out you are hiding information about me. Whatever you have up your sleeve, I want to make sure I cut off the head of the snake now before it bites me. Comprende, amigo? ”
“ Sí, señorita. Now, Nellie, dear paranoid girl, I didn’t know who you were until I put two and two together when Don Antonio said you were a newspaper reporter. I then realized you must be the girl my friend Sarah told me about. She, too, is quite an ambitious young woman, and she admires you.” He gives me a tight, sardonic smile. “She said she’d like to be just like you, but of course she would probably change her mind if she met you.”
I don’t know if he’s putting a shine on me. There is nothing like a bit of flattery to get across a point, even if he ends it with a cut. But I’m not comfortable with the explanation, though it is possible. News that a young female had been hired at the Dispatch had been reported far and wide in the state and had stirred the ambitions of many young women, but fear of being exposed as a fraud keeps the short hairs on the back of my neck up.
“Why do you look like a hanging judge devising punishment?” he asks.
“I haven’t decided if you are telling the whole truth.”
“Why would I lie? What’s the point? You’re right about one thing: Your mother must be quite an independent woman. It shows in you.”
“I want the truth, not compliments, Mr. Watkins, but thank you. Now, next question—”
He puts his hands up. “No more questions. You know what?” He pretends to squint at me, as if he’s trying to get a peek at my secrets. “You’re acting awfully suspicious—like you have something to hide. What did you do, Nellie? Rob a bank on your way out of Pittsburgh?”
Boy, did he hit the mark on that one. But a good offense is the best defense. “That rope they string up mashers with is getting short. I suggest you tell me who you really are.”
“Who I really am?” He rubs his chin as if in great thought. “Well, my mother and father, the Watkins, named me Roger, which is how by coincidence I call myself Roger Watkins.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “Look. This animosity is getting us nowhere. You’re in Mexico to do stories. I’m here to learn its history firsthand. Why don’t we be friends?”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what? I don’t understand why you’re not satisfied with this wonderful private compartment. This is paradise compared to having to sit upright for days on hard seats.”
“The problem is that there is always a snake in paradise.”
17
It’s nearly bedtime, but I want to jot down some ideas for my articles. Roger goes back to reading his book and I sit across from him, making notes about what I have learned since I last recorded my reflections in the parlor car.
Cowboys are modern knights, a bit dustier perhaps, and I suppose they bathe as infrequently as the armored men on horseback did.
The world of the Aztec and Mayans existed mostly on one crop: corn. But they fed their gods blood in order to get a good crop.
Most Mexicans are rather poor and eat a great deal of corn and beans, while the wealthier class prefer French cuisine and champagne.
And you can easily buy a map leading you to a lost treasure of Aztec gold, but you will find only fool’s gold where X marks the spot.
I like the last item best, but it is so far-fetched that I decide I will mail more serious articles to the Dispatch before venturing into the fanciful. I like the tale of the “weeping tree” Don Antonio told us just before we left dinner: After the Spanish massacred a large number of Aztecs they thought were plotting against them, Cortés, his army, and indio allies had to fight their way out of the Aztec capital. They suffered many dead and wounded men, and two-thirds of their stolen treasure ended up in the lake surrounding the city as they retreated across the causeway leading to dry land. After the battle, Cortés sat under a tree and wept—most likely
“ Sí, señorita. Now, Nellie, dear paranoid girl, I didn’t know who you were until I put two and two together when Don Antonio said you were a newspaper reporter. I then realized you must be the girl my friend Sarah told me about. She, too, is quite an ambitious young woman, and she admires you.” He gives me a tight, sardonic smile. “She said she’d like to be just like you, but of course she would probably change her mind if she met you.”
I don’t know if he’s putting a shine on me. There is nothing like a bit of flattery to get across a point, even if he ends it with a cut. But I’m not comfortable with the explanation, though it is possible. News that a young female had been hired at the Dispatch had been reported far and wide in the state and had stirred the ambitions of many young women, but fear of being exposed as a fraud keeps the short hairs on the back of my neck up.
“Why do you look like a hanging judge devising punishment?” he asks.
“I haven’t decided if you are telling the whole truth.”
“Why would I lie? What’s the point? You’re right about one thing: Your mother must be quite an independent woman. It shows in you.”
“I want the truth, not compliments, Mr. Watkins, but thank you. Now, next question—”
He puts his hands up. “No more questions. You know what?” He pretends to squint at me, as if he’s trying to get a peek at my secrets. “You’re acting awfully suspicious—like you have something to hide. What did you do, Nellie? Rob a bank on your way out of Pittsburgh?”
Boy, did he hit the mark on that one. But a good offense is the best defense. “That rope they string up mashers with is getting short. I suggest you tell me who you really are.”
“Who I really am?” He rubs his chin as if in great thought. “Well, my mother and father, the Watkins, named me Roger, which is how by coincidence I call myself Roger Watkins.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “Look. This animosity is getting us nowhere. You’re in Mexico to do stories. I’m here to learn its history firsthand. Why don’t we be friends?”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what? I don’t understand why you’re not satisfied with this wonderful private compartment. This is paradise compared to having to sit upright for days on hard seats.”
“The problem is that there is always a snake in paradise.”
17
It’s nearly bedtime, but I want to jot down some ideas for my articles. Roger goes back to reading his book and I sit across from him, making notes about what I have learned since I last recorded my reflections in the parlor car.
Cowboys are modern knights, a bit dustier perhaps, and I suppose they bathe as infrequently as the armored men on horseback did.
The world of the Aztec and Mayans existed mostly on one crop: corn. But they fed their gods blood in order to get a good crop.
Most Mexicans are rather poor and eat a great deal of corn and beans, while the wealthier class prefer French cuisine and champagne.
And you can easily buy a map leading you to a lost treasure of Aztec gold, but you will find only fool’s gold where X marks the spot.
I like the last item best, but it is so far-fetched that I decide I will mail more serious articles to the Dispatch before venturing into the fanciful. I like the tale of the “weeping tree” Don Antonio told us just before we left dinner: After the Spanish massacred a large number of Aztecs they thought were plotting against them, Cortés, his army, and indio allies had to fight their way out of the Aztec capital. They suffered many dead and wounded men, and two-thirds of their stolen treasure ended up in the lake surrounding the city as they retreated across the causeway leading to dry land. After the battle, Cortés sat under a tree and wept—most likely
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