The Death Zone
an excerpt

The Market

To get to the Mercado Central, you have to pass under a crowded arch next to the Inglesia Santa Clara. People have their stalls set up there, and someone is always trying to haul a barrow through while everyone else shoves each other. It’s a good place to get your pocket picked. I made Schraft put his Swiss Army watch away and carry his bag in front. I had zipped pockets sewn into the lining of my pants and fleece, and my cash was distributed among them.

We made our way through throngs of Peruvians, looking like giants. I’m five foot three, but even I’m taller than most Peruvian women. Schraft towered over most people in sight. The women wore traditional skirts with a bunch of layers beneath, giving them the appearance of short, round ballet dancers. On their heads they wore the typical bowler-style hat, and strapped around themselves they carried children or bundles in the multi-colored, striped fabrics you see all over Peru. Lots of women and young girls sat on the ground next to whatever they were hocking. We stopped in front of a little girl selling coca leaves. I tried them and bought two gallon-bags of leaves and two pieces of the black stuff you rub in your mouth to activate it. Before moving on, I stuffed a wad in my cheek.

“Never would have pegged you for a dipper,” Schraft said. I told him to get a grip. Everyone chewed coca in Peru. It was the only thing standing between us and acute altitude sickness, and he’d be wise to join me. Schraft declined, making some snide remark about wanting to be there for me when I passed out again. I ignored him and led the way into the warren of stalls that was the central market.

Claudia had said that Bad Cousin Bernardo sold watches. We poked around, pretending to be looking for a watch for Schraft. After a few false starts, we found a watch-seller answering to the name Bernardo. I began to haggle with him over a watch and asked if he was Claudia’s cousin. Bernardo had a few choice words to describe Claudia. I agreed that she was a pretentious cock-tease. Bernardo looked shocked but impressed at my vocabulary. I offered him some coca leaves. He accepted, looking warily at Schraft.

“Tu esposo?” he asked. I waved Schraft off and explained that he was my cousin. I knew a lot about idiotic cousins, I told Bernardo. Then I handed Schraft a five sol note and told him to get some salteñas at a nearby stall. Miraculously, he took the hint and disappeared.

“So,” Bernardo asked in Spanish, “What are you doing in Cusco?” We were traveling, I explained. The only way my mother would let me come was if my cousin came with me. Bernardo found this risible and agreed that if we ever got into a tight spot, it would be me saving my cousin’s skinny ass, not the other way around. I offered him some more coca. He asked if we’d been to Machu Picchu. Not yet, I said. Bernardo informed me that he did tours. Ecstatic, I assured him we’d come back as soon as we were ready to head down to the ruins. Then I told him about a charming guy called Paulo who’d shown me and Schraft around Sacsayuaman the night before. Bernardo did not bat an eye. I told him his stupid cousin Claudia had disliked our Paulo, though Schraft and I had found him a good guy. Bernardo unleashed more abuse of Claudia, and amidst his maledictions, I mentioned that she thought Paulo was a friend of his. Bernardo brightened and hailed a guy from the neighboring stall. He was about ten years old, and his name was Paulo.

We chatted for a while longer, and he introduced me to three other Paulos, but none of them turned out to be our tour guide from the night before. I was beginning to worry about Schraft, but then, just as I was thinking I should go looking for him, he returned with three salteñas and a bottle of Inca Cola.

“Ay, cabrón! Inca Cola!” Bernardo gave Schraft the thumbs-up sign.

“He approves?”

“Definitely,” I said. “They’re nuts about their Inca Cola here. It’s a form of patriotism.” Schraft offered me some, but I declined. I despise Inca Cola. It tastes like a fizzy version of those overly sweet yet somehow bland hard candies they serve in old people homes.

“It’s not as bad as it looked,” Schraft said. “At first I thought it would taste like…you know…”

“Piss?”

“Well, the color, but in fact it’s surprisingly like Lucozade.”

I thought of the gross-tasting barely water soda produced in the UK. “Don’t tell me Laura makes you drink that slop.”

“She hates it,” he said.

As much as I would have liked to probe the tastes of Schraft’s chinless, British wife, Bernardo was still standing there looking bemused. Then, he let out a cry.

“Ay, cabrón! Conoces a Paulo!” He emphasized Paulo as if he’d just spent the last fifteen minutes introducing me to guys called Javier. I was like, Dude! Exactly! Paulo! Where is the sonofabitch? Paulo, Bernardo told me, was not here now, but he’d be back. I translated for Schraft.

“When?” Schraft asked.

Soon, Bernardo told us. I overpaid for the watch and told Bernardo we’d love to buy him and Malo Paulo a beer. We’d be at Mama Africa after eight, I said.
I took Schraft’s elbow and led him away.

“I thought he said the bad Paulo was coming back soon,” Schraft protested.

“Soon Peruvian time,” I explained. “That’s sometime between now and never.”

By the time we had hiked all the way back to the Puma, Schraft was breathing heavily. I was on the verge of puking, but tried to hide it.

“Maybe I’ll try some of those leaves after all,” Schraft said.

I forbore from commenting but instead showed him how to rub the black soda on his gums and stuff his cheek to chew.

“This tastes revolting,” he complained. “And the black stuff tingles.”

“You’ll get used to it. When your tongue goes numb, it’s working.”

“Ay, Tristita!” Señora de la Sera cried from the desk. I climbed the last flight of steps to the office, wondering if I could make it through another conversation without hurling my guts up. We exchanged pleasantries and she told me the man from last night had come by earlier and left some luggage for me. A lot of luggage. She’d had her husband and son put it in my room. I thanked her and called down to Schraft that I was going to lie down for a while. We agreed to meet on the patio just before noon for the phone call. Then I dragged myself up two more sets of stairs, stopped off at the toilet to vomit, and unlocked the door to my room. Three massive L.L. Bean duffel bags occupied what little floor space there was. I collapsed across the bed and stared at them. They had luggage tags with Conrad Seabold’s name on them, an address in Seattle, and an email address. They also had locks on them. Big locks.