She looked confused. I thought about just taking her pen and fixing it in her notebook but now the family was watching as if something was wrong.
“Por favor,” I said again, then took one of the checks, still soggy on the edges, and held it to her, with my finger underlining my name in the middle. “Mi …” I said.
The implications swirled. My name was my name—was comprehensible and complete—only while watched by the centurion, only on the line upper-center of the check, and I hated this name, hated it there. But Tiffany María understood. She began copying my name into her book, front teeth biting lower lip, determined to get it right. She finished and showed it to me. I smiled.
I patted her on the back. She waved goodbye. Her family, behind her, waved too and she joined them and they walked down the corridor, where light burst through the doors and threw itself across the floor in thick white stripes.
I was writing quickly. First I wrote my name, signed each check on the bottom line, matching my signature again. I signed nine checks, knowing each time I came one step closer to being done with that godawful name of mine. Swik, swoop, swik swoop—each dotted i a stab at that wretched man. And then I started over, and in the middle of each check wrote her name, with more clarity and flourish each time:
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
Tiffany María Cervantes
And I put the checks back into their wet envelope and was ready to go after her—they were still visible, the whole family, five white doors down—but could they cash these things? Nine hundred dollars made out to a twelve-year-old?
I wrote a note of explanation. I took the checks out again—I could still see them; they’d stopped to interview another traveler—and I put my driver’s license number on the back of each. I stuffed the checks back in. That would prove it. I was free and I took off after them, running like an idiot, chest puffing, chin leading my way.
* * *
They were still chasing me, laughing but confused, when I got on the bus to Cuernavaca. It was pretty great. I had no baggage to throw in that storage compartment underneath so I just leaped on and the bus drove away, pulled away as they came after me, all six of them, Tiffany’s dad first, and I waved from my tinted window as we pushed off.
The bus was crowded and smelled of someone’s spaghetti lunch. There were TVs above us and a romantic comedy flickered on just as the bus’s babies began to wail and just before I fell into a perfect swirling leaden blue-black sleep. For three hours I was out cold, drool pooling on my shoulder, my crown resting on the cool dark window.
My room was in a huge old yellow mansion, where much of the wedding would be held, on the tip-top of a hill, overlooking all of the twisted and unnavigable, plainly beautiful pastel patchwork city, with stables next door and lilies everywhere. I arrived late, after 2 A.M., and everyone was asleep. While they slept I ran through the cool empty halls. I flew down the stairs and into the courtyard. On the grounds, black and wet with dew, there were peacocks—blue peacocks and also three white peacocks, magnificent, so pure they shocked, and with their tails extending four feet behind them, each levitating perfectly and horizontally, like a magician’s assistant sleeping and unconcerned. I slept in the biggest bed I’d ever seen, high off the ground and so soft, a bed atop a thousand beds, surrounded by a small close-knit group of books, hovering in mahogany, about the miracles of the saints.
The next day there was a lunch where everyone, really just about almost everyone, maybe a hundred of the wedding’s guests, gave a toast, some in both Spanish and English, everyone brilliant and wiping away tears with fingers and palms and it was all so gorgeous, the sun lighting the umbrellas like lanterns—on that green lawn everywhere people wept. The bride and groom mentioned how many children they hoped to have—between six and twelve—and that no matter where they chose to live—and frankly they had no idea just yet—the babies would be born in Mexico, so their systems would be tougher, not so fragile, not like the babies born in America.
And there was a girl there I knew in high school, Frances, now pregnant and married to a huge blond man from Mexico City, who worked on the Sacramento River, taking pictures of whitewater rafters as they passed the bend, and I almost cried when I saw her—I never thought I’d see her again!—she was so big, and with cheeks so red, her husband so proud—such a good-looking baby that would be—and the ceremony itself, in an ancient church a mile away from the estate, wore moaning music by a bowlegged band of plum-clad mariachis above us and when the bride and groom walked out we threw pink and yellow and white flower petals, all still moist with life, and the neighborhood children scrambled to pick them up and throw them again.
At the reception that night, outdoors under a strong-mooned sky, amid the whitest of tablecloths, amid the white chairs and so many lilies, we ate and bought cigars from the waiters on the sly and then everyone moved for the dance floor and I didn’t know if I could dance too but my pregnant friend pulled me out and, sober, I jumped around with her, as she laughed and laughed. My back felt good and my head was clear! When she left with her husband I stayed, and I danced with the bride, and with the groom, and with the tiny flower girls, and with the wild-haired bridesmaid whose hand at the small of my back was the grip of great strength and utter determination—
And soon there were only twenty of us left—the parents and children had gone home—and we danced until two and then three to Slade and Quiet Riot and Cyndi Lauper, her voice tearing through us with its bloody wailing grieving hope—the deejay, from Cuernevaca, knew everything and knew joy and how to maintain and even elevate joy—and when at five we were all soaked in sweat and bewildered by how blessed we were, after the last bus left, for the hotels, leaving us to get home via foot or taxi or sleep under a table on the high soft grass, people started jumping in the pool and when they jumped in I jumped in too. I took off my pants and my shoes which still held currency from a cold and suspicious land and I jumped in—it took so long to land and in the air I saw all the faces!—I jumped with my mouth so open, taking it all in, and the air was cold and the water was so cold but I jumped all the way in, all at once, and my heart froze. Man, I thought that was the end, right there. It stopped for a minute I swear, but then the sound and pictures came back on and for two more interminable months we lived.
Acknowledgments
Thank you Flagg, Marny, Sam, Jenny, Chris, Brie, John, Cressida, Andrew, Michael and Eli. Thank you Sarah, Barb, Julie, Scott, Yosh and everyone at McSwys and 826 Valencia. Thank you Toph and Bill. This book owes a tremendous debt to Brent Hoff.
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, JULY 2003
Copyright © 2002, 2003 by Dave Eggers & McSweeney’s Publishing
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by McSweeney’s Publishing, San Francisco, in 2002.
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Portions of this work were originally published in The New Yorker.
Previously retitled as Sacrament.
Note: This paperback edition includes significant changes and additions.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.
eISBN: 978-0-307-42608-6
www.vintagebooks.com
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