The Tortilla Curtain

firewood--anything to keep moving--and he began to think about what America might bring home with her. If she'd found work, that is. And of course he'd have to wait at the old spot for her and they'd have to wade across with the groceries... but maybe she'd have some _tortillas__ or a piece of meat and something to cook down into a stew, some vegetables and rice or a couple of potatoes...
    There'd been no breakfast, nothing, not a twig to suck, and he was as hungry as he'd ever been in his life, but the hunger spurred him on and as the pile of water-bleached sticks began to grow an idea took hold of him: he would surprise her, that's what he would do. With a real camp. Something solid and substantial, a place they could call home--at least till he got back on his feet and found work and they could have their own apartment in a nice neighborhood with trees and sidewalks and a space for the car he was going to buy her, and he could see the outline of that space already, fresh blacktop, all neatly laid out and marked with crisp yellow paint...
    He found some twine--or was it fishing line?--in a pile of water-run brush, and two black plastic bags that he was able to work into the thatch of the roof. His hip hurt him still, and his knee, and his ribs when he stretched, but he was a slave to the idea, and by the time the sun had passed over the lip of the canyon and left him in an artificial twilight, a sturdy lean-to of interlaced branches stood on the spit behind the rusted hulk of the car, work he could be proud of.
    He dozed, exhausted from his efforts, and when he woke a weak patina of sunlight painted the eastern rim of the ledge above him. He looked up drowsily, full of a false sense of well-being, and then it hit him: _América. Where was she?__ She wasn't here... but then, how could she be? This wasn't their old camp, this wasn't a place she knew. He got to his feet, the pain digging claws into his hip, and cursed himself. It must have been four, five o'clock. She'd be back there, downstream, looking for him, and how could she doubt that he'd run out on her for good?
    Cursing still, cursing nonstop, he plunged into the pool and slashed through the murky water, heart hammering, and never mind his clothes. He hurried along the streambed as fast as his hip would allow, frantic now, in a panic--and then he rounded the bend that gave onto their old camp and she wasn't there. The leaves hung limp, the stream stood still. There was no trace of her, no note, no pile of stones or scribble in the sand. This was _muy gacho,__ bad news. And fuck his stinking _pinche__ life. Fuck it.
    Then it was up the hill, each step a crucifixion, and what choice did he have?--up the hill for the first time since the accident. He hadn't gone a hundred feet before he had to stop and catch his breath. The clothes hung sodden from his frame--and he'd lost weight, he had, lying there in the stinking sand with nothing but scraps and vegetables to eat for the last nine days like some wasted old sack of bones in a nursing home. He spat in the dirt, gritted his teeth, and went on.
    The sun was hot still, though it must have been six o'clock at least, higher and hotter than down below. Despite his wet clothes he began to sweat, and he had to use his hands--or his one good hand--ru'e good hato help him over the rough places. When he was halfway up, at a spot where the trail jogged to the right and dodged round a big reddish chipped tooth of a boulder, he had a surprise. A nasty surprise. Turning the corner and throwing a quick glance up the trail ahead, he saw that he wasn't alone. A man was coming down from above, a stranger, long strides caught up in the mechanics of a walk that threw his hips out as if they belonged to somebody else. Cándido's first reaction was to duck into the bushes, but it was too late: the man was on top of him already, leaning back against the pitch of the slope like an insect climbing down a blade of grass.
    _“Hey, 'mano,”__ the man said, his voice as high and harsh as a hawk's call. _“¿Qué onda?__ What's happening?” He'd stopped there in the middle of the trail that was no more than two feet wide, a tall pale man made taller by the slope, speaking the border Spanish of the back alleys and _cantinas__ of Tijuana. He was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards on his head and his eyes were a color Cándido couldn't identify, somewhere between yellow and red, like twin bruises set in his skull. He was one of the