Passengers begin to grumble. One man shouts, “It’s that you have a girlfriend here in town, no?” The driver grins into the rear-view mirror. Soon the passengers are gathering their packages and heading for the nearest restaurant or chichería.
When Kate steps off the bus she is startled to see the two American girls—she has forgotten all about them. As she passes them, she smiles and says hello. They look up in surprise, and the short, blond girl holds out her hand.
“Hi, Sister. I’m Diane McKenzie, Peace Corps.”
“Sister Mary Katherine. I’m with the Dominican Sisters in Juliaca.”
Diane gestures to the other girl, who stands a little to one side, looking on with a stiff half-smile. “And this is my fellow Peace Corps worker, Sheila Ford. We’re going to get a bite to eat. If you aren’t meeting someone, why don’t you join us?” Diane looks around the narrow platform in front of the bus station, which is now nearly empty of passengers.
Kate feels inordinately grateful for the breezy American friendliness of the girl. “Thanks. I’d love to join you.”
The three women cross the street and enter the Plaza de Armas. The neat, compact town bustles with tourists. Kate has read about the Nazca Lines, a series of animal figures and geometric shapes drawn across the bleak, stony Pampa de San Jose. She had wanted to see them, but has been too busy to be a tourist.
Now Kate hears German and French all around her. With expensive cameras slung over their shoulders, many of the tourists are dressed in elegant khaki, and Kate smiles at the contrast the American girls present. Diane, short and chubby, is resplendent in a yellow flowered blouse and fuchsia pedal-pushers. Espadrilles laced halfway up her legs, she walks with short swaying steps. She lifts her face to the sun, and, although her eyes are hidden behind a large pair of sequined sunglasses, she radiates cheerfulness.
So far, Sheila has said nothing. Tall and slender, she wears faded jeans and tennis shoes, and carries a poncho made of llama wool. She has a beaded choker around her neck studded with dark blue stones. When she speaks to Kate for the first time, her voice is low, assured. “We’re looking for a restaurant called La Canada, near the Hotel Montecarlo. The guys in La Paz told us about it.”
Trailing behind the two girls into the small, dimly lit restaurant, Kate is hit by a blast of fast música criolla. A few male heads go up as the three women enter. Kate imagines their confusion at seeing a nun with two young gringas. Cigarette smoke hangs in the mid-morning air.
The waiter leads them to a table near a window, where Kate sits facing Diane and Sheila. The girls quickly order two beers, then glanced quizzically at Kate.
“Una limonada,” she says softly to the waiter, thinking of her fast-dwindling soles.
As if reading her mind, Diane says briskly, “Hey, Sister, this meal’s on us. We’re in a good mood because after six months in La Paz we’re on R & R. First for a few days at a little resort in Ica, then on to Lima for some fun in the sun—we hope. So let us pay for your lunch. They’re supposed to have wonderful ceviche here.”
Kate glances hungrily at a nearby table where several businessmen are tucking their napkins under their chins, staring at great plates of rice and shrimp. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” begins Kate, but Diane just shakes her head.
Sheila is reading the large, hand-printed menu carefully. “Why don’t we start out with Papas a la Huancaína and then have a big bowl of shrimp? It should be really fresh here.” She sips her beer, glancing coolly around the busy restaurant.
Kate nods. “Where are you two from?” Suddenly she feels lighter sitting with these two girls, who are about the age of her sister Maggie.
“I grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan,” Diane said. “I went to Catholic schools all my life. I about died when I saw you get off the bus—you reminded me so much of my favorite teacher, Sister Marguerite!” She beams at Kate and finishes the beer, which leaves a white line of foam on her upper lip.
“What are you doing in La Paz?” Kate asks.
“I work with a group of priests and nuns up in Cristo Rey. They’re all from St. Louis.”
“Oh, I’ve been there. I’m from St. Louis, too,” Kate says, feeling uneasy. Maybe they knew Father Tom.
Diane continues. “Well, anyway, I help the nun in the infirmary giving shots. I visit families in the parish, telling them about the programs we have there. And I also teach an evening course in English at the Instituto Cultural. That’s where I met Sheila. The truth is, I don’t really have any special skills—that’s what I discovered when I came here. I wish now I were a nurse or a farmer.” A note of self-doubt has crept into her voice, but she recovers and grins. “And, of course, I came down here hoping to meet some interesting guys.”
Kate turns to Sheila. “And what about you?”
Just then their first course arrives. Kate bites into the warm potatoes covered with spicy dressing and sighs with pleasure. She realizes she hasn’t had a really good meal in three days, since that first night in Peter’s house. She eats too fast, barely savoring each bite.
After a few careful bites, Sheila puts down her fork to answer. “I’m from Boston. My mother’s a professor at Harvard, and my father’s a partner in a small law firm. Everyone expected me to apply to Harvard, but instead I went to Amherst, in the wilds of western Massachusetts.” She picks up her beer, and holds it in front of her face, her eyes narrowing. “I can’t say I loved it there. Most kids there were spoiled upper-middle-class kids just like me, but I did have some outstanding teachers. My favorite professor was a
