ANTHONY KERRIGAN
565
complained about everything, rather mildly and dispiritedly and almost ab–
sentmindedly. The eulogists could summon up charges, countercharges, and
amazing statistics about literacy and general health.
One day as we strolled down by the shell ofwhat had been Managua
before the great earthquake, we were approached by a shy mulatto who
spoke in English. He excused himself for asking but explained that he had
most of the fare back to Bluefields, and lacked only what seemed a pittance.
Could we be of help? The pocket where I kept the mountain of paper
cor–
dobas
in lieu of change was of easy access.
It
was a relief to empty it out for
a man with an open face. It was probably risible in terms of dollars. I asked a
few questions about the mysterious enclave of English-speaking African eth–
nics on the East Coast of Nicaragua: the place seemed to playa dispropor–
tionate role in our brief sojourn. He answered politely but seemed loath to
linger.
We had gone no more than fifty yards after we parted when a militia–
man stepped out from a fringe of bushes and demanded to know what the
''prieto''
(darky) had said to us.
"Only that he wanted a bit of bus fare to the East Coast, to Bluefields.
There's an illness in the family. His brother ..."
"No! What did he say about our country?
Ese prieto
has been hanging
around all morning." The soldier was surprisingly white, no sign of the ev–
eryday Indian mixture. "What did he say about our government?"
"Not a word."
My diva ("lover") added, truthfully, in support of our scientific objectiv–
ity as trustworthy observers:
"He mentioned some trouble in Bluefields ... "
The soldier started off smartly in the direction the mulatto had taken.
We saw the latter making a beeline across the far end of an empty lot. Lost
to us among the ubiquitous debris, both were soon out of sight.
Ever since the first morning in the hotel and the wonderfully succulent
tropic breakfast with its endlessly varied fructose we had favored sitting at a
certain table - at one side and at the back of the rooms reserved for break–
fast only - mainly because of a striking waitress who served that area. She
was a lithe, middle-aged dark-skinned woman with an informed look from
behind her tinted spectacles, a rather rare sight in themselves in that strongly
sunlit country. From our favored table we could not get a fair view of the
garden, but the courtesy of the woman whose face, moreover, was full of
interest kept us from trying another vantage point. We always spoke in
Spanish - until one day she suddenly began speaking to us in English. At that
moment everyone else around us had left or was leaving.
"I have listened to you talking ... You are the first people in months
that I feel I can talk to ... "
"Why us?" said my companion.
