A Color Called White

Motor taxis raced in the streets and palm leaves blew wildly in the night wind. The sky was black above me. A streak of white lightning flashed beneath the surface of a grey cloud. I stood under the awning of La Casona speaking to Manuel, waiting for the rain.

¨I know her,¨ he said to me.

¨You should date her,¨ I said. "Ella es muy bonita." I felt ignorant for not speaking another language. Typically American I supposed.

¨Yes, she's very pretty,¨ Manuel said.

Manuel told me that he studied English at the local library and enjoyed practicing with Americans. He had spoken to me every day of the week outside of La Casona. He wore blue jeans and tennis shoes with a white t-shirt. His eyes were deep brown and his hair was coarse and unkempt. I had asked him about the receptionist working at the desk of my hostel, a Peruvian with eyes the size of the moon and a beautiful brown forehead. He had quickly replied, ¨I know her. She is like my sister.¨

¨You sure we are talking about the same girl?¨

¨Yes, I know the one. Brunette with white skin. But she is like my sister. I'm no ready for to marry her, my friend.¨

Manuel's response took me by surprise.

"I didn't see a white girl," I said.

I knew there was no gringo working at La Casona, and it was clear that Manuel's English was adequate. He couldn't be confusing his colors.

¨White like me?¨

Manuel laughed at me. ¨Yes, like you. Mas o menos.¨

Rain began to dump onto the streets so hard that I could not hear myself laughing. To me, the girl at La Casona was light brown. If she was white, then I was the invisible man. A pair of knock-off black sunglasses roaming around Iquitos in mid-air.

The sound of thunder buckled above us. I put my hand on Manuel's shoulder, and he put his hand on mine.

"She's light brown," I said, still laughing. "Not white."

¨I can introduce you. She will like you because you are white too," Manuel added.

¨No, ¨ I said, almost shouting over the rain. ¨I just think she's pretty. I'm not interested in a girlfriend. Don't tell her I said anything.¨

I wanted Manuel to know that I was just like him, that I wasn't ready for marriage.

Manuel smiled. ¨Es okay, amigo. You like her. Then he gave me the thumbs up. ¨I introduce you for to her.¨

I cupped my hand to his ear and spoke loudly, trying to explain myself.

The heavens poured so hard onto the streets that the earth seemed like it would belch up through itself, like the gut of the planet would tear at the seams and swallow the city of Iquitos, swallow Peru and the rivers and jungles, the animals and oceans and trees, reach up to the clouds and pull them underground.

¨I don't understand what you for say.¨ Manuel shook his head.

So I tried to explain it again. I tried to say something about independence. I tried to say something about how I had come to Peru to learn more about me, to become a stronger man. There was no end goal for me. Did he understand? I was there for more than just a bright light at the end of some fictional tunnel, more than just doting on some woman at my hostel. I needed Manuel to know that about me.

¨Mas Amigos. Mas Amigas.¨ I held my hands wide apart and enunciated loudly. Then I waved my hands as if to say, ¨And that's all I want. Really. I don't want a girlfriend.¨

But my concepts were foreign to him; something was lost in translation. Or maybe the storm was too loud.

¨Ah. Yes,¨ Manuel said. You are my friend. "And she will like you as well."

I finally gave up trying to explain and smiled instead.

"Nevermind," I said.

"Es okay?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "It's good."

When we said goodbye, Manuel gave me his email address and told me to write him when I returned to the United States of America.

¨Practice your Spanish with me, and I practice my English, maybe you write to her later.¨ He winked at me.

I looked at my feet when I passed her at the front desk. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her smiling at me.

I laid onto my bed and drifted to sleep. The sounds of water on the tin roof and the smell of wafting mupacho smoke from the veranda teased me into dreams. Gentle voices trickled through my head like water eroding the cobblestone streets, crumbling phrases like, ¨You are my friend,¨ and ¨She is like my sister.¨ Circling with the rusty blades of a ceiling fan.