“No. They didn’t even look.”
“Yes, it’s like that. If you want to stay, of course, you need a permit. You might consider Mexico for a while. It’s not a bad place.”
Broch was short, with thinning hair and a soft German accent, Bavarian or even Austrian.
“You mean here?” Kaltenbach said.
“Well, Mexico City. But of course there are business opportunities here.”
He wore a rumpled tropical suit and Mexican sandals, and Ben imagined him in cafés arranging shipments, border-town business, one eye to the door.
“No, I want to go home,” Kaltenbach said.
Broch looked surprised at the word, but didn’t say anything, then took Ben aside. “Are they looking for him? The authorities?”
“No, no, it’s all right. Nothing illegal. No risk to you.”
“I only ask—” He looked back at Kaltenbach, now huddled with Liesl. “Everyone here is waiting for a quota number. To get in. But he leaves.”
“Can you get him to the airport? We should go.”
There were more hugs, Kaltenbach looking wistful. Liesl had stayed near him all morning, solicitous, but also shy of Ben, watching him with side glances, unsure of things.
“So I’ll see you in the Kino,” he said to her. “Ten feet high. Make a sign, eh? Like this.” He touched his eyebrow. “Then I know you don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget,” she said, brushing his lapel.
“And you, my friend,” he said to Ben. “I can never repay you.”
“Just don’t tell anyone how you got here. Our secret.”
“Who would ask?”
“They’re going to interview you. You know that. The prodigal son.”
Kaltenbach looked away. “It means wasteful, you know. Maybe it’s true. Wasted years. It’s not serious here. It’s too much sun, I think.” He looked up at the hot Mexican sky, already a bright reflecting tin. “We need clouds sometimes. But what choice was there?”
In the car Liesl was restless, checking the passport in her bag, then turning back to the dusty streets lined with open stalls. When they stopped at a corner a woman in a peasant skirt rushed over to sell them a ceramic Madonna.
“I hate it here,” she said.
“We’re almost out.”
“I saw you give him money,” she said.
“He’ll need it. You think this is bad.” He nodded to the street. “I wish I thought we were doing him a favor. Here we go.” The crossing booths were now just down the street. “Got your passport?”
“Just once, not to be nervous. I think they’re going to send me back. Every time.”
“Don’t worry about the Mexicans.”
“No, them.” She looked toward the American gates. “My own,” she said, ironic. “And with this head. So much to drink last night.” Putting it behind them, one glass too many, the evening hazy and vague. “How do I look?”
He turned. “You look fine.”
But different, as if he had changed glasses, the exact same features subtly altered, a shift in definition. She seemed unaware of it, her skin just as it always was, her hair falling loosely on her shoulders, the way she had looked yesterday. But something had been said and now he saw it through a different lens, everything the same but different.
The Mexican guard barely glanced at their papers, but the American flipped through her passport. “Buy any smokes? Liquor?”
“No.”
“You been away how long?”
“Just overnight.”
“Purpose of your trip.”
“Tourism,” Ben said, deliberately not looking at Liesl, letting the guard do it. An unmarried couple.
He took Ben’s ID card. “Just a minute,” he said, turning in to the booth.
“What’s wrong?” Liesl said under her breath.
“Nothing.”
The guard was on the phone, then he was back. “Okay, pull up over there.” He pointed to a building on the right.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Just pull up over there,” he said, beginning to walk beside the car, still holding their papers.
Two men in suits hurried out. Ben put the car in gear and headed slowly to the building.
“Oh my god,” Liesl said, her voice panicky.
“It’s probably just a spot check,” Ben said, a willed calm.
“Check for what?”
“Get out of the car,” one of the men said. “Hands on the car,” he said when Ben stepped out. The other began to frisk him.
“What’s going on?” Ben said. “Is there some trouble?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”