“Of course, of course,” For God’s Sake said, pushing himself to his feet that spilled out of his loafers.

“And listen, man,” Omar said, taking him aside. “After you’ve been up to the Frannies, don’t hang around. Go right back to La Paz. It’s not safe for you here these days.”

“So, you’re talking about Fat Carlos and Dutchie and his men? I saw them on my way here from San Solidad. I heard their motor and had plenty of time to hide myself, over.”

“They’re not satisfied with jaguar skins anymore, understand?”

“Yes, I do, over.”

“You see their boat here, you just keep on going. I’m telling you, For God’s Sake, my brother.”

He smiled but his eyes stayed tight. “Of course. Those are some wise words from you.” He turned. “Let me help you now, get these lazy men back to work. But the beer was cold, you know? The beer is the boss when it’s cold, over!” Laughing, he started off down the hill with a boisterous energy, yelling out to the men and banging on the stilts of the huts with his cane, until the still-drunk hunters stumbled out into the blistering heat, zipping their flies or combing their hands through their hair as they assembled at the shore.

I followed Omar through the crowd of men, the sharp tang of their sweat surrounding me. Some carried rifles or had longbows slung over their shoulders; others carried V-shaped contraptions wrapped with long rubber cords: slingshots that, used effectively, could kill an animal of almost any size. The hunters studiously did not look at me. I felt among men who did not want me there, who had no interest in or comfort with women except for the usual reasons. I could feel part of Omar already gone, already disappeared into the wilderness.

But no one cared about our drama, my drama. There were very few demonstrations of affection between men and women, I’d been noticing; even a hug and a kiss between mother and child seemed rare. Only later did it sink in about the villagers’ profoundly different sense of privacy: want to be alone to talk? To make love? Don’t get your hopes up, or perhaps get whatever it is done fast. Closed door, open door, didn’t matter, people came and went at will, mi casa es tu casa.

All my life I’d craved privacy; here it was lacking not out of malice, but out of a shared sense of community of which I was not yet a part. These people were linked in ways I didn’t yet understand. I had learned something about meals, however: everyone ate at once, or not at all. Just like when I was a kid, the food—whatever there was—was ready when it was ready and everybody showed up for it. There were no leftovers.

I stood by Omar on the bank, twirling my tin wedding ring, already loose on my finger, a fact that registered somewhere in the recesses of my mind. “Why don’t you stay back this time?” I said, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.