ALBACORA 73 



"I think I like the unpainted houses better," I said. 

 "They aren't pretty but they fit in, the way they look 

 so weather-beaten and gray, hemmed in by the gold and 

 bronze hills." 



Sometimes a whole year passes without a heavy rain- 

 fall in Iquique, but in winter the sky is overcast for 

 days. The clouds resemble an eider-down blanket cover- 

 ing a sleeping city — an interpretation I first believed 

 to be original with me. "When the sun rises," I told 

 Jo, "the blanket even has a gold satin border." Then 

 Jo explained that my thought was not entirely novel. It 

 seems "Iquique" is the ancient Inca word for "sleeping 

 city," and hundreds of years before I was born the Incas 

 had seen the city exactly as I saw it now. 



While we were chatting on the balcony, Jo told me 

 what was troubling her most at the time. "I think," she 

 said, as delicately as she could, "that it is called the 

 tourista sickness." 



"I know just what you mean," I said. "I got the same 

 thing from the food in Mexico once, Jo, only there they 

 have a more expressive name for it. The Mexicans call 

 it Montezuma's Revenge." Jo laughed, but bitterly. 



Our talk of tourista sickness had brought Nieves 

 out suddenly to join us on the balcony. ^'Tourista sick- 

 ness?" she asked, looking at Jo. 



"Si," Jo said, "I'm afraid so." 



Nieves vanished, without saying another word. 



"I wonder what that was all about?" Jo said. 



