Page 67 of Badlands

“And?” he finally asked.

“I understand he may be here.”

There was no reply. At last—when Nora felt certain this was not simply a pause, but that the old man had no intention of responding—she continued. “He was a professor of anthropology in New Mexico. He left the position twelve years ago, to return here once again, as adiscípulo.”

There was another pause, but after a time Benicio responded. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Nora said.

The man stood up and went inside with the dog. Nora, who had intended to follow him, found the door shut in her face. She told herself this was not rudeness; it must simply be the old man’s way. After about ten minutes he came out again, carrying two mugs. He sat down, handed one mug to Nora, and nodded forher to sit on the only other seat available—a woodpile on the far edge of the porch.

She sat down and an unhurried silence ensued. He did not ask any questions or even evince any curiosity. Finally, Nora cleared her throat. “It is good to meet you in person, Don Benicio.”

At this, he said nothing.

“I read all about you in Professor Oskarbi’s book. I’m looking for him. I expected he would be here, but if not, I hope you can tell me where I can find him.”

Benicio remained silent, taking the time to sip from his mug, then sip again. And then finally he spoke. “Is the coffee to your liking?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Now, about Oskarbi—may I speak to him?”

“No,” he said. “You may not.” And with that, he rose, nodded gravely, then disappeared again into the hut with his dog.

After the door had closed behind him, Nora remained in her seat on the woodpile, recovering from this sudden surprise and trying to understand what had just happened. Was Oskarbi inside—perhaps as an immured disciple, currently undergoing a spirit journey? Had he taken a vow of silence? Had he moved on, or up, somehow? The people in the farmhouses below professed not to have seen him—but then again, Oskarbi would have come here twelve years ago. A lot could have happened to him in that time. He might well have changed under the tutelage of Don Benicio—the tutelage that Maria’s father had warned her against.

It was now late in the afternoon and the sun was about to fall behind the mountains. She considered knocking on the door, or calling out… but something told her this would not help. Heclearly knew she was still there and was ignoring her. If Benicio would not speak to her willingly, there was no way she could induce him.

She rummaged in her pack and pulled out a couple of protein bars and her canteen. It was cool, but not chill, and she took out her jacket not so much for warmth as for something to sit on. She rose, draped the jacket over the lone chair, then sat down, rocking back and forth as she ate the protein bars, watching rather idly as the landscape darkened around her. She felt a strange, and most unexpected, sense of peace settle over her: now that she was here, she found herself in no hurry. Que será, será.

In time, as near total darkness enveloped the clearing, she placed the jacket on the hard wooden floor of the porch and lay down upon it, making herself as comfortable as possible. She’d expected to find sleep even more difficult to come by than it had been the night before, at Maria’s house. But all the recent surprises, and the questions arising from them, seemed—mercifully—to be somnolent as well, and she soon found herself nodding off to the chirruping of crickets.

38

NORA WAS AWAKENEDby the smell of fresh coffee. Opening her eyes, she saw Don Benicio bending over her, offering her a cup.

She sat up, wincing a little from the night spent on the floorboards of the porch. Despite the discomfort, she’d slept well, disturbed only occasionally—when the dog had woken up and remembered to bark at the intruder before curling up and going back to sleep.

Now Don Benicio gestured her toward the door, which was standing open. She stepped inside what appeared to be a two-room hut, spare, cool, and whitewashed. One room served as a kitchen, dining, and living area, with a single window looking out over the distant mountains. The other, windowless room was the sleeping area.

As she sat at the crude table, drinking coffee, Don Benicio prepared a simple breakfast of esquites. He joined her at the table and they ate together in silence, glancing now and then out at the landscape beyond the window. Finally, the old man said: “He is not here.”

It took Nora a moment to realize he was picking up theconversation where they’d left off the evening before. Why, exactly, he’d left her outside, so abruptly and for so long, she couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was an old man’s eccentricity.

“Where is he?” she asked.

Don Benicio shrugged.

“Do you mean to say,” said Nora, “that he has gone somewhere and will return, or that he isn’t here at all?”

“I have not seen Carlos in many years,” said Benicio.

Although the others she had met hinted at this possibility, Nora was taken aback nevertheless. “How many?”

Another shrug. “He left long ago. He never came back.”

“Wait. You mean he hasn’t been in contact with you since he wrote his book?”

“That is what I mean.”

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