Xixitla, Rainforest outside San Luis Potosi, 1954 : Plutarco leads me through the jungle. There, beneath a canopy of rain forest where my many birds swim through the air from one great stone to another I feel the joy of exile singing through the jungle and I am pleased. Birds like fireworks scream with color and Plutarco is also pleased. This Xanadu is our legacy and both of us are pleased.

“Aqui,” Plutarco says, “The house with a roof like a whale,” moving his hands before his face, looking between his fingers at the marvelous finished structure. A Macaw emits a high-pitched squeal. Something rustles in the garden beyond where we are standing. “Si,” I say. “It is perfect.” Spires of stone reach out like grey fingers from the valley. Steps leading nowhere. Stories upon stories upon stories of Eden…

Mexico City, Colonia Roma, 2011:

The cobblestone is shining. It is wet and dark with Mexico City rains that only hours before fell all around us twinkling in the afternoon sun. It is dark now and her face is quivering. Her cheeks are glistening, not with rain but with tears that she fights back unsuccessfully. I also feel them brimming at the corners of my eyes but I can’t allow myself to cry. It would be obscene for me to cry right now. I don’t deserve to cry.

“I don’t understand,” she says, “We had everything planned. Your bags are in the backseat. Julio is on his way over right now, he just went to get gas. I don’t understand. You’re staying because of her, aren’t you?” “No,” I say, but the truth is I don’t really know. The truth is I say no, because it is the only thing I can manage to say and it is empty and meaningless but I say it anyway.

“This has been our dream for how long? And now we can finally do it and you…you’re scared. You’re too scared you might actually be happy.” “No,” I say again, “Maybe…I don’t know. I’m sorry.” “Please,” she scoffs and turns her body away from me, “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t say that.”

We’re standing outside of Sofia’s apartment. Sofia being the “her” that Claire is asking me about. We met her a few nights earlier and I could tell she was trouble. We played records all night drinking Indio beer that was very cold and delicious and we smoked her pot. One night we ended up staying too late and she said we were welcome to her guest bedroom. I woke up thirsty, my head throbbing and walked to the kitchen for some mineral water. Sofia was there, wearing an over-sized band shirt, some Mexican rock band I didn’t recognize. Her hair was dark and her eyes were dark and neither of us said anything. We began to kiss and I felt panicked and elated at the same time. I stopped, Sofia smiled, and she went to her room. I stood there for some time fighting myself. I walked back into the guest room and lay down next to Claire, who was sound asleep. I held her the rest of the night but was unable to go back to sleep myself.

I have been seeing Claire, on and off, since we were kids. We’re in our twenties now, both visiting Mexico. She lives in Florida and I live in Texas and we have planned this for months. We have planned this for months and I have just fucked up everything…again.

Xixitla had been her dream for years. It was her dream, though over time it became mine as well. She is the one who first told me about Las Pozas. I wanted to go. My bags were packed. I want to go but now, suddenly, I don’t think I can. I don’t think I will. I feel the impending wave of regret rolling back. Either way I am going to regret something. This is what I hate to do most. These situations that keep occurring are what I try to avoid at all costs: making a big decision. Only now my back is against the wall and I have to make a decision and I hate it.

“I just…I want to go. I just don’t think it would be fair, you know, I am staying with Francisco and…”I trail off, light a cigarette. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something real. Waiting for me to say something true.

“You know that’s bullshit. Francisco talked to me. He thinks it would be good if you went. This is about that girl. You just met her. You don’t even know her. You might think there is something there but really, you’re just running. You’re a coward. You weren’t like this when I met you…you were…different. I hoped that going would help you see that. I think going could save you, but maybe I am just a fool for even wanting that.”

It hurts to hear her say this because I know it’s true and she is so good at speaking truth and when it comes to truth, for me, I am a mute. I am incapable of speaking a single true word and I don’t know why.

“My methadone…I didn’t bring enough. I thought by going, you know, I could get clean off everything and no more maintenance but…I can’t. I don’t have time to go get it from Francisco’s without totally ruining the trip. You should go on without me. I mean, it isn’t as big a deal as we’re making it. We can always go again next year.”

This almost feels true. I did forget the methadone. I don’t know how I could have forgotten something that important. It was just the allure of the jungle, and Claire, and I really thought I could kick this time and be free…but standing in the street, all drizzle and cold, my body tugs at me and going anywhere without that methadone seems impossible. I have sabotaged myself, again.

“You did that on purpose. I know you,” Claire says, “You can just quit…I know it’s hard but,” she looks at me imploringly, “You can finally get off all that. You can be you again. I miss you so fucking much sometimes it just makes me sick.”

The little red Volkswagen pulls up sputtering beside us. Julio is driving. Claire tells him to give her a minute. He can already tell I wasn’t coming. He smiles at me, the son of a bitch. He is in love with Claire, of course, and now is his big chance. I feel rotten inside.

“You know this is it,” She says to me. Claire is no longer crying though her voice is still trembling when she speaks. “It’s your last chance, if you don’t get in that car now…” she can’t bring herself to say the rest but I know what she is trying to tell me.

I lift my brown duffel bag out of the trunk. I kiss Claire one last time and her lips are salty with tears and they are coming whether she fights them or not. I shut the trunk with a feeling of dread and sadness. As I watch them slip over the wet cobblestone I still think to myself, “There will be another chance,” because the universe seemed fond of offering me seemingly endless chances at winning.

I don’t see the losing streak before it comes because I am used to winning and when you are winning the concept of losing is a strange and difficult thing to comprehend.

San Luis Potosi, 1954:

“Café? Edward?”

Plutarco asks and I accept. Last night I dreamed of a bird with many heads diving down my throat. I felt its many beaks and the feeling was not one of pain. We sip our coffee then, and both of us are enjoying the taste of this morning and yet I can tell our hearts were somehow left behind, in the mountains, in the stones, in our little dream city. We would have stayed there longer, but night fell and we are not meant to live inside the rain forest although sometimes we may tell ourselves that we were. The little dream city was built for dreamers who would look upon with wonder for many years to come. It was built for them, not for Plutarco and I to enjoy. We are merely the parents of this spectacular child, and like all parents we must one day let go.

With what new joy would they move across the steps and falls, swells of jungle, streams of water and stone all running together like hot wax? They will think to themselves: what a marvel they created! And this was enough. It was more than enough.

Plutarco sits next to me, lighting a cigarette and sipping from his own coffee. We watch the cars pass by in the streets and we are both pleased.