N.K. Woods
Spaghetti in Cusco
The reaction of the only other diner makes me want to do a flit but a waiter has me cornered at my table. I could get past him without much trouble – he’s not big and his tight apron would surely be cumbersome in a chase – but it’s not as if I would get far. My head is throbbing and my T-shirt, my last clean top, is covered in blood.
The waiter shouts into the kitchen and then speaks more softly to me. I don’t understand a word but his tone is soothing. He gestures for me to stay where I am and then backs away to check on his other customer, the chap with his face buried in a skull and crossbones bandana.
I’ve never felt so dizzy in my life. What if I pass out? The idea horrifies me. I’d probably wake up in a strange place surrounded by people in uniforms. I can’t spare the money to sort out that kind of mess. Determined to stay conscious, I silently list everything I can see in the small restaurant: eight tables with red and white chequered cloths and candles in jam jars; one wall covered in art made from wine corks; another decorated with what look to be family photographs; a backpack on the chair beside Bandana Man’s, but he’s gone, a dash to the toilet; and on the table in front of me, a glass of prosecco and a bowl of pasta, spaghetti as thick as shoelaces.
The smell of tomato and garlic sauce, so appetising a few minutes ago, is turning my stomach. I should have stuck to toasties, or grilled cheese sandwiches as I’ve learnt to call them over the last six months. Melted cheese, white bread, bottled water and beer. The safest diet in the world. Boring, though – that’s why I gifted myself a proper meal to celebrate; double my daily allowance on a dinner I didn’t even get to taste, food that will go in the bin.
I half laugh, half groan. In a flash, the waiter is by my side. Now he’s armed. I blink hard, trying to work out why he’s aiming a fire extinguisher at me – a green one.
‘Whoa! Someone’s been in the wars.’
I’m not sure who’s more startled, me or the waiter. We both stare at the new arrival. I didn’t see her come in. She’s young, maybe still a teenager, but brimming with confidence despite looking slightly beleaguered. Her arms and legs, exposed by a sleeveless tunic and cropped leggings, are covered in insect bites; and she’s soaked, but she’s grinning at me as if we’re old friends.
My wooziness worsens. I need to leave before I pass out. I push my chair back but the floor moves when I stand up.
‘Hey, hey,’ says the girl, gently pushing me back into my seat. ‘You’re grand but you need to stay put for a while, have a few puffs of the good stuff. It did the trick for me. Would you believe it, on my second day I fainted in the hostel! Mortifying. Good job everyone round here is set up to deal with light-headed tourists.’ She turns to the waiter, speaks to him in Spanish and then smiles so winningly that he hands over the canister without any fuss. Focusing on me again, she continues, ‘I’m so wrecked that I could do with some of this myself. “Walk the Inca Trail” says my mate. “How hard can it be?” says she. Crazy hard is the answer. I’m Naomi by the way.’
Her voice is soothing, so is her accent. She sounds like home.
As she chatters, I let my eyes close, but almost at once I feel pressure on my face. Flinching, I open my eyes to find a mask covering my mouth and nose.
‘Steady now. Breathe normally.’ Naomi tinkers with a valve and strokes my hand. ‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. My gran has emphysema.’
‘She okay?’ asks Bandana Man, looking less green than when I last saw him. Before Naomi can answer, he goes on sheepishly, ‘Her nose exploded. Whoosh. I would’ve helped but I’m a wuss around blood.’
‘Don’t worry. She’ll be fighting fit in no time. It’s just a bit of altitude sickness.’
It’s as if he’s an old friend of hers too. In no time they’re over the introductions – his name is TJ and he’s from Brighton – but Naomi never lets go of my hand or takes her attention from what I now realise is an oxygen tank. I’m more amused than embarrassed by my mistake, and by my nosebleed. It’s my first brush with illness on this trip but I feel better already.
The waiter clears away my dinner and returns with a bowl of water and stack of paper napkins. We might be playing charades with the way he pretends to wash his face and then points at me. I give him a thumbs up, prompting Naomi and TJ to high-five each other.
‘Think we’ve a live one on our hands,’ says Naomi, grabbing a napkin from the pile and squeezing water from her two plaits.
I lift the mask and nod weakly. ‘You’d better believe it. But I’d best get going before I’m arrested for looking a state. Fantastic job, though. Thanks for coming to my rescue.’
‘It’s chucking down out there,’ says TJ. He strokes his stubbly chin and frowns. ‘You should stick around for a while. Rest up.’
It was dry when I got to the restaurant but I’m not surprised to hear about the rain. The weather has been changeable since I arrived, alternating between sunshine, showers followed by rainbows, and unexpected patches of mist – the result of being so high above sea level. Even in the darkness, it’s impossible to forget about the mountains circling the city. Cusco isn’t so much a world apart as a world above – a fact brought home to me in exhilarating fashion on the plane this morning. Almost until the moment the wheels dropped, it felt as though the pilot’s plan was to land on a mountaintop. I look outside, half expecting to see the outline of the Andes against the night sky. But the window is fogged up and all that’s visible is the glow of antique lamps and the occasional blurred shape scurrying past on the cobblestone street.
There’s no point adding a drenching to my misadventures so I agree to stay a while and set about making myself presentable. It doesn’t take long to clean my face but my comfiest top is ruined. As I dab ineffectually at the blood stains, TJ drags his backpack over to my table and starts rifling through compartments and unzipping side pockets while murmuring, ‘I know it’s in here someplace.’
Naomi takes a seat beside me and we watch him, neither of us quite managing to suppress our smiles.
‘Ta dah!’ With a flourish, he produces a T-shirt that’s still in its plastic wrapping.
My smile turns into a grin when he thrusts the package at me. He watches intently as I remove the plastic and shake out the folded T-shirt. It’s black, with Cancun printed on the front in colourful letters.
‘You’re an absolute star,’ I say. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to put it on.’
My legs wobble when I stand but the floor doesn’t sway. Padding gingerly across the room, I make it to the toilet and change my top. By the time I return, Naomi and TJ are settled at my table, drinking beer and laughing. As soon as they spot me, they cheer. I sit down, feeling like a queen even though the Cancun T-shirt is ridiculously big on me.
We never actually agree to eat together but soon the three of us are plucking fresh bread from a basket provided by the waiter. Naomi is supposed to be getting a takeout pizza, but she’s not in any rush. Her travel companion is asleep, wiped out after suffering from a dodgy stomach.
‘It’s her own fault,’ says Naomi, not unkindly. ‘I mean, after doing the Inca Trail and seeing Machu Picchu she treated herself to a turkey and salad sandwich. I warned her it was a risky choice but she told me I was being a nervous Nellie.’
Machu Picchu. I’m so excited to see it, but that marvel is for tomorrow. Right now I’ve a more ordinary wonder to savour – company. Generally I’m content to travel solo but I don’t want to part with my new friends yet so, when they place their orders, I pretend to have my appetite back and further upset my budget by requesting the same again.
Our food – three bowls of spaghetti – appears impressively quickly. My companions tuck in while I nibble on a roll.
‘Mm, this is delish,’ says Naomi. She licks sauce off two of her fingers and then wraps more spaghetti around her fork. ‘Even better than the stuff you get in Italy.’
TJ almost chokes on his mouthful of bread. ‘No way! You can’t beat the pasta in Tuscany. I go there with my family most summers and we all roll home a stone heavier.’
Naomi shakes her head and says she found the pasta in Italy, especially in Rome, disappointing. Both she and TJ look to me, as if they expect me to settle the question.
I take a sip of water and shrug. ‘Afraid I can’t help. I’ve never been to Italy.’
It’s as if I’ve confessed to a crime, and it gets worse when I admit that France and Spain are other countries I’ve yet to visit.
‘How’s that possible?’ asks TJ. He’s so stunned that he stops eating.
‘Easy. I front-loaded seeing the far-flung places. All my holidays have been to spots I mightn’t be able to manage later – you know, like China and Russia. I used to save up and go on an adventure every few years. And now that I’ve been made redundant, I’m using my severance pay to make my way through the Americas. Africa too, if I can stretch to it. I want to see them while I’m fit and healthy. There’ll be time for Europe when I’m old.’
TJ’s eyes widen but Naomi nods enthusiastically and tells me it’s a brilliant plan. They want to know all about my itinerary and we spend the rest of the meal going through it in detail.
I’m due to be on the road for eighteen months, I explain, but this day next year I intend to be home in Dublin.
‘Why?’ asks Naomi, sounding genuinely interested.
With more candour than I intend – I blame the low-pressure atmosphere – I reply, ‘Because it’ll be my birthday and I’ll be coming into some money.’
‘But that means today is your birthday!’ The word birthday is barely out of his mouth before TJ starts singing to me.
‘It is,’ I say, shushing him, ‘but it’s not a big one.’
It’s too late. Naomi is singing now too. The waiter joins in briefly, belting the words out in Spanish before vanishing into the kitchen. A second later he reappears, carrying a cupcake with a single lit candle stuck in its centre.
Next year is the important one, when the money I put away every month for four decades matures and I can draw down on my pension, but I can’t imagine being any happier than I am right now. Naomi and TJ clap, point at the candle and tell me to make a wish.
There’s nothing more I want or need but I still close my eyes and blow.
N.K. Woods studied Creative Writing in the University of Edinburgh and is currently pursuing a PhD in Oxford Brookes. Her short stories have appeared in Books Ireland, New Worlds New Voices Anthology, Honest Ulsterman and elsewhere, while her poems have been published by Spelt and Anthropocene. She lives in Ireland.