ing to the train station. The driver wasrnnutbrown, as wide as he was tall. Hisrnsteel gray hair had been slicked straightrnback from the temples, and his face wasrncovered by wens. “Si, sefior. Y en Hermosillorntambien.”rnIn the early morning light filtered byrnthe dust and smoke of the city the drabrnpublic architecture of the estaeionrnloomed like a gray cutbank against therngravel hills. The train was an ancientrndiesel locomotive and two grimy coaches,rnthe car ends crowded with peoplernwho had been unable to secure a seat insidernor else wished to enjoy fresh air onrnthe trip. I entered the second car and satrnon the armrest of an aisle seat wherernsomeone was already sitting. The conductorrnhad brought along his wife andrnfour small gids for the ride, establishingrnthem in facing seats behind the first row,rnwhich was occupied by two greenpaintedrntrunks containing thermoses from whichrnhe dispensed oversweet black coffee. Irnasked him if he accepted Americanrnmoney. The conductor nodded andrnpalmed the two quarters I gave him,rnwhile everyone looked on politely.rnThe train departed without notice,rnthree-quarters of an hour ahead ofrnschedule, the cars jolting hard againstrnone another and the airbrakes hissing viciously.rnAs it rocked slowly through thernenvirons of Nogales people continued tornstare with tactful delicacy. I moved fromrnthe armrest to sit on one of the greenrntrunks, and the conductor did not object.rnThe overhead racks were jammedrnwith pails of lard and cardboard boxesrnpacked with ham sandwiches, and thernaisle was full of people sitting on theirrnluggage. A woman with a broad Indianrnface, rather stylishly dressed, continuedrnto smile at me as she cradled a kitten inrnher arms.rnBrown wrinkled mountains ran onrneither side of the green valley. In therntowns along the line people stood in formalrnarrangement before their houses tornwatch the train pass. There were churchesrnand Tecate signs, arroyos filled withrntrash and car bodies, and then the countrysidernwould open out again. At eachrnstop women climbed up and made theirrnway with difficulty through the coaches,rnselling tamales, pastries, and Cocas; arrivingrnat the next station they were metrnby their husbands in pickup trucks. AtrnMagdalena, the object of a pilgrimagernevery September to honor the bones ofrnthe Spanish Jesuit Father Kino, a youngrnman came aboard with two plastic bucketsrnon his arm. Seeing me he stopped tornexhibit his wares; these were dried applernpastries, each neady wrapped in its plasticrnsack. I shook my head. “You don’trnwant to buy—as usual,” the young manrnsaid. He said it pleasantly with a smile.rn”I’ve already had breakfast. It’s too eadyrnin the morning to eat again.” He continuedrnsmiling. “Buy something anyway.” Irnbought a pastry, and he made change inrnAmerican currency.rn”Where are you from?” he asked.rn”From Wyoming, in the north.”rn”Would you like to live here?” “The peoplernare very nice. Do you think I couldrnmake a living?” “I don’t know. Will yournget off to eat lunch at Benjamin Hill?”rn”Will there be time for lunch?” “Yes.”rnHe watched me carefully for several secondsrnbefore adding, “It has been nicerntalking to you. I must go now.”rnBy accident I caught the conductor’srneldest daughter staring at me; she lookedrnaway quickly. The girls all had on immaculaternwhite dresses trimmed in purplernand red. As if on cue they tossedrntheir Coca bottles through the open window.rn”iHabla ingles?” “iNo!” Shernshook her head emphatically and lookedrnover to her mother, a very fat but otherwisernquite pretty woman who had notrnstopped eating since we left Nogales.rnAt Benjamin Hill a large crowd awaitedrnthe train beside the tracks. “iTacos!”rn”iSodas!” “iTamales!” “iEnsaladas!”rnVendors peddling carts or striding besidernthe coaches handed up Cocas andrnTecates through the windows of therntrain. The baggage car joined on withrnsudden impact and a successive joltingrnalong the cars and the train moved slowlyrnin reverse, accompanied by the vendors,rnshouting. The train stopped. “Permiso,”rnthe conductor asked of me as hernreached to light the gas stove on the floorrnof the coach behind the seat. When hernhad the flame up his wife heated therntaeos he had bought, placing them in arnfrying pan on the burner. As the trainrnpulled out the villagers waved and thernvendors fell back, the train gatheringrnspeed. “Un Tecate,” I told a man in thernuniform of the Ferocarriles Nacionalesrnde Mexico who carried a basket filledrnwith Cocas and beer. “Si, seiior.” Hernopened a can and held it forward.rn”iCuanto cuesta?” “Cinco mil pesos.” Irnlooked at the man. A campesino whornhad been watching the exchange from arnpiece of board laid across a crate shookrnhis head. “No,” he said. “Demasiado.”rnToo much.rnThe conductor, caught in the exchange,rnseemed bemused. The vendor,rnlooking abashed, stood rigid. Slowly therncampesino leaned forward from hisrncrate, took the bill from my hand, andrnpresented it to the vendor. He told thernman what change to make, received itrnfrom him, and gave me the money. Thernvendor pocketed the difference and disappearedrnat once into the vestibule. Therncampesino looked at me sadly as if to say,rn”The heart of man is evil beyond description.”rnA youngish man, prematurely aged inrnthe face, came along the aisle, bracingrnhimself against the seatbacks. He held arncigarette in one hand and a beer in thernother. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?rnWhere are you from? Where are you going?”rnHe was on his way to Guadalajara,rnon vacation from his job as a shrimpshellerrnin a restaurant in Nogales. Turningrnhis hand over he displayed an uglyrnburn along the side that he had receivedrnwhile frying shrimps in oil three days before.rn”I like to cook,” the young manrnsaid. “Do you like to cook? I bet yournhave a nice wife—a blonde. There arernmany blondes in California. I used tornlive in f California, but f— that.rnMexico is the place to be, no place onrnearth like Mexico.” He gestured with therncigarette toward the vineyards spokingrnpast the train. Dark Bgures stooped andrnstraightened down the long rows ofrnvines. “In Mexico,” the man said contemptuously,rn”Indians work in thernfields—I don’t. I want money, f—, I gornto f California.” He broke off to patrnat a small sharp-faced gid passing in thernaisle, and take her by the arm. She flungrnloose from his hand and turned on himrnwith a fierce adult composure. “iBorracho!”rnshe hissed.rnI disembarked on the wide platformrnof the estaeion at Hermosillo wherernGuatemalan refugees sat on foldingrnchairs surrounded by their bundles andrnpackages, staring with expressionlessrnfaces across the tracks to a row of dingyrnblue box cars wavering in the heat. Lowrngravel hills showed between the cars, andrnpieces of a lake nearly colorless in thernneutral haze that smelled of garbage andrnmesquite smoke, the primary odors ofrnnorthern Mexico. 1 hailed a taxi in frontrnof the station and threw my suitcase ontornthe front seat beside the driver.rn”iHay una plaza de toros en Hermosillo?”rnI asked him as we drove off.rn”Si, seiior,” he replied. “Y en Nogalesrntambien.” -frn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn