CHAPTER 1

Robert turned to Sharon. "Hey," he said.

Sharon was in a reverie as she watched somenothing show on television; something about adate gone bad and the couple was trading insults.

"Hmmm?"

"Let's do the monarch thing."

She didn't get it.

"What do monarchs do at this time of year?"

"You want to go to San Miguel?"

"Why not? It's my farewell tour to the world."

"Don't talk like that."

"Come on Sharon, if I can't talk to you..."

She switched off the television.

Five years before, he had read about San Miguel, an artcolony and retirement haven for well-off North Americans.Other than Acapulco, neither of them had travelled to anyother city in Mexico.

Acapulco had been Robert's choice at one time. He usedto be the camp director at a resort in northern Ontario andthere would always be a leeway of a week between the endof his summer job and the beginning of his teaching job inSeptember. As a reward at the end of his summer, he wouldinvite some of his favourite counsellors to travel with himto Acapulco. Sharon accompanied them reluctantly at first,wary of wayward teenagers stuck on beach mentality andcopious amounts of Margaritas.

But she grew to like it. The cost was cheap, the suntherapeutic, the kids just as intent in getting away fromRobert and her as she was from them. She and Robert hadbeen together 25 years by the time they first travelled toMexico. They used much of their travel time just absorbinglife around them. They weren't big on planning aroundagendas or being at a particular tourist attraction at aparticular time. They spent hours in restaurants, sometimesordering as much as three bottles of wine. They read in thesun. They slept in until gloriously late hours. They walkedunfamiliar streets.

Acapulco had been good for their laid-back habits. It wasa city big on spectacle and small on highlighting its historyand so they didn't feel obligated to check out museums orcathedrals. They could avoid the bronzed bodies on the beachand still luxuriate in their own uninterrupted pursuits.

But they were also adventurous. Mexico was not justAcapulco. There was a lot more.

One day in Acapulco a few years back, Robert wasreading a Fodor's Guide on Mexico when he came acrossthe section on San Miguel de Allende, situated in the centralmountains of Mexico.

"I've heard about this place," he mused.

He and Sharon were lounging by the pool at the ElMariachi Hotel. Sharon had almost dozed off and when sheheard his words, she instinctively brushed away flies fromher cuba libre. She shielded her eyes as she glanced over."What?"

"This San Miguel de Allende." He did not look over.

"Where is it?"

"Mexico."

She sipped at her drink, now warm and watery. But therewas something she liked about drinking warm cuba libres inplastic glasses. Especially in tropical locales. "Well I kindagot that ... It's big for retirees, no?"

Robert nodded.

"Are you trying to find a mistress, Robert? Acapulco'sbeen good to us, you know."

"Oh I love Acapulco. That doesn't mean I can't play thefield."

She watched a young couple, maybe in their mid-twenties,frolic and giggle as they tried to pull each otherinto the pool. The pool was so small that the woman's tits,so dangerously close to falling out of her bathing suit, wouldhave taken up all the space.

Near the bar came the sound of laughter. Everywherethey went, no matter what country they travelled to, therewas the ubiquitous fat, jovial woman who wheezed outlaughter as if she had ownership of everyone's air space.

"Does that turn you on?" Sharon was watching thewoman in the pool.

Robert looked up rapidly, then cast her a look of horror."Oh pleeeassse ... And even if it did, I'm not foolish enoughto think I'm even in the running." He placed the book on hislap. "My tired old dugs can match hers, anyway."

"You're still pretty hot to me."

"Yeah, right."

She swished around the sludge in her glass. "So tell meabout San Miguel."

"Well here's a picture of it." Robert let the guidebook fallopen at a well-worn page, so well-worn in fact that the spine'sglue could barely hold it intact any more. Little crumbs ofhardened, clear glue actually somersaulted down the page,missing Sharon's glass by an inch.

"Something tells me you know a lot more about SanMiguel than you've let on. Any other secrets you going toreveal?"

"Yeah, I'm really a woman trapped ..."

"Save it."

Sharon took the book gingerly.

The picture showed a cobblestoned street bakingin radiant sunlight. To one side stood the statue of whatappeared to be a monk; to the other stood a woman, smilingfor the camera, wearing a white dress embroidered withbright red frills. She was holding up a necklace that dangledsensuously between her fingers. In the background loomedthe Sierra Madre mountains, their imposing shapes scarredby lines of roadway and dotted by houses.

"Looks nice." Sharon handed the book back. "How doesit compare to here?"

"It's not on the water, for one thing."

"I can live with that."

"Doesn't get the temperatures Acapulco does. Most of theyear, the temperatures waver around the 70s and low 80s."

"I would pin that on the mountains."

"Gets chillier during winter. You need long pants andmaybe even a jacket for the winter nights."

Sharon narrowed her look. "But no snow. And no below0 temperatures. Tell me that."

"You think I'd even mention the place if those werepossibilities?"

"Forgive me." Sharon downed the rest of her lukewarmdrink. The lime rind sat blandly at the bottom of her glass,almost reproachful.

On cue, a waiter in an immaculate starched-white shirtmaterialized by her side. "Una mas, senorita?" He was askingher if she wanted another drink. His flirtation was obviousbut, to Sharon, not worth dismissing.

She batted her eyelashes. "Why of course. And the samefor my husband, thanks," she responded in Spanish.

The waiter understood and laughed. "Claro que si,senorita, claro que si."

Robert was not amused. "You just love it that I nevertried to pick up the language, don't you?"

"Hey, we have a partnership. You do the research on theinteresting places, I'll learn the languages."

The sun was always good for them. It took their mindsoff the real problems. They succumbed to the pleasures ofworldly experiences when they travelled and made promisesnot to drag in the monotony of their Canadian routines, northe medical concerns that had beset them in the past year.They could see in each other's face how travel softened thegrooves; how it added animation to the waxiness of theirfeatures; how it gave their eyes a look of restfulness insteadof watchfulness; the act of always being aware somethingbad was about to happen.

"What would you do without my command of thelanguage?"

"Hey, don't underestimate me. You know I know someexpressions."

The waiter returned, his shirt sparkling in the tropical air,the cuba libres looking refreshing but clinking oppressivelyagainst the continued onslaught of the sun. "Dos cuba libres,senorita," he said cheerily but his curiosity was on Robert'sguidebook, laid open at the picture Robert had shownSharon.

"Muchas gracias, senor."

"De nada."

The waiter lingered over Robert's book as if he wereabout to make a comment, but then winked, and made off.

"I kind of got the point that you were ordering for me,deary, but excuse me for misunderstanding the meaning ofsenorita. I always thought that to be a senorita, one neededto be quite young and unmarried. In your case, I alwaysthought you were a ... well a ... senora."

Sharon took a sip around already-diminishing ice cubes."You see. You have so much to learn."

The couple who had invaded the pool were now contentwith sunning themselves beside it. She had undone thebikini top and was lying stomach-down on the interlockingrock slabs next to the pool. How she didn't scorch her nipplesoff was beyond Robert. Her significant other was rubbingher between the shoulder blades.

I guess they think everything's okay because we are theonly people around and Robert poses no threat to stealinghis girl away, thought Sharon. She communicated her lookof amusement to Robert.

The significant other revealed a huge grin to Robert,chuckled, and whispered into the buxom one's ear. She,in turn, raised her head lazily to squint at Robert, thenchuckled too.

"Hey, I think they're talking `bout'cha."

"Well duhhh ..."

Robert took a big gulp; let the carbon burn his throatdeliciously. "Think we should tell `em?"

"Nah ... Let 'em enjoy that kind of fun for two years. Then,they'll see."

"But then again, look at us."

"You know, we should have nicknames for each other,Robert."

"Oh Christ ..."

"No, seriously. I don't mean trite ones like sweetie orpumpkin ... Ones with substance."

"How about Mortal and Almost-Gone?"

"Okay, I see we need a subject change ... Anyway, aboutSan Miguel ...?"

"There's a lot to do in terms of local theatre, music, andart studios. Restaurants are first-rate and international.But ..."

"But ...?"

"People will stay out of your face if you're not into thesocial thing ... According to the guidebook, anyway ... There'sa lot of history and resplendent celebrations ..."

"Resplendent? You took that word right out of theguidebook, didn't you?"

"Okay, it's in my head, I admit that."

Sharon took the guidebook from him and read a little.

"So that's a statue of the founder in the picture."

"Fray Juan de San Miguel. A missionary."

Sharon raised her eyes to study him suspiciously. "Don'tbrag."

"We have a partnership. I learn the history, you learnthe language."

She lowered her gaze again. "One hundred and fiftythousand people, hmmm? Not exactly a small town."

"That includes the people on the outskirts. You know,the rancheros and stuff. Plus, tourists dominate at times."

She closed the book as well as her eyes.

"Are you judging my opinion?" he asked.

"No way. I never do, you know that. I just have to takethings one step at a time. These places always appeal more tome when we are in the drudgery of Canada. Not when we'resun-drenched in Acapulco."

"I know. I get it."

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Whatare your feelings?"

He smirked. "It sounds like a good place to die."

CHAPTER 2

They expected total disorientation on their firsttrip to San Miguel despite their familiarity withMexico's customs and the meagre informationoffered them by their travel agent who had travelled thereonce and, at that, four years ago.

All of their preparations in Canada were thorough. Theyhad known what to pack. They had already booked theirhotel. Robert had read extensively about what they wouldfind there.

They had no difficulty in planning their holiday aroundOctober and November now that they were retired. Theywanted to correspond their journey not only with the annualmigration of the monarchs from Canada but also with theDay of the Dead ceremonies.

They were looking forward to the new experience.

However, their excitement did not eliminate the anxietythat plagued them over a number of factors, one of which wastheir first excursion into one of the biggest crime capitals inthe world, Mexico City. And then there was the ensuingconfusion of how to get to San Miguel from Mexico City.

Their travel agent had assured them of the easy accessthey had to the multitude of buses which escaped from MexicoCity to various parts of the country. And buying tickets wasvery straightforward, the agent spewed, especially sinceSharon knew Spanish quite well.

"I don't want to burst my own balloon," Sharon told herhusband later, "but I really don't know as much as you guysgive me credit for. And you notice I only practise when I'mthere."

The agent also stressed the importance of getting out ofthe Mexico City airport as quickly as they could, seeing thatit was a famous location for theft. "But then again," she wenton, "any airport is a high risk factor. After all, you've gotscores of disoriented foreigners carrying wads of currencyand cameras." She saw Robert's look of worry, then laughed."Oh don't mind me."

Too late, he thought at the time.

Their agent did present them with one piece of advicethat was comforting.

"When you arrive at the airport," she said, "there is goingto be a lot of chaos. I suggest you go straight to the kioskwhere they sell bus tickets and order ones for the first classbus."

"How many classes are there?" asked Sharon.

"Maybe three. If the company still exists, it's calledFlecha Amarilla. Yellow Arrow. The first class buses havetoilets." She looked over at Robert. "I suspect this might behelpful." Then she looked away as if she had said too much.

Sharon nodded. "This will certainly be helpful. After all,the journey is long from Mexico City to San Miguel, yes?"

The agent nodded.

Unfortunately, the travel agent's advice provided littlecomfort as their plane descended into one of the mostpopulated cities in the world. Nor did the words of the flightattendant who seemed only to surrender herself to criticismof the city because a former boyfriend had chosen to endtheir relationship there. "But you two just have fun andenjoy!" she blurted before she went off to secure her seatbelt.

Their flight attendant and their travel agent had failedto tell them that they'd have at least an hour's wait goingthrough Custom's. They followed seemingly knowing localsto a long assembly line that snaked its way towards tired-lookingCustom's officers who peered at everyone with equalamounts of suspicion and who stamped passports with aviolent sense of officialdom.

No racial profiling here, Robert thought comically.

"It's not funny," Sharon told him, her voice bordering onexasperation.

The flight had been bumpy.

They always packed lightly when they travelled, optingfor taking their clothes to the cleaner's or cleaning themthemselves in their hotel rooms as opposed to just takingfresh clothes for each new day. Therefore, they rarely hadcheck-on luggage. If they had had on this trip, their stay inthe airport would have dragged on even longer.

Sharon studied Robert's face with concern. "Can youmake it through this?"

Other than a couple of brief moments on the plane whenthe pain was rumbling up inside him, threatening to line hisstomach with fire, he had had a pretty good day. He talkedto the rumbling and it went away. But that didn't alwayshappen.

His escape on an airplane was one of his big worriessince he had to vie for a bathroom with so many others andalso because the pain often hit him at the most inconvenienttimes, one being when the plane was either due to take off orland. Yes, he had gained much the ire from pissed-off flightattendants when he'd had to rush to the washroom duringthese moments.

And in order for him to travel so often, he felt he had tosacrifice his health. And by God, he told himself, he wasn'tgoing to give up travelling.

"I'm okay," he told Sharon. "So far, so good. And here,I can dodge out of line while you keep our place if I need abathroom."

Sharon glanced around, unconvinced. "That's assumingthere is a bathroom."

Aside from their wait (Robert could have finished off anovel had he not been so unsettled with his first trip to MexicoCity), their passing through Custom's was uneventful. Theyhad filled out their Custom's card on the plane and knewexactly where to sign it amid all the cluttered hide `n seeksmall print on the back.

Once through Custom's, their bout with lengthy butharmless boredom suddenly converged with rapid anddangerous movement into unfamiliarity. They were thrustinto an endless hallway where an ominous sign told them theywere in Section F. With their hands clamped unconsciouslyon their money and passports, they met head-on a collectionof taxi drivers who accosted them in broken English aboutfair taxi rates. Burrowing into little pockets of the crowdwas the occasional person who knew where the buses toCuernavaca, Oaxaca, Guanajuato, were.

"Hold on. Let's get through this quickly." Robert claspedhis wife's hand and manoeuvred through the crowd.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Somewhere, someone mentioned a bus to San Migueland Robert nodded approval and followed.

"Do you think we can trust him?" Sharon asked.

"I don't think we have a choice."