Cowboy Graves: Three Novellas

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My name is Arturo and the first time I saw an airport was in 1968. It was November or December, maybe the end of October. I was fifteen then and I didn’t know whether I was Chilean or Mexican and I didn’t care much either way. We were going to Mexico to live with my father.

We tried to leave twice. The first time we didn’t make it and the second time we did. The first time, as my mother and sister were talking to my grandmother and two or three other people I’ve forgotten, a stranger came up and gave me a book. I know that I saw his face—I scanned the whole length of him because he was so tall—and he smiled and made a motion (at no point did he say a word), inviting me to accept his unexpected gift. I’ve forgotten his face, too. He had bright eyes (though sometimes I see him wearing dark glasses that hide not just his eyes but most of his face) and smooth skin, tight around the ears, immaculately shaved. Then he was gone, and I remember sitting on one of the suitcases and reading the book. It was an international public airport manual. From it, I learned that an airport has hangars that are rented to different airlines for storage and maintenance; passenger terminals connected by air bridges to plane parking areas; a meteorological office; a control tower usually at least one hundred feet tall; emergency services located in special units on the landing field and controlled by the tower; a wind sock (which is a visual guide for gauging wind direction—when horizontal, it indicates that the wind speed is twenty-five to thirty knots); a flight operations building containing the main flight planning offices; a cargo center; shops; restaurants; and a police headquarters where it wouldn’t be uncommon to run into an Interpol agent or two.

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