Occasionally I ran across persons who had heard of my thrilling escape from the bandit camp of Pedro Zamorra. They demanded details. They were so insistent that it would have been a shame to disappoint them. I licked bandit after bandit for their benefit until completely fatigued.
Then, having begun to lose my original pride at the fictitious exploit, I adopted a policy of modest silence. Or I admitted, “That was all bunk!” This seemed to make it the more convincing.
“He’s reticent,” they said, “like all great heroes.”
III
Inspired by this success, I decided to quit free-lancing and become a fiction writer. I set out to roam the world in search of material. Since editors seldom bought the fiction I wrote, I roamed mostly on foot.
In various odd corners of the globe, I found other people who once had lived in Mexico. Most of them had fled the country during the long series of revolutions. Their property had been destroyed. In some cases their loved ones had been murdered. Yet I discovered—at first to my amazement—that they were all dreaming of the day when conditions would become settled, and permit them to return.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s something about that country. You can’t explain it.”
I wandered through the West Indies—to South America—to the Orient. I found many lands more colorful than Mexico, where native customs were more interesting, where foreigners were more welcome. Yet I found none that I liked so well, except Costa Rica, its Central-American neighbor. There gradually came to me a haunting desire to return. And when Carranza gave place to Obregon, and Obregon proceeded to restore peace and order, I packed my suit-case for another trip to Mexico—and to the other little republics to the southward.
“Why?” asked every one at home.