The Michael Jackson of Peru

by Amy McMahon (United States of America)

Making a local connection Peru

The little beach town in northern Peru was, to a tourist, a little piece of heaven. I’d been whiling away my days at the beach, exploring the nearby ruins, and drinking in the friendly bars. Sometimes I would even teach English. My home stay, too, seemed idyllic. Eva, an older lady who spoke little English, nonetheless greeted me with a huge smile and fruit every day. The room I stayed in was cool, and the bathroom had hot water—a first on my sojourn, so far. Many people passed through Eva’s plant-filled inner courtyard, and it took me some time to identify the main players. Soon, I had deduced that Eva had three children: Andres, Teresa, and Lupe. Teresa was bright and friendly, and loved to practice her English on me. Andres shyly asked me to help him and his family with their English, in exchange for meals. Lupe and I never spoke, but whenever she came, she brought her kitten. “Cúal es su nombre?” I asked in my terribly accented Spanish. Lupe did not answer me—she never acknowledged me—but Eva did. “Oh, he is Michael Jackson.” “Awww! He’s so cute! Me encanta!” Eva said it was fine for me to play with Michael Jackson, and so I did. Sometimes, mysteriously, Lupe would leave him at Eva’s for days, and he would find his way into my room. I welcomed the company, and his insistent purrs, or his gentle attacks of my hair on the pillow. Michael Jackson quickly became one of my best friends in this little beach town, and I fancied that he considered me the same. One day, after my lessons, I came to the courtyard full of people, with a tension in the air. “What’s going on?” I asked Teresa. She and I had grown to be friendly, and I knew she would fill me in. I saw Eva sitting at a table, looking upset, as a man I recognized from the village spoke to her in calm tones. Andres was over on the phone, speaking loudly, and his wife seemed to be praying in a corner over a rosary. “Lupe is missing,” Teresa told me, her face set. “She goes, often, and we never know where, but never for this long.” It was a small village, and it went into uproar. Gossip was passing through, and I attempted to help, or glean any information I could. Although I knew it was not the point, I felt a spasm of fear for my little Michael Jackson. I was sent to look along the beach. It stretched far in the distance, without a spot of green, the northern desert heading straight into the sea, and it was full of tourists. I got a few answers, but no one, that I could tell, had seen Lupe. I went to bed early that, feeling like an intruder, although the courtyard remained full of people. Three days passed, and I could see Eva become more stoic every day. On the fourth day, when I entered the courtyard, I moved aside the hanging vines and usual, and I froze. There, at a table, sat Lupe, silent and staring. “Lupe?” I spoke, tentatively. She did not answer. Eva, hearing my voice, came out. She looked older, but less stoic. The relief was palpable, but it was the kind of relief that was still tinged with fear. She greeted me with her customary fruit, asked about my day, mentioned they were so happy to have Lupe back, and that was that. I asked Teresa, later, where Lupe had been. She looked sad. “We do not know. Maybe with a man. Sometimes…she goes out of her mind…” She did not elaborate, and I did not ask further. I could never bring myself to ask about my little Michael Jackson, and I never saw him again. I did not stay much longer in that little beach town, but I still think of it often. I hope that, whatever happened to Michael Jackson, he is in a happy place.