“Maybe their bags have not come through,” I said.

“No, it could be something else.”

“What could it be?”

“Mart has AIDS. That’s what it could be. I think he’s really sick.”

I stood with him in front of the arrivals gate. Half an hour had gone by since the last passengers had come through the arrivals gate. I knew it was impossible that there would be other passengers inside. If their bags had not arrived then their names and addresses and details would have been taken, they would go through passport and customs control and have their luggage sent on later.

Neither of us spoke. We stood there and waited; I saw Pablo’s two friends before he did. They both had trolleys and they moved very slowly.

“Are you all right?” I heard Pablo shouting.

“No, we’re not all right,” one of them said. He had a strange, thin face and was leaning heavily on his trolley. The other man was taller, and older than I had expected, with cropped fair hair and a mustache. He was pale. They looked at us blankly. There were no greetings or embraces.

“This is Jack,” Pablo said, pointing to the older one, “and this is Mart,” pointing to the one leaning on the trolley. I shook hands with them. Still they did not smile.

“I think we should go to the airline desk,” Jack said, “and maybe see if we could get the next flight out of here.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“I don’t think they like sick men here,” Jack said. “They went through all Mart’s pills and his drugs. They realized what he has. I think they wanted to refuse us permission to come into Argentina. They treated us like we were scum. They tried to contact someone, and they left us sitting there. They wanted to confiscate the pills, have them checked out. One of them was very aggressive.”

“Why don’t we get in the car and go home and talk about it there?” Pablo asked.

“There’s another problem,” Jack said. “Mart is running a temperature. It went down yesterday, but he’s getting fevers, and he was sick on the plane. I think maybe we made the wrong decision about getting on the flight.”

Mart still leaned on the trolley. He looked at the floor.

“I think I’m going to need to see a doctor,” he said.

“Let’s think about getting a flight later on when we’re home,” Pablo said. “And let’s try to find a doctor from home. There’s no point in staying here.”

Mart smiled and shook his head and looked at the floor.

“It’s good to see you,” he said and grinned at Pablo. “Give me a hug.” His skin was tight on his face.

“We’re sorry for getting you into this,” Jack said.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Pablo replied.

As we drove toward the city Mart talked about his illness. Most of the words were new to me, but Pablo seemed to understand what Mart was talking about. He had been in the hospital and home again and then in the hospital.