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a tree, and he had spoken in
Trespassing
of how many times he had been hidden and saved by the forests at frontiers and border crossings.
    He could not bear the glibness of religious people. God spoke to them; they talked back. “God’s testing me.” God arranged everything. It was so easy for them to love life or have hope; they were taking directions from God. Yet how did a person like himself, with no faith, learn to love life? Perhaps by fearing its loss. Going away, as he was doing now—it was another message of
Trespassing
—was one way of seizing control of your life.
    In a meaningless world he had devised ways to give his life meaning. Sensuality was meaningful; desire and the act of creation gave him purpose. The trip he had embarked on now in Ecuador was an expression of hope and, though he hated the word, his quest.
    At the church entrances were Indian women, some with bags, others carrying babies—impossible to say whether they were selling something or just begging, but they were rooted there, looking immovable in their importuning. A blind woman whined at him,
“No sea malito
/” and superstitiously he pressed some money into her hand, making her smile. Black men hollered in Spanish, selling lottery tickets and newspapers. Stylish warmly dressed women slipped out of chauffeur-driven cars and hurried into shops. None of these people looked as though they were affected by the altitude. Steadman and Ava, exchanging an exhausted glance, were breathless and suffocated.
    Pausing to rest, for even their plodding pace wore them out, they saw two people from the plane, Wood and Sabra. Wood nodded brusquely and seemed to mutter something to his wife, as if finding this chance meeting just as awkward as they did, for hadn’t Ava promised “We’ll never see them again”? Husband and wife were wearing new Panama hats.
    â€œJaney’s been robbed—her bag ripped right off her arm,” Wood said. That was his greeting, as though he planned to deflect any pleasantries by introducing a note of drama—the theft. “All her credit cards. Her passport. Quite a lot of money. And she’s been in the country—what? Three hours?”
    â€œMaybe that’s some kind of record,” Ava said.
    â€œIt was a beggar, a blind woman!”
    â€œRobbed by a
ciega.
That’s a neat trick.”
    â€œWhere was her husband?” Steadman could not remember the husband’s name, and he did not want to say the wrong one because he recalled that the name was ridiculous.
    â€œHack was actually looking for her,” Sabra said.
    As though reproaching Ava for her callousness, Wood said, “Anyway, all her medicine was in the bag, as well as her valuables.”
    â€œI’ll write her
una nueva prescripción
,” Ava said.
    Sabra said, “You speak Spanish.”
    â€œObstetrical Spanish.
Abra sus piernas, por favor,”
and she smiled at the woman’s confusion.
    She knew she was being offensive—she intended it. She did not like bumping into these people. She had not come all this way to chitchat with tourists. She seemed to enjoy the fact that the big bossy interior decorator with the English accent and the cell phone had been mugged. Not harmed, just taught a useful lesson. Meeting these other travelers from the flight was a shock, though. They had never thought they would see them again, and here they were, two of them on their first excursion from their hotel room.
    â€œYou got a hat, too,” Wood said, tugging the brim of his own. “This is at least a grand back in the States. Maybe two grand.”
    They parted as clumsily as they had met and, heading for a church shown on the small map in their guidebook, Steadman and Ava took a wrong turn and entered a plaza, which was set up as a market area. Three more passengers from the plane, nameless gringos in newly bought Ecuadorian garb, Indian-made sweaters, one wearing a