He decided to head in the direction of the nearest hill, and as he walked he began to recite the Lord’s Prayer: so—phew! not since he attended church with his parents as a child, he didn’t even remember it, he made it up as he went along, and as he didn’t want his entreaties to be bogus, he simply muttered again and again, God, help me. Now we can take an even broader view: a man measuring more than six feet tall walking through the desert carrying a suitcase. Miles: three, five, to which we’d have to add the first signs of thirst. Fortunately, he came upon some cottages at the foot of the aforementioned hill. He received a peaceable welcome. The arrival of an enormous and unexpected visitor who, of course, asked for water. He spoke Spanish—really?! How could a local peasant imagine that a man of such magnitude would speak this language of ours without stumbling? With a different accent, to be sure, but not haltingly. And they posed the question that you and I (and others) can already guess: what was he doing in those parts, and so—must he lie? We’d guess as much, though that he did so with misgivings. The need for an untruth, even one pulled out of his sleeve. Here are the good bits: they were chasing him; he ran like the devil, leaped like a gazelle (though carrying a suitcase, packed with personal papers); he changed direction ten times to shake off the three or four villains (perhaps killers; no, not that, because they didn’t shoot at him); they probably called off their pursuit when they finally lost his trail. And in response to a key question from a young sombreroed man as to the reason for the chase, the recent arrival said his pursuers had confused him with another man of his same height, one who had fled in a different direction, one who was carrying a hefty sack, indeed, and the contents—eh? what were they? and the answer: I don’t have a clue! The sprinkling of questions soon abating met with a bittersweet counterpoint of lies? Yes, which he had to maintain until he reached a village: a fully fluent supersized scammer, aware that any sharp query, formulated by any tomdickorharry, would be like an itch that would mean a pathetic scratching: almost a swelling. So, at least at this impasse, luck in the abstract seemed to take the form of a redeeming angel, the one who had accompanied him from the moment he got off the train. Because the peasants believed him, out of pity, or tenderness, but they believed him nonetheless, or better yet, they forgave him, so much so that nobody dared ask him to open the suitcase. A pistol inside: a real probability, or an unhealthful mystery. Better to meet the unknown with meekness. Better to enter the realm of respect, and a small dose of decency, don’t you think? Nor did he receive any indirect abuse, no suspicion, nothing, for as he appeared, he appeared to be a good man, just to hear his woeful voice … The luck of the crossroads!, merciful … Back to the important subject: when the visitor asked the whereabouts of the closest town, a peasant said there was one about twenty-five miles away, and another offered to take him on his burro to a dirt road where passed trucks and people on horseback, if only rarely. A head start of six-odd miles: some sort of favor, but—oh prodigy of prodigies! For Demetrio was born under a lucky star, and now its luster was beginning to be felt, a beneficent and honed luster it turned out to be.
A burgeoning lie becomes a crass albeit pleasant reality. Watching that duo atop a burro retreating into the distance must have greatly amused those peasants. Poor burro carrying a dwarf and a giant, an unexpected oddity in that open country: the giant’s feet constantly brushing against the ground, inevitable: glorious dust, a yellow seam sewn by hooves and feet: an image soon to become a faint point before it disappeared. Few questions along the way, rather comments from one or the other but not about the pursuit. The conversation, such as it was, was too oblique to matter; in fact, there’s no point in mentioning even a sentence at random, or rather, if you’ll forgive me, perhaps only those spoken upon parting.
“Well, sir, here’s where I leave you. I hope all goes well