Why Do Birds

CHAPTER 35

They stopped at a roadside stand long enough to buy barbecued beef sandwiches. The proprietor, a morose beer-bellied man, served them without a smile. His wife was roasting the meat, while three children, in graduated sizes, stood and watched. The oil-drum stove was smoking, and flies danced over the counter. They drove down the highway a few hundred yards, parked again, and ate sitting in the car, with the doors open and their feet on the ground. The doors, opening front and rear, sheltered them from the wind. Gulls were coasting white over the river. The sun was pleasantly warm on Lavalle's face.

"And now tell me, what about you?" asked Oliveras. "Do you think you'll go in the Cube, or will you stay here?"

"I'll stay."

"So you don't think it's true about the other planet?" "I don't think anything."

He licked his fingers. "Are you going to finish your sandwich?"

"No. Here, take it."

He ate the rest of the sandwich. "Excuse me a moment," he said. He climbed the rail, went down the slope behind a tree, and urinated rather loudly.

There were no vacancies in Rosario, but they passed a clothing store, and Lavalle asked him to stop. The store had little stock left, and almost nothing in her size, but she bought at shockingly inflated prices a pair of shoes the same color as the ones she was wearing, in a size big enough to fit over the cast, and some underwear and two shift-dresses in bilious pastel colors; and at a pharmacy down the street she got tampons and another bottle of aspirin.

They drove on. After a while he said, "I have a room in Villa Maria. But that is another two hundred kilometers from here."

"All right, let's go."

It was late afternoon when they found the motel, a little place with a courtyard, a block from the highway. Oliveras carried her bags in. "Thank you very much," she said. "What do I owe you?"

He took a minicam out of his pocket. "Will you pay in australes?"

"Yes."

He looked at the screen. "One hundred and eighty thousand, Senora."

It was about double what she had expected, but she counted out the bills and added a tip. He stuffed the bills into his pocket. "Now I have to go exchange these before the rate falls again."

"What will you exchange them for?"

"Gold. Do you want to come with me, and exchange your money, too?"

"I would advise it, Senora," said the man behind the desk. His nameplate said "Sr. Aguirrez." He added to Oliveras, "The Banco Nacional is on the Avenida Cabildo Abierto, five streets north of here."

"Thank you. You'll take care of the bags?"

"Certainly, sir."

They got back in the taxi. "I never thought of exchanging money," she said. "How stupid."

"Well, this morning the rate would have been better," he said cheerfully, "but tomorrow it will be worse, so it's equal."

There were long lines in the bank, but people motioned them forward, smiling, when they saw Lavalle's cast and her American clothes. The rate posted over the window was three thousand australes to the gram. "Would you like this in Krugerrands, Mexican reales, or in a certificate of deposit?" the teller asked.

"Take the coins," Oliveras said in her ear. "If the bank closes, what good is a certificate?"

"All right."

The coins tinkled into a counting machine and came out neatly wrapped. Lavalle put them in her purse; they felt very heavy. Now she understood why Oliveras had charged so much: the value of the austral had fallen by almost half.

Oliveras insisted on buying her dinner at a restaurant, where he was pleasant and charming; then he took her back to the motel. He picked up the key at the desk, found the room, opened it and followed her in.

"Senora," he said, "it is now too late to start back to Buenos Aires. Will you do me the favor of letting me sleep in the other bed?"

"Yes, but I'm very tired. I'm going to bed now."

When she came out of the bathroom in her nightgown, he was already in the other bed, but his eyes followed her.

"Good night," she said, and turned off the lamp.

"Good night, Senora."

After a long time she heard him say, "Are you sleeping?"

"No."

"Do you want to tell me about your trouble?"

She could see him in the dim light. He got up and sat on the edge of her bed. He was young, good-looking, friendly, and he smelled clean. "Sometimes, you know," he said, "it helps to tell somebody."

"I can't go back because somebody might kill me," she said.

"The same one who tried to kill the other one, the man in the parade?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. A lot of people want to kill him.''

"Well, but you could go somewhere else with your friend."

"I can't do that either, and he's not my friend anymore." Her head was buzzing with the drinks she had had, and she felt she was not explaining very well. "I saw something ugly-I can't tell you about it."

"No, of course not, if it is ugly." He was stroking her shoulders.

"If you don't mind, I'd just like to be held," she said.

"Of course," he said in Spanish, "of course, little dove."