Chris missed Borrego Springs, Gringo Pass, and Indio. In those places, the desert had a face: mountains, valleys, stories of pioneers and conquistadors.
Here, though, the immense emptiness was all there was to see. And the sun. The sun that before long would color the world yellow, raise the temperature to 115 in the shade, and make life impossible.
The man behind the counter took their order. He was Chinese, and spoke with a strong accent--he could not have been here for very long. Chris imagined how many times the world had turned to bring the Chinese man to this luncheonette in the middle of the American desert.
They asked for coffee, bacon, and toast, and sat there in silence.
Chris looked at the man's eyes--they appeared to gaze to the horizon, the eyes of one whose soul had grown.
But no, he was not engaged in a holy exercise, or trying to develop his spiritual side. His was the gaze of boredom. He wasn't seeing anything--not the desert, not the road, and not even the two customers who had come in so early in the morning. He limited himself to the motions required--put the coffee in the coffeemaker, fry the eggs, say, "Can I help you?" or "Thank you." The meaning of his life appeared to have been left behind, or to have disappeared in the immensity of the treeless desert.
The coffee came. They began to sip it, in no hurry. They had nowhere to go.
Paulo looked at the car outside. It had done no good at all to have cleaned it two days before. It was covered with dust once again.
They heard a sound in the distance. In a few minutes, the first truck of the day would drive past. The man behind the counter might put his boredom and eggs and bacon aside, and go outside to try to find something, wanting to be a part of the world that was on the move, the world that passed by his diner. It was the only thing he could do; watch from a distance as the world went by. He probably no longer even dreamed of leaving the luncheonette behind and hitching a ride on one of the trucks to somewhere else. He was addicted to silence and emptiness.
The sound grew louder, but it didn't seem to be that of a truck engine. For a moment, Paulo's heart was filled with hope. But it was only a hope, nothing more. He tried not to think about it. The sound came closer and closer, and Chris turned to see what was happening outside.
Paulo stared at his coffee, afraid she might perceive his anxiety.
The windows of the restaurant rattled slightly with the noise. The counterman tried to ignore it--he knew the sound, and he didn't like it.
But Chris was fascinated. The horizon lit up with metallic reflections of the sun. The thundering engines seemed to shake the plants, the asphalt, the roof, and the windows of the restaurant.
With a roar, the Valkyries swept into the gas station. And the straight road, the flat desert, the tumbleweed, the Chinese man, and the two Brazilians in search of their angels, all felt their presence.
THE WOMEN, ON THEIR POWERFUL MOTORCYCLES, SPUN one way and then the other, dangerously close to one another, their machines shimmering in the hot air, their gloved hands toying skillfully with danger. They shouted out, as if to awaken the desert, to say they were alive and happy because it was morning.
Fear gripped Paulo's heart. Maybe they wouldn't stop there, maybe they were only trying to remind the counterman that life, joy, and skill still existed.
All at once, the rumbling stopped.
The Valkyries dismounted, shaking the desert from their bodies. They pounded the dust from their black leathers, and removed the colorful bandannas that they wore over their faces like bandits to keep the desert out of their lungs.
Then they entered the luncheonette.
Eight women.
They asked for nothing. The counterman seemed to know what they wanted--he was already placing eggs, bacon, and bread on the hot grill. Even with all the commotion, he continued to appear to be the obedient servant.
"Why is the radio turned off?" asked one of them.
The counterman turned it on.
"Louder!" said another.
Like a robot, he turned the radio to its loudest setting. The forgotten diner was suddenly transformed into a Manhattan disco. Some of the women kept time with the music by clapping their hands, while others carried on shouted conversations amidst the clamor.
But Chris, watching, saw that one of them moved not at all--the oldest of them, the one with long, curly red hair. She didn't enter into the conversation or the clapping of hands. She took no interest in the breakfast being prepared.
Intently, she stared at Paulo. And Paulo, resting his chin on his left hand, met the woman's gaze.
Chris felt a stab in her heart. Why is he sitting like that? Something very strange was happening. Perhaps the fact that she had been looking out at the horizon for so many days--or had been training so hard at the channeling--was changing the way she saw what went on around her. She had been having premonitions, and now they were manifesting.
She pretended not to notice that the two were eyeing each other. But her heart was giving her some inexplicable signals--and she couldn't tell whe
ther they were good signals or bad.