For their honeymoon, they go to Mexico, to look at butterflies.
Butterflies? Why? Nina tries to object.
Monarch butterflies. Millions of them. It's still early in
the migratory season, but I've always wanted to see them. And
afterward we can go to the beach and relax, Philip promises.
The car, an old Renault, is rented, and the roads are narrow
and wind steeply around the Sierra Chincua hills as they drive
from Mexico City to Angangueo. There are few cars on the road;
the buses and trucks honk their horns incessantly and do not
signal to pass. There are no signs for the town.
Donde? Donde Angangueo? Philip repeatedly shouts out of
the car window. Standing by the side of the road, the children
stare at him in mute disbelief. They hold up iguanas for sale.
The iguanas are tied up with string and are said to be good
Supposedly they taste like chicken, Philip says.
How do you know? Nina asks.
Instead of replying, Philip reaches for her leg.
Keep your hands on the wheel, Nina says, pushing his
In Angangueo, they stay in a small hotel off the Plaza de
la Constitución; there are no other tourists and everyone stares
at them. Before they have dinner, they go and visit the church.
On an impulse, Nina lights a candle.
For whom? Philip asks.
Nina shrugs. I don't know. For us.
Good idea, Philip says and squeezes her shoulder.
The next morning, when they get out of bed, their bodies
are covered with red bites. Fleas.
Following the hired guide, they hike for over an hour along
a winding, narrow mountain path, always going up. They walk
single file, Philip ahead of her. Tall and thin, Philip walks with
a slight limp - he fell out of a tree and broke his leg as a child
and the tibia did not set properly - which gives him a certain
vulnerability and adds to his appeal. Occasionally, Nina has accused
him of exaggerating the limp to elicit sympathy. But most
of the time, his limp is hardly noticeable except when he is tired
or when they argue.
The day is a bit overcast and cool - also they are high up.
Eight or nine thousand feet, Philip estimates. Hemmed in by the
tall fir trees, there is no view. It is humid and hard to breathe.
How much farther? She wants to ask but does not when all of a
sudden the guide stops and points. At first, Nina cannot see what
he is pointing at. A carpet of orange on the forest floor. Leaves.
No. Butterflies. Thousands and thousands of them. When she
looks up, she sees more butterflies hanging in large clusters like
hives from tree branches. A few butterflies fly listlessly from one
tree to another but mostly the butterflies are still.
They look dead, she says.
They're hibernating, Philip answers.
On the way back to town, Philip tries to explain. There
are two theories about how those monarch butterflies always
return to the same place each year - amazing when you think
that most of them have never been here before. One theory says
that there is a small amount of magnetite in their bodies, which
acts as a sort of compass and leads them back to these hills full
of magnetic iron, and the second theory says that the butterflies
use an internal compass -
Nina has stopped listening. Look. She points to some brilliant
red plants growing under the fir trees.
Limóncillos, the guide says and makes as if to drink from
something in his hand.
Sí, Nina answers. By then she is thirsty.
From Angangueo, they drive to Puerto Vallarta, where they
are going to spend the last few days of their honeymoon. In the
car, Nina shuts her eyes and tries to sleep when all of a sudden
Philip brakes and she is thrown against the dashboard. They
have hit something.
Oh, my God. A child! Nina cries.
A pig has run across the road before Philip can stop. His
back broken, the pig lies in the middle of the road, squealing. Each
time he squeals, dark blood fills his mouth. Within minutes and
seemingly from out of nowhere, men, women, and children have
gathered by the side of the road and are watching. Philip and Nina
get out of the car and stand together. It is very hot and bright.
Putting her hand to her head to shade her eyes, she says,
Philip, do something. The pig sounds just like a baby.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...