Into the Beautiful North(67)

Who could understand such things? The grace and magic of such things? The unbearable erotic promise of those small ankle socks! He was ashamed to acknowledge that in his lonely room, he gave in to sexual urges remembering the socks coming off Irma’s paper-white feet! Who in Los Yunaites could know the secret these Tres Camarones warrior girls knew deep in their bones? The smile of Nayeli! The toss of Yolo’s hair! The hand gestures of Vampi! They were all like occult rites that transported him back to the holy years of his youth! To the lost religion of Mexican womanhood!

He veered into the passing lane and cut off a small Toyota truck. The driver honked and sped past, making rude gestures. Chava Chavarín was blind to him. He was seeing the river, the movie theater, the whitewashed tree trunks, and the bobbing Christmas lights of his sacred homeland. He was fretting, too. Worried that now, in his ruined state, along with his long-standing shame, his Irma would look upon him with revulsion… or worse, pity.

As if driving itself, the car left the freeway and started up the hill, an ascension.



?Qué onda, guey?” Atómiko shouted when Chava Chavarín walked up to the door.

Inside, Chava said to Nayeli, “That boy keeps calling me a buffalo.”

He enjoyed a brief dance with Nayeli—he kept her at a decent arm’s length—and he was surprised that he also enjoyed El Brujo’s cooking. Tacho seemed like a pleasant young man. All in all, it was a fine evening for Chava, and he was sad to realize he had so few nice evenings—if he wasn’t working, he went alone to the movies at the Ken theater or he read books in a booth at the Golden Dragon restaurant; he was partial to the poems of Ali Chumacero. Sometimes, he bought flowers for his apartment. Little Nayeli and her silly friends made him understand how alone he was.

In a break from the music and eating, Chava pulled Nayeli aside.

“There is something I want to show you,” he said.

“?Sí?”

He nodded.

“I know a young man—a boy, really. He’s a good boy. He works as a migrant harvester. Lives in a camp. I don’t know, but I think, perhaps…” He smiled self-consciously. “He could handle your bandidos. He was in the Mexican navy, you see. I believe he knows judo.”

“We have a navy?” she said.

“Yes, we do. I think we have one ship.”

They laughed.

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Chava continued, “he might be a little more suited to your needs than myself or… the Wizard.”

Nayeli glanced in the kitchen. El Brujo was showing the devil’s horns to Vampi with both hands. She jumped into his arms. His left wrist had 666 tattooed on it.

“I am old, and probably not even wise. But Angel is young, strong, and a good boy.”

“I would love to meet him.”

“Tomorrow?” Chava asked. “I can come for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Nayeli said. “I would like that.”

“You won’t be sorry,” he said.

Atómiko walked by.

“Famous last words,” he said.



The Battle of Camp Guadalupe started simply enough. Chava Chavarín knocked on Matt’s door at eight the next morning. Nayeli was ready for him, freshly showered, perfumed, brushed out, wearing Carla’s Depeche Mode T-shirt. She wore Tacho’s tiny purse over her shoulder. She gave Chava his morning abrazo and delighted him with a chaste kiss on the cheek. Oh, paragon of Mexican girlhood! Oh, product of good breeding and traditional manners!

“Ready?” he said.

“Ready,” she replied.

They stepped off the porch.

“Wait a minute!” called Tacho.

“Oh?” said Chava.

“Tacho wants to come, if you don’t mind,” Nayeli explained.

“Oh! Not at all!”

Tacho came out in tight white jeans and checkerboard Vans slip-ons from the Rigo Boutique.

Chava was going to say, That’s quite an outfit for going to a migrant camp but held his tongue. These kids did things their own way.

They had started toward the car when the heinous croak of Atómiko arrested them midstride: “Hey, guey! You ain’t going without me!”

Chava cast a slightly irritated look at Nayeli. Gentlemanly yet firm. She shrugged and hit him with that hopeless smile of hers.

“You’re bringing the stick?” Chava complained.

“La mera neta, socio,” proclaimed the Grand Cholo.

“What did this fellow say?” Chava asked.

“He said yes,” Tacho translated.

They got into the car.

“Hey, Grandpa,” Atómiko said. “Buy us some pancakes.”



Chava was driving north. “You don’t want to go too far north,” he said. “The Border Patrol has checkpoints on the freeway. We’d most certainly be stopped. I would go to jail!” This seemed to amaze him; he hadn’t thought about it before.

Nayeli turned in her seat and traded looks with Tacho. Atómiko was snoring.

“I met Angel,” Chava continued, “when my car broke down. I was on the side of the road, and this old van jammed with men came along. When they stopped and the doors opened, I thought I was going to be robbed. But out jumped this young fellow from Michoacán. I hate to admit to you that I am not very good at automobiles. Repairs?” He shrugged. “But young Angel had my car running in a few minutes, and he would not let me pay him. He has come to visit me at the bowling alley. I arrange with the counter girls to slip him free meals.” He tapped Nayeli’s knee. “He’s handsome, too.”