Chapter 1

Neither passion nor fury accompanied her leaving, only quiet resignation and the hollow sound of her sandals on the worn, wooden floor. Peter knew she would never return. The infinitesimal vortex created by her movement pulled the very air from the room. He sat alone, unable to find a breath. Peter blinked steel grey eyes and shifted his trim body. Wrinkled linen pants and shirt gave him the appearance of a 1940's star playing in an old Bogie movie. the ancient ceiling fan slowly, sliently rotated above his table. Nothing else stirred in the Mexican hole-in-the-wall. She left Peter alone but for Remar, the ever-present grizzly bartender, sitting at the far end of the bar. He read the racing news and did what only Remar could do so well: mind his own business.

Peter sat for the few minutes until closing time, then, without conscious decision stood, reached in the front pocket of his trousers and pulled out a handful of crumpled American dollars. His mind could not fully appreciate the events of the evening. Peter experienced the strange sensation of merely being an observer. Every detail of the room became important. the two neon beer signs --- one Spanish, one English --- the chipped Formica tabletop and wobbly wooden chairs where they sat, the smoky - alcohol smell. How starkly the acrid smells and crude sights of this unlikely place contrasted with the memory of her delicate beauty.

Peter stiffened and his eyes widened into a panicked look, thinking she might fade from his mind. Her subtle sensuous smell, melodic voice, wispy golden hair, and the feminine curve of her body flooded his thoughts. He remembered how her mouth turned down at the corners when she worried, the small mole at the nape of her neck, and surrendered a tired smile.

Without saying goodbye to Remar, Peter walked toward the door. He stopped. Where to go? He turned to say something to the Pancho Villa look-alike bartender, but nothing came. Lights from traffic passed by the window behind the bar, raising and lowering the ambient light of the room. Finally Peter shrugged, turned, and left.

Janet and Peter moved to this Mexican village nestled in the Sierra Madre del Sur ranging through the southern state of Chiapas, below the Trans-Volcanic cordillera, two months before. They came to paint and write and amke love -- all of those things people don't have time to do because of jobs or responsibilities noted in their crowded E-mail and prioritized on their calendars. Petere escaped the aggressive, competitive business world, but didn't escape hiself. he still felt the need to win a conversation rather than to just have one. Janet said the distinction between good-hearted wit and mean-spirited sarcasm escaped Peter. She demonstrated the natural consequences of such confusion by leaving. Peter tried to wave off her exit with a good riddance but it soured in the pit of his stomach. Janet's flaw that caused Peter to drive her away was painfully obvious, even to Peter. He loved her.

Peter wandered down the dirt street in front of the cantina toward his hotel. The dark early morning carried with it a soft cool breeze that gently moved his hair and cooled his sweaty chest. This part of the village was rough like the border towns, contrasting dramatically with the rest of the township and the virgin beauty of the surrounding countryside. The acrid smell of poorly maintained civilization filled Peter's nostrils. Identifying too much with the hawkers and whores of the night, he yearned to get back to the freshness of the mountains.

"Peter!"

Peter turned to see another American dropout, there to write the great American novel. Tonight he had no patience with any other sort.

"Mark, how are you?"

Mark took an unsteady stance and gave an exaaggerated wink. "Drunk. Where's Janet?"

"Finding herself ... I think possibly her search may lead her to another country."

"Oh, lover's quarrel, heh? Don't worry; she'll get over it; she's used to putting up with the crap you put out."

Peter chose not to argue. Mark meant well. Also he was drunk and Peter didn't have the energy to try to be serious with him.

"Yeah, well, it's no mean feat to put out the quality and quantity of crap I do. It's a damn art form! She should've been appreciative."

mark stopped, swayed slightly, and stared at Peter. Then he smiled, displaying Hollywood-perfect teeth that seemed out of place with his unkept hair and nose twisted from being broken once too often. Sometimes drunks make great audiences.

"That's good, Peter. I'm going to work that trite statement into my current epic novel."

Mark often joked that he was working on his third great novel because he gave up on the first two. In truth he wrote first-class short stories and was well into a serious novel.

Peter raised his hand in parting salute, turned and walked away. Tonight the hotel tomorrow the abandoned mining cabin in the mountains. When Peter got to his room Janet and her possessions were gone. Had she gotten another room or found transportation away from him? Peter cracked the windown giving entrance to the night air, stripped to his shorts, and eased between the sheets and memories of his bed. The alcohol wore off two or three hours later and Peter lost the cloak of sleep. A chemically induced paranoia inspired by dedicated drinking rose like a blaaack apparition from the recesses of his mind. A car crash with his little girl screaming, stupid things he said to Janet, and other scenes ran over and over again. Everything would be copacetic once touched by the first rays of the sun, which gave little comfort in the dark night. Finally Peter grabbed some clothes, a towel, and shaving gear and stumbled from his room, down the unlit hall to the toilet.

After Peter showered, the first glow of the morning sun beamed through the small window next to the lavatory. Some birds began their ritual of songs as they staked-out their hue of colors blending across the foothills and eastern sky cheered Peter. He caught his reflection in the dirty mirror hanging at an angle over the faucet that stared back at him, a little swollen and wrinkled from too much drink and not enough sleep. His sad, deep-set eyes betrayed the presence of personal demons. don't think about the events of the last few hours or the loneliness lurking inside. He stood alone in the public toilet, leaning forward, transfixed, in only his jeans and sandals. The morning light now streamed across his chest causing his face, by contrast, to appear dark and shadowy. Other than the invading sound of the birds, ghostly slience filled the room. Finally Peter's spirit won out over dark-blue depression. Time to pack for the mountains. It was for Janet to decide if she wanted to come. He walked back to his room not happy, but at least resolved.

After stuffing all his worldly possessions in a faded leather suitcase and buckling its straps, he walked down the one flight of stairs to the lobby. Behind the small reception desk sat the old Mexican attendant who ran the hotel. Peter could never remember his name but it did not seem to bother the bent, crusy gentleman. Peter had always found a way to get his thoughts across with what could only charitably be called broken Spanish, but in recent weeks his vocabulary dramatically increased. His passion for words, desire to be the center of attention, and an undeserved talent for being able to pick up foreign language stood him in good stead.

"Señor, I'm checking out."

"Yes, I hope your stay was pleasant."

"Have you seen Señorita Travers this morning?" A stupid question, but Peter could not accept the obvious.

"She caught a ride to the train depot early this morning, Señor."

"Of course." Peter gave his most casual look. "Did she leave a message?"

The desk manager looked at him with curious eyes. "No Señor."