The heatwave of July reminded me of one of my most beautiful trips in the southern United States.

Some years ago, I traveled alone from Albuquerque to New Mexico, driving a small car along the “Turquoise trail” (the road of the mines of turquoises), a typical road that leads to Santa Fe and Madrid. After that, I went to the pueblo of Taos to meet the Navajo Indians and finished my trip by a long journey in Arizona.

After my trip, I wrote an autofiction text which mixes real and imaginary facts. Here it is :

MADRID, Arizona

For an hour already, the road winds, flanked on its sides by stretches of sand blanched by the heat. I carefully press the accelerator. These automatic cars have the annoying habit of shifting gears faster than we would like.

At the rental office, I had been able to follow all the recommendations that the renter repeated to each of his clients. He spoke loudly, grinded with his two hands while carelessly waving some fliers.

It was already hot. A quartz clock with double dial indicated: 8 h/ 35°.

There were four of us in line: two businessmen in a gray suit, cowboy boots on their feet and the local Stetson screwed on their head. They each wore a small red leather bag with an embossed Indian head on the flap and long fringes that dripped down the sides. The third customer, a Japanese, his chest covered with two Nikon cameras and a black nylon reporter bag, nervously chewed on a stick of liquorice.

“Where is the little lady going, and what kind of car does she want?” launched the renter who had collapsed into an armchair, untying one after the other his long legs on the edge of his desk.

One of the businessmen quickly took off his hat, which he accompanied with a roguish glance, while his sidekick displayed a sly smile. The Japanese bit even more furiously in his liquorice stick.

I had passed in front of the three men and found myself face to face with the renter’s boots. I couldn’t take my eyes off the chiseled metal tips that shone on the greasy leather of the cowboy boots. From these ends rose backyard effluvias and in a high heart, I condemned:

“I’m going to Arizona. I would like a small car », then I added “air-conditioned please!”

I had left promptly to escape the suspicious gaze of the four guys, squeezing between my fingers the ignition key of the small Ford car. It had been running well until now, swallowing kilometers of desert where the openworked trunks of cacti were sleeping like sentinels. And now, the dream of freshness was giving out. The air conditioning seemed flu-like, sick with heat.

Noon already! On my hands dance the rays of the sun. Burning. 50° to bite my skin, cover it with stripes. The heatwave is starting to make my mouth sticky. I absolutely need to find a garage before night, a motel too and drink in large sips, litres of iced tea.

The first house I see, seems to yawn with its mouth open. I wonder who was able to tear the door and the windows, leaving tripe of curtains hanging. A small breeze agitates these shreds, taking turns licking the disjunct planks that hold a log roof as best they can.

At the corner of the house, five letter boxes are aligned in a tight row. Elongated in shape, like sawn-in-half pipes, the letter feeders seem to cry under their faded colors.

An old sign nailed to a fir post emerges from the slope. I slow down, hesitate to stop and strip with a quick eye a name nibbled by rust… «MADRID, New Mexico».

I reread, repeat this name…. ‘MADRID’! How far I am from the Hispanic splendor!

Denise Crolle-Terzaghi