The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

water and began to clean out the gravel in each wound. With white knuckles she gripped her handbag to keep from screaming. “Wow. You must be somebody, with your high heels, pantyhose and suit, walking around here,” he said, know- ingly nodding his head. “Are you a lawyer or something?” He lifted his head, eyebrows raised. “Lots of women lawyers these days,” he stated as he went back to her knees. “Hah. Me? A lawyer? No, I’m nobody,” she said bit- terly. “Just a stupid nobody, trying to get a stupid visa, so I can get out of stupid Mexico. They told me to dress ‘professionally.’” “You’re not from around here, are you?” he said slow- ly, without looking up. “Your accent is different.” “A pueblo near Culiacan. I’ve never been here before. I’m the only one in my family who’s been this far north.” “Well, you’ve got to be somebody to have made it all the way from Culiacan,” he said matter-of-factly. I’ve got to be somebody. She had never thought about it that way. Not many did make it this far from her pueblo. “That’s not an easy trip. And by yourself,” he added. “You can say that again,” she sighed, her mind flicker- ing back to those hot, stifling hours on the bus. “Why would you think I’m alone?” she asked, suddenly suspi- cious. “Well, you’re on this deserted street, blocks from the consulate, alone. And you said you were the first to trav- el this far. Right?” He knelt back on his haunches. “Done. You want to rinse your hands?” She searched his face for bad intentions. He looked at her with raised eyebrows and fatherly kindness. “Yeah.” She sighed with relief and placed her palms under the water. It felt good. The throbbing of her knees lessened to a soft pulsing. “Bet you’re hungry.” He threw some water on his hands, briefly dried them on his jeans, grabbed a tortilla, popped the top off the beans and slathered a spoonful on a tortilla. “Here,” he thrust the burrito into her face. “You need to eat.” She briefly tried to resist, but he kept mumbling, “Eat, hija, eat. You have to eat.” “Thanks,” she said, and took a bite. The taste of beans, butter and pork exploded into her mouth. She realized she hadn’t eaten since yesterday and was famished. This was the best burrito she had ever had. T hey ate in silence for several mouthfuls. Then he cleared his throat and, between bites, asked, “So, what are you running from?” The directness of the question surprised her. She stopped chewing and stared at his upraised eyebrows. “You said you wanted to ‘get out of stupid Mexico;’ so I figured something or someone made it stupid,” he explained. She lowered her eyes and intently examined her burrito. The tortillas were handmade; she could tell by the uneven edges. She studied the burrito, stalling. She felt odd talking to a stranger. But, why not? , she thought. She hadn’t talked to anyone about this mess, so why not a stranger? “My husband.” She lifted her bangs back to reveal a bluish-brown bruise on her left temple. The old gen- tleman abruptly stopped chewing. “Son of a whore,” he hissed between his teeth, and angrily tore another bite from his burrito. “How’d you get this far? Usually those kind of men don’t let their women out of sight.” “I lied,” she said slowly, ashamed. She told him her made-up story about her sick aunt in Obregon, whom she had to go care for. And how she had convinced her mother to lie for her if her husband called to check. She recounted the long months of hoarding the extra money in the pinto beans, how her mother met her at the roadside bus stop outside of Culiacan to give her the Virgin Guadalupe prayer card and to kiss her daughter goodbye forever, and how the bus driver cajoled her into spending her extra money on fake job documents, said to guarantee her visa. “So, now I’m here, with bleeding knees, waiting to find out whether I have to go back to Culiacan or not.” Her face drained of blood. She wasn’t hungry any- more. The gentleman stared at her. She could feel his eyes burning into the top of her head. “What do you mean, go back?” He paused. “Hermosillo has a million people. One could get lost here.” He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments and added, “The lady whose house I’m painting is looking for someone to help clean and care for her kids. We go way back, she and I. I can put in a good word.” “But you don’t know me.” She looked at him curi- ously. “I’ve heard what you’ve done. That’s enough for me. You’ve got strength, courage.” F O C U S 56 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 5