Free Blinding Light by Paul Theroux Page A

using the word “outsource” as he labored with the bags.
    â€œSo who does it?”
    â€œChildren kidnap you and then sell you to the FARC or anyone who will continue the ransom procedure.”
    â€œCharming,” Janey said.
    â€œWhat kind of kids would do that?” Hack asked.
    â€œHungry kids, with guns,” Nestor said, and headed for the hotel office. “I will give you room keys.”
    The others complained about the hotel and were so aggrieved by Nestor’s warnings that Steadman and Ava made a point of praising the place. They drank gin-and-lime in their hotel room, hearing distant voices, screeching women, roaring men.
    While Ava sat facing the window and the wall of the hotel garden, which was fragrant with night-blooming jasmine, Steadman walked behind her and put a blindfold over her eyes.
    They went on drinking, Steadman carefully filling Ava’s glass, but she said, “It’s not working.”
    Steadman said nothing. Perhaps she was tired. Was the whole blindfold business a self-deceiving gimmick, or was it a step too far? He resisted giving it a name. Surely such intensity could not be blunted after one day. Steadman put tonight’s failure down to the fact that they had spent all that time together in the van. Being so close for so long, elbow to elbow, had tired him and killed his desire. Hers too, it seemed.
    They felt awkward climbing into the same bed, clinging briefly though not kissing. And then they were asleep.
    They were woken at seven—the jangling phone, Nestor summoning them to the café at the front of the hotel, where coffee, fruit, and bread were being set out on a table by Hernán. The others yawned and muttered, sounding irritated and weary. The morning was already hot enough to melt the butter in its sticky dish, and the humidity glowed on the faces of the travelers. The low hideous town was loud with traffic and scurrying people and hawkers, with new and sharper stinks and monotonous music.
    â€œAnyone get kidnapped last night?” Hack said, peeling a banana.
    â€œHack, you are awful,” Janey said, smiling in encouragement.
    Nestor said, “Something stranger than that, my friends. Near here is the San Miguel Bridge to Colombia, at La Punta, the frontier. They call it Farafan. Early this morning, some people going across the bridge in their cars were stopped by the FARC soldiers at gunpoint. The soldiers gave them a choice. ‘Set your car on fire or we will shoot you.’ Twenty-two cars were burned on the bridge. Just here.”
    â€œThat was this morning?” Sabra said, sounding terrified.
    â€œIt’s okay, Beetle,” Wood said, and hugged his wife. With angry emphasis, he said to Nestor, “What is the point of that?”
    Nestor said, “Maybe they don’t want people using the bridge, or maybe it’s a protest against the hit squads here. Or maybe you should ask Tiro Fijo.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    Hernán said, “‘Sure Shot,’ the big man of the FARC.”
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” Sabra said. She was squeezing her copy of
Trespassing
in anxious fingers.
    â€œI think he’s just winding us up,” Janey said. “All I see in this grotty little town are nig-nogs in market stalls trying to sell us wickerwork.”
    Wood said, “Are we going to be leaving here in a timely fashion?” “After we go shopping. We need food for the jungle,” Nestor said. “There’s not much gringo food down the river. Ah, here is the
estranjero
.”
    Manfred appeared, walking into the café from the direction of the Hotel Colombiana passageway.
    The others, expecting someone new, looked up with disappointment. Manfred was in jungle gear, which made him seem darker and more predatory, his shirt tucked in and sweat-stained, his thick thighs tight in his trousers. He looked hot and uncomfortable, bug-eyed and blinking, his mouth open,