The World in Half by Cristina Henríquez Read Free Book Online Page B

sent money back, called me on the phone. But somewhere along the way they decided they liked their new life in Brazil. They wanted to stay. They didn’t see a reason for me to come join them. So I don’t know if they left me. They just never came back for me.” Nothing in his face shows that he feels anything about the fact that his parents abandoned him, but his voice betrays a forced nonchalance.
    On the floor, a parade of ants navigates the crevice between two tiles.
    “I’m in Panamá because I’m trying to find my father,” I say.
    He takes the toothpick out again, discarding it on the floor. The ants march over it. “What do you mean?”
    “My father lives here. He’s Panamanian.”
    “Ah, the half of you from here.”
    “Right.”
    “What do you mean you’re trying to find him? He’s lost?”
    “I’ve never met him. He doesn’t know I’m here looking for him.”
    “Serious? He doesn’t know you’re here?” He looks at me for several seconds while he curls his lips around his teeth. “Do you want help?” he asks finally.
    “That’s okay.”
    “Really?”
    “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
    “So I could help you. Fuck,” he says, throwing his hand in the air. “You’ve never even talked to him or anything?”
    I shake my head.
    “I mean, my parents are all the way in Brazil but I could call them if I wanted. I just never want to. But Christ. You have a little bit of information on him at least?”
    “I have his name.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I have an address. He might still live there but he might not. I don’t know. And I know he used to work at the canal. Maybe he still does.” I turn down one corner of my mouth. I know it’s not a lot to go on.
    “You don’t know much, huh? I guess we have somewhere to start, though. I mean, if you want my help. I know the city pretty well.”
    This isn’t the sort of offer I normally would accept. When I was growing up, my mother taught me to be wary of strangers, especially those who seemed willing in any way to be helpful, to be nice, to be of use. But then again, coming here in the first place wasn’t the sort of thing I normally would do. And what if he really can help me? I don’t have that much else to go on at this point.
    “Okay,” I say.
    He smiles wide, evidently pleased. His chipped tooth is uneven against the others. “We should know each other’s names,” he says. “I know yours.”
    I nod.
    “Mine is Danilo.”
     
     
     
    Every inch of the bus is elaborately spray-painted and air-brushed. The driver’s name is scripted in blue near the grill and there’s an image of Fidel Castro in fatigues on the side. Before I even get on, I can hear music with a backbone of thumping bongo drums coming from the radio inside.
    Danilo and I share a double-wide seat, and he taps his knees to the beat of the music while we ride. He brought his flower bucket with him because, as he explained to me as we walked through the hotel lobby, he never knew when he might make a sale. He keeps it in the aisle beside his feet.
    The bus is crowded and hot and, between the voices and the music, loud. The driver keeps shouting for everyone to move back, move back. He hollers over and over, “Péguense que tienen ropa.” A young boy crouched on the floor beside the driver stands periodically and echoes the same remarks. Danilo shouts back once, “¡Gracias, pavo!” and then turns to me and says, “Those guys are the worst.”
    “Who is he?” I ask.
    “Probably the driver’s nephew or something. They’re on all the buses now. Like helpers.”
    Danilo acts aggravated, but for me it’s invigorating to be on the bus and to feel like I’m really, truly, in Panama at last. Not just in the hotel or in a taxi or in a restaurant, but here among the people who call it home. I clutch my bag on my lap and look at everyone while a sort of giddiness fizzes inside me like a firecracker, a series of warm pricks bursting against my chest. Outside,