli have already been seated at a table, noses buried in their menus, as if reading two engrossing novels. Our waiter, a portly, middle-aged fellow whom Homero remembers from previous visits, is named Castro. “¿Cómo está la revolución?” I joke with him.
Castro sighs. He must hear this a lot. He has a tired, humorless face, a man who expects the worst and is not often disappointed. He, too, has had a long day, and it’s only two in the afternoon. And we are a complicated foursome: two vegetarians (Eli is a flexible vegetarian—so as not to cause a problem, he’ll eat meat if that’s all there is); a man who wants chivo as good as the one he ate in Moustique (Bill); and another who wants the delicious plate he ate the last time he was here, but he can’t remember what it was (Homero). In the silence after our order is finally settled, we clink glasses.
“To Piti and Eseline and Ludy!”
A half hour later, as we ourselves are driving away from the hotel, we see another bus pulling out of the station across the street. I try to make out faces, but the windows are tinted so I can’t see who’s riding inside. But since this might be the bus that carries Piti and Eseline and Ludy, I give it a lucky name as it roars away, God Bless , Merci Jésus, like the tap-taps we saw earlier today.
Mèsi, Jezi, mèsi
The trip back to Santiago seems endless, and later, I figure out why: I am living two parallel lives.
In one life, I am riding in a silver four-wheel-drive 2009 Toyota pickup, stopping at some of Homero’s favorite haunts,
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