The Tour Guide

Never again. I’m a journalist, damn it, not a nursemaid. But I try to be a good guy, and I can’t say no. And I liked the Lavers when I first met them, so when they called I said I’d arrange the car and show them around. I’ve been in this country for about two years, supposedly reporting on recent events. I fax a story fairly often, giving them what they want, even though, honestly, there is not much happening.
Mostly, I’ve managed to tour the countryside, rationalizing that I’m doing my job. I spend a lot of time in out-of-the-way spots, away from the foreigners— the diplomatic crowd, the military, the corporate scouts, the few tourists that make it here. If I say so myself, I go for honest experiences. So I sniff out down-to-earth places off the main roads.
At first I thought it was an invitation, not a request.
— We’d like to see those old churches you talked about, and that lake in the west. We’d really like you to join us.
That’s the way she put it. But they didn’t know how to rent a car here. They really didn’t have a clue about anything. So, okay, I signed on as a tour guide. I could deal with that.
— What size car should I get? The smaller the cheaper, you know.
— Cheap sounds good to me, she said.
That sounded hopeful. I mean I knew there were actually four Lavers. Dan was here on some kind of teaching grant, and he and Marie have two high-strung kids. One about seven, the other two. So, good. A small car means she’s found a babysitter.
No such luck. There they were, the four of them, waiting in front of their building, with backpacks, tote-bags filled with juice cartons, bread, cookies, baby bottles, toys, plastic diapers. All kinds of crap. Some kind of liquid was dripping from one of the bags before we even got started. All right. I should have known. Relax, go with the flow. So we won’t hike Mt. Gali, won’t talk for long hours over wine. Okay. What the hell.
So we crammed it all into the hatch, then squeezed ourselves in and headed out of the city. I drove, Dan in the passenger’s seat. Mom and the brats in back.
— What’s bigger, a kilometer or a mile? Matt. He’s one of those kids who can’t talk his age. He was always going on about how houses get built, the Russian space-station, which whales are the largest. And he’s got one of those sharp little voices, like he’s trying to talk while somebody is pinching his cheeks together. I guessed the question was meant for me. His mouth was just about in my ear, for Christ’s sake. A mile is bigger.
— How much bigger?
Why couldn’t he just sit back and read about the Little Engine That Could or something?
— Twice as big?
— No, not that big. About half-again as big.
— Whad’ya mean?
— It’s like you have one kilometer, then take half of another one and add it to it. That’s a mile.
— Oh.
So he was quiet for a second. I went back to telling Dan about the places we’d see. Never finished what I was saying.
— Is that exact?
— Is what exact?
— Is a mile one and one-half kilometers? Or are there some more fractions?
Now he wants to talk about fractions. Yeah, there are more fractions. I don’t remember exactly. You can look it up sometime.
Meanwhile Mom tried to get the little kid to sleep on her lap. Without much success, though, because the whiz kid kept jumping around, leaping forward to yell in my ear, then bouncing back onto the seat. Then his brother started crying, then I heard a sound like plastic bags rustling, then this god-awful smell filled the car. Should’ve gotten a station wagon.
— Mommy, I want some soda.
— You can drink juice, Matty. We just have juice.
— But I want soda.
— Juice is better for you. It’s got vitamins in it.
— Soda has vitamins too.
— It’s not as good for you. Besides, we don’t have any soda.
— But there was a store back there. We could get some.
— First drink some juice. Then maybe we can stop for soda.
— But I want soda.
— Please, Matt, sit still for a little while and drink some juice.
Well, I leave you to guess who won this power struggle. So I swung the car around, went back a couple of miles. Or maybe it was kilometers. I figured, what the hell. Put some gas in the car, take a leak. After about fifteen minutes we were off again, with a car full of plastic bottles, extra cookies, peanuts. I could see they were going to have to clean out this car with a hose.
The soda must have had caffeine in it, because I started getting grilled about what kinds of rocks the mountains were made of, whether those were gypsies we were passing, the difference between a donkey and a mule, how many kinds of fish were in the lake, how big they were, if I knew how to play some kind of computer game…
I survived, knowing we would soon stop for lunch. First, though, I wanted to show Dan and Marie the monastery next to the restaurant. I had been to the church before. It’s in the Byzantine style, brick and stone, intricate alcoves within, ornately decorated. As soon as we entered, of course the two-year-old started running circles on the carpet while his brother traced the outlines of frescos with his sticky fingers. The parents just admired the wood-carving, asking me what I knew about the artists, seeming not to hear the shrieks of their little demon-child. I could see the priest coming. I moved toward the door like I wasn’t part of this, and I said hello to him as he entered. He told me that we were in a holy place, that my children are not allowed to run in the church. Okay, excuse us, I said. No point telling him they weren’t mine. We were leaving anyway.
The caretaker stationed near the exit of the monastery remembered me from last time, and he was obviously curious about me, why a foreigner like me kept showing up.
— Can you drink coffee with me? he asked.
It was one of those offers I don’t refuse. I don’t want to insult these people. Besides, it’s how I’ve learned about these places, just sitting with someone, asking questions, hearing the history. Or at least one more version of it.
Then I noticed the two-year-old, Zack, trying to climb the fence, his brother chasing a cat across the courtyard, yelling and waving a stick. The parents giving me that aren’t-they-cute smile.
— So sorry, I said. Coffee on the next trip. I promise.
Somehow the holy terrors got herded toward the restaurant for lunch. We sat outside at a table under the trees, overlooking the stream that flows into the lake farther south. We ordered thick soup made with veal, some bread. I asked for a glass of wine. Driving or not, I felt as though I had earned it. The kids actually sat still for about two minutes. But then some cats came slouching toward our table. Matty let out a yell, and I almost knocked over my glass.
— Zackie! Look!
— Aaaahh! The cats froze for a split second, then made a quick about-face and scurried for the trees. The kids in pursuit, screaming like movie-Indians, waving sticks. I could swear the two-year-old was going to poke his eyes out running like that.
— Those cats don’t know what they’re up against, Dan said, looking at me, smiling.
— Dan, I want them to finish their soup. The nutrition-conscious mom.
— Oh, they’re all right. They’ll eat if they’re hungry.
— But I’m worried about Zackie near the water like that.
— He’s all right.
— Okay, well, as long as you’re in charge.
— They’re okay! Quite the disciplinarian.
The three cats got themselves perched on a limb of a tree, all hunched-up and wide-eyed. They were safe until Matt found a longer stick. When it came swinging up at them they more or less flew up to the top of the tree. Meanwhile, our waiter walked out and headed toward us, but then looked as if he didn’t know what to say, slowed his steps and returned to the kitchen.
Eventually we paid the bill and left, leaving two unfinished bowls of soup behind. Naturally, Matt started talking loudly from the backseat.
— I’m hungry.
— Ha, Ha! Dan thinks it’s funny. I told you you should finish your soup.
— But I was busy.
— You just wanted to torture cats. Eat some of these cookies. Great, I thought, sugar is just the thing to help him relax.
At this point I couldn’t wait to check into the hotel on the lake, where I could find refuge alone behind a locked door. I had given up smoking, but I figured I deserved a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of wine. I looked forward to sitting on my balcony, quietly gazing across the lake, letting the wine do its work.
We checked into a hotel I had stayed at before. Nothing fancy. But the rooms were clean and cheap, and they came with breakfast, even if it was just bread and jam and coffee. And if we got rooms that looked over the lake we’d be able to see across to the higher snow-capped mountains that formed the country’s western border. And the way the light plays on the water, especially at sunset, has a calming effect.
I got a room for myself, on the third floor, the Lavers getting a bigger room on the second. After we handed our passports across the reception desk and got our keys, we headed toward the elevator with our bags. I reached for the button, but Dan, carrying the two-year-old, stepped in front of me.
— Zackie wants to push the button. Wanna push the button, Zackie?
This took about a half hour, since the button had a stiff spring and Zack couldn’t push hard enough with his little fingers. Inside the elevator we had to go through it all over again, first with the button for the second floor, then the one for the third. When the kid finally got us moving the whole family let out a cheer as though he’d just launched the goddamn space-shuttle.
The Lavers got off at the second floor, all except Matt.
— I wanna see his room!
Oh great.
— Okay, Marie said, but remember we’re in 233.
— 233, I said. Got that?
— Huh?
— 2-3-3. ..2-3-3.
All right. I figured I’d basically ignore the little runt until he got bored and joined his parents. We found my room, and naturally he had to use the key. Then he raced into the room ahead of me, ran to the sliding glass doors, peeled back the curtains, and darted out onto the balcony. I tried to seem seriously intent on unpacking my bag, hoping the kid would get the message.