He is contemptuous.
‘What?? But they are the most interesting of all the funerary towers in which the Aymara buried their nobles.’
‘We didn’t actually see any funerary towers,’ she admits.
‘What? But the funerary towers are the only thing of interest in the whole area around Lake Titicaca.’
‘We missed them.’
He is shocked, but he rallies.
‘You didn’t get a boat to one of the reed islands, did you? They are tourist traps.’
‘We did.’
Her coffee arrives, with three slices of sweet apple on a separate saucer. There has been some little extra gift everywhere they have been in Peru.
‘But not the first island? That is a complete sham.’
‘We went to the first island.’
‘But you didn’t buy a mat?’ he asks with dimishing hope. ‘Those mats are phoney. The women tell you that they represent, in pictures, their life story. They do not.’
‘We bought a mat.’
He is silent. This is too difficult for him to bear.
Where is Simon? He should be here by now.
She begins to talk non-stop. It’s the only way to avoid being lectured by him. She talks about Cusco, about the poverty she has seen: an old woman asleep on a pavement beside her wares, which consisted entirely of spring onions; a little boy selling cigarettes one by one; a sweet, pale girl, aged about nine, trying to make a sale in a café, holding out her complete stock on a tray – two toilet rolls. She contrasts these scenes with a description of a treasure she saw in the magnificent La Merced church in the city. It was a representation of the sun, with topazes, emeralds and pearl mermaids, and, at its shining centre, fifteen hundred diamonds.
‘These contrasts are all too easy to make,’ says the German dismissively.
‘But true and obscene just the same.’
He shrugs. He is not pleased. Where is Simon?
He asks her where they are going next.
‘We’re going on a bit of a farewell tour with Simon’s uncle, who is a priest, and then Simon and I hope to be off to the Amazon.’
‘Don’t. It is a very boring river.’ He pauses. ‘But if you do go, don’t go to Iquitos. It is a very boring town.’ He pauses again. ‘But if you do go to Iquitos, don’t go on a trip to any of the jungle lodges. They are a real waste of time.’ He pauses again. Naomi glances out of the window, and an icy blast runs through her veins. She barely hears the last piece of the travel agent’s advice. ‘But if you do go to a jungle lodge, don’t go to the first one. That is a very boring lodge.’
Simon has walked into view with Greta. He kisses her cheek. She walks on, he turns and approaches the hotel.
He orders drinks – a beer for himself, an Inca Cola for Naomi. The German refuses the offer of a beer and says that he has to go. Even when he has gone, Simon doesn’t mention Greta.
‘Had a nice time with Greta?’
Naomi doesn’t like this new sound in her voice. She wishes she could swallow the words back.
‘What do you mean? I met her, that’s all. We walked a bit.’
‘Do you usually kiss nuns you hardly know?’
‘Yes, I’m the secret nun kisser of Basingstoke. I give myself ten points per nun, and fifty for a Mother Superior. No, of course I don’t. But she showed me one or two things and I was grateful and…I kissed her.’
‘You fancy her.’
‘I do not. What the fuck is all this? What’s got into you?’
Doubt. That’s what’s got into her. Not a very serious doubt. Just the very slightest dent in her conviction that she has done the right thing in marrying him.
A minibus collects Naomi and Simon from their hotel in Iquitos at nine twenty-five. Already, the heat and humidity are stifling.
There are three other passengers on the bus – Timothy, Maggie and the German travel agent.
Naomi is stunned. So is Timothy.
So is the German travel agent.
‘What are you doing in Iquitos?’ he says. ‘I told you not to come here. It is too hot, the hotels are too expensive, the town is dull, and it closes at weekends.’
At first, Naomi and Timothy are too shocked to speak. At last Naomi says, ‘What are you doing in Peru?’
‘I’m on my honeymoon. This is Maggie.’
These words, spoken so innocently, are bullets that fly straight to Naomi’s heart. She is astounded to find that this is so, utterly unprepared for her sudden yearning for Timothy’s body beside her in a sagging bed.
‘You?’ he asks.
‘The same. This is Simon.’
Introductions and explanations follow. Timothy’s eyes are making a desperate appeal to Naomi, and she realises what it is. Don’t mention our three nights together, especially the second one.
‘So, this is a happy coincidence,’ says the German travel agent.
‘Happy, yes,’ lies Naomi. ‘Coincidence? Not entirely. We were both in a play about Peru at school. I think something of its magic touched us.’
The minibus turns off the road onto a wide track that leads down towards the river. It pulls up by a locked gate. The driver hoots several times, then gets out and bangs on the gate.
‘Why are you going to the first jungle lodge?’ asks the travel agent, almost angrily. ‘I told you this was not interesting.’
‘We only have time for one, and we did want to see the Amazon,’ says Naomi lamely.
At last an elderly unshaven man, with a touch of the salt about him, shambles up and unlocks the gate.
The passengers proceed down a flight of steep wooden steps to a small pontoon alongside which lies a long, narrow, thatched boat. It seats about a hundred. They are the only five customers.
‘Tourism has died here this year. It is because of the Falklands War. People are frightened. The Falklands are thousands of miles away. European people are idiots,’ says the German travel agent.
The boat eases slowly out into the stream, and chugs off on its two-and-a-half-hour journey to the jungle lodge. Everybody wants to admire the scenery. Nobody wants to talk. There is going to be plenty of time for talking at the lodge.
Naomi links arms with Simon. She hopes he is unaware that she is
