Free Panama by Shelby Hiatt

enjoy visualizing that awhile, then his voice comes back.
    "...Melville ... I haven't read all of him. And Rousseau and the French classics, of course..." He's holding the Freud, gesturing with it, and suddenly he stops. "I'm sorry, I'm running on."
    "No, you're not. I don't have anybody to talk to about books—I love it."
    Another smile and then it turns awkward. Our little exchange is suddenly finished—no place to go with it unless he wants me to rattle on about Dayton.
    "Well..." he says. He stands, a gentleman ready to take his leave, formal again and proper.
    The Freud is folded in his arm against his chest. He stands there like a character from an English novel, ready to bid me adieu. Then (I don't know why I do it) I break the spell.
    "This'll be fun," I say, light and easy. Wait, yes, I do know why. I'm creating an ongoing relationship and it
will
be fun.
    He has to laugh a little. "Yes, it will."
    He doesn't know what else to say and neither do I.
    I think he's as happy as I am.
    "Our book exchange," I say, giving it a name, lest he forget what we're establishing here.
    He looks at me with curiosity for a few seconds, and I hope he's seeing something more than the seventeen-year-old daughter of an engineer, who he must suppose is a spoiled American, part of the mob.
    Trusting he's seeing more than that, I say, "They'll think I'm a genius at the library, such a prolific reader." Another chuckle between us. (Cripes, I'm good at this.) "Promise to tell me what you think." I nod toward the Freud.
    "Of course."
    He gives the book a wiggle in the air, then a little bow from the waist and he turns away.
    He walks into the crowd hugging the Freud close like a professor. I watch until he's disappeared.
Thirty-Six
    I breathe deep and look around.
    The hotel must have installed extra lights, because everything looks brighter and the people are better looking than I remember, or maybe I'm just noticing things. Maybe the hotel lights are stronger—that could be it. But everything really is light and bright, the whole world, everything, everybody. The white clothes everyone wears makes them glow, and the kids running around seem exceptionally smart all of a sudden—bright, intelligent kids these Zoners have. Everything shimmers.
    It's peaceful, too. And so am I. (They must have put in more lights.)
    ***
    That night I picture Federico at his desk reading the Freud. I see him talking to his roommate about how he got the book, the coincidental meeting, the girl who was with the enumerator dropping into his life again from the sky.
    I picture him at his desk taking notes, reading with one foot propped on the other chair and later reading on his cot and falling asleep, the book open on his chest—I can't close my eyes thinking about it. My diary entry is brief:
Met him at Tivoli.
I'll add to that later. Maybe not. That says it all. I feel so alive, I never want to drift off. Our meeting runs through my mind over and over.
    I try to imagine how we look to others, how we sound when we talk. Endless scenarios. Brief encounters, long ones, all of them easy and comfortable, like the meeting in front of the hotel. We're kindred souls. I'm convinced of it.
    The next morning I get up without a minute of sleep feeling refreshed and full of energy. My life has direction and I'm not alone; Federico is in it.
    Surely there's nothing I can't accomplish.
    Simply put: there's nothing I can't do.
Thirty-Seven
    Harry and I take the 10:10 train to Gatun, the town by the dam site. He has to do his enumerating there because much of the territory is going to be covered by water. Mother says I should go with him and see what's about to disappear forever—part of the learning experience, she harps on. I'm happy to do it but I have my own agenda.
    We sit in a half-empty passenger car. The wooden seats are polished and lacquered, silver metal fittings everywhere, the glass windows sparkling clean. The Panama Railroad is a model of