The Pinocchio Syndrome

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‘Señor, Señora, money, money, money!’

‘Amigos, bienvenidos!’

‘Layee, give me money!’

The contrast between the crisp mountain air of the town and the fetid odors of dirty children, pariah dogs, and cooking was bizarre. In the distance the snowcapped peak of Popocatépetl could be seen, pine forests gracing its slopes. The other volcano, Ixtacihuatl, was hidden by clouds.

The tour company had obviously picked one of the most squalid tourist areas to stop at first. One good-humored woman was pointing a video camera at the children, who laughed in delight and cut capers before her. The other tourists, tired from their voyage, sat dully, their eyes half closed.

The tour director made a halfhearted effort to shoo away the dogs and children, then began herding the tourists off the bus and toward the restaurant, which was incongruously named Le Café Américain.

The restaurant’s owner had come out to greet the tourists. A short, heavyset man wearing a white apron, he was the first to see the plane.

It was a small one-engine plane, apparently a crop duster. It was flying back and forth over the valley, the drone of its engine almost drowned out by the clamor of the children and the barking of the dogs.

A couple of the tourists followed the direction of his gaze and looked at the plane. Then, like the others, they were distracted by their own concern to get into the restaurant without being besieged by the children.

The driver, a mustachioed Mexican wearing a faded dungaree jacket despite the intense heat, waved the children away halfheartedly. He stood by the door of the bus, helping the female passengers down onto the dusty street. He kicked savagely at a stray dog, which yelped and limped away.

‘Watch your step, please.’

He noticed the plane, which, crisscrossing the valley, was now emitting a trail of spray that settled languidly onto the fields. He reached into his pocket reflexively for a cigarette, then remembered the passengers and waited until the bus was empty.

The driver and the restaurant owner fought off the dogs and children until the last of the tourists was inside the restaurant. Then the driver offered the other man a cigarette. They used the same match. For a moment they stood side by side in silence, gazing out over the valley.

‘Chingar,’ said the driver. ‘What’s with the plane?’

‘Government bullshit,’ replied the restaurant owner. ‘Trying to impress the gringos, something.’

‘Crop duster,’ the other man shook his head. ‘There are no crops where he is except cactus.’

‘And the arroyo.’

‘The last part of it, sí. Hardly more than a trickle at this time of year.’

‘Another way to waste our money.’ The restaurant owner took a long drag on his cigarette, then unwillingly threw it in the gutter. ‘Hasta luego, amigo. Have to feed the animals,’ referring to the tourists.

The driver watched the children converge noisily on the discarded cigarette. Then he climbed into the overheated tour bus to get out of the sun.

The plane had banked toward the town and now circled above the narrow streets in the thirsty dusk, occasionally trailing threads of mist.

19

Alexandria, Virginia

November 28

Karen got back to her apartment late in the evening. She had left her car in the long-term lot at the airport and driven home through light traffic.

She was drained. Her jet lag had reached incalculable proportions, and the mental exhaustion of pursuing such a difficult story was taking its toll.

She was beginning to wonder whether it was all real. Perhaps she was tilting at windmills again. True, a lot of people were sick, including the vice president of the United States. Others were dead. But were they all victims of the same disease?

The symptoms of the illness were bizarre. So was the pattern of the spread. It didn’t make much sense. But did that mean there was a conspiracy afoot? Perhaps there was a simple and logical explanation for everything.

Karen poured herself a drink – the first really stiff one she had had since she left home – and took a long swallow before peeling off her clothes. She left the drink on the kitchen counter and unpacked her suitcase. She emptied the hamper, threw all the dirty clothes into the washer, and started the cycle. She walked naked into the bedroom and looked in the drawer where she kept her bras and panties. No panties – they were all dirty.