INTERMISSION
I
There was nothing thrilling about my escape from Mexico. I simply rode
down the railway to Vera Cruz, boarded a steamer without molestation,
and sailed away.
The reflection that I was now a fugitive gave me a sense of
international importance. It did seem a trifle uncomplimentary on the
part of the Mexican government that no one sought to interfere with my
departure. Still, there are some little slights that one is willing to
overlook, especially if one be a fugitive.
II
Fellow travelers were always interested in my story.
Occasionally I ran across persons who had heard of my thrilling escape
from the bandit camp of Pedro Zamorra. They demanded details. They were
so insistent that it would have been a shame to disappoint them. I
licked bandit after bandit for their benefit until completely fatigued.
Then, having begun to lose my original pride at the fictitious exploit,
I adopted a policy of modest silence. Or I admitted, “That was all
bunk!” This seemed to make it the more convincing.
“He’s reticent,” they said, “like all great heroes.”
III
Inspired by this success, I decided to quit free-lancing and become
a fiction writer. I set out to roam the world in search of material.
Since editors seldom bought the fiction I wrote, I roamed mostly on
foot.
In various odd corners of the globe, I found other people who once had
lived in Mexico. Most of them had fled the country during the long
series of revolutions. Their property had been destroyed. In some cases
their loved ones had been murdered. Yet I discovered--at first to my
amazement--that they were all dreaming of the day when conditions would
become settled, and permit them to return.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s _something_ about that country. You can’t
explain it.”
I wandered through the West Indies--to South America--to the Orient. I
found many lands more colorful than Mexico, where native customs were
more interesting, where foreigners were more welcome. Yet I found none
that I liked so well, except Costa Rica, its Central-American neighbor.
There gradually came to me a haunting desire to return. And when
Carranza gave place to Obregon, and Obregon proceeded to restore peace
and order, I packed my suit-case for another trip to Mexico--and to the
other little republics to the southward.
“Why?” asked every one at home.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s something about that country. You can’t
explain it.”
IV
My return was as uneventful as my flight.
I rather expected each Mexican I met to exclaim, “So you’re the fellow
that wrote all those dastardly things about my country!” Apparently a
few had forgotten my articles. The others had not heard of them.
I landed at Vera Cruz, and went up to the capital over the same
railway--up through gorges luxuriant with forests of banana, past the
snow-capped peak of Orizaba looming mistily out of the clouds, through
tunnels and over bridges, along mountain sides where one looked down
upon checkerboard farms as though one glimpsed them from an airplane,
across the magnificent plateau where yellow wasteland stretched away to
a purple horizon, and into the roar and bustle of Mexico City.
The capital had changed but little. If anything, it was noisier
than before. Advertising posters defaced every wall. The taxis had
multiplied like guinea pigs. Radios added a new note to the discord
of modern progress. The _señoritas_ had bobbed their hair. Old Barlow
alone remained the same.
I stopped just long enough to make inquiries about Eustace. Since our
parting, over four years ago, I had never heard a word from him.
“No one has!” said Old Barlow. “You were the lucky one that time. The
other lad just disappeared--like I predicted both of you would. Just
vanished, God knows where!”
I went back down the railway to Córdoba, to continue southward alone
through Mexico and Central America.