Into the Beautiful North(78)

The food came quickly. Nayeli’s #3 was chiles rellenos and beans. Tacho’s machaca was watery, the eggs undercooked. The chef came out, wiping his hands on a white towel.

“OK, amigos?”

“Yes,” said Nayeli. “Gracias.”

“Muy sabroso,” Tacho lied to be polite.

“Speak English,” the chef corrected.

“OK,” Tacho replied. “Buddy.”

He smiled to himself: this was a comedic masterpiece, in his opinion.

“Vacation?” the chef asked.

“Not really,” replied Nayeli.

“Not really? What, then?”

“Work?” Nayeli offered. Not sure of what she was saying, wishing she had brought the dictionary with her.

The chef put down the towel.

“Work,” he said.

He turned his bloodshot eyes to his wife.

“Work,” he repeated.

“We came from Sinaloa,” Tacho offered, exhausting his English for the day. It sounded like: Gwee kayne fronng Sinaloa.

“Came? How?”

Nayeli, thinking she was among paisanos, thinking she was part of a great story and an adventure, made the mistake of winking at the chef.

“You know.”

“I know? What do I know?”

She tipped her head charmingly.

“We… came… across.”

The chef glared at her.

“You’re illegals.”

“Pues…” Tacho started to say, but the chef cut him off.

“No!” he said. “No, not here. You get out.”

“?Perdón?” Nayeli asked.

“Wha —?” said Tacho.

“You get out of here. Illegals. What about the rest of us? What about us, cabrones? I came here LEGALLY! You hear that, LEGAL. You criminals come in here, make me look bad? I’m sorry, but you have to leave. Get out!”

He was trembling with rage. He waved his hands.

His wife called, “You better go now.”

“It’s hard enough!” he was shouting. “I kill myself! And you! You! Get out!”

They hung their heads and rushed out the door, their faces burning with shame. They ran as fast as they could to the van and slammed the doors and locked them and trembled inside and both of them cried because they were so lost and confused. The river never slowed.



They were not amused by Fruita. Nayeli kept trying to pronounce it in Spanish: Frooweetah! Parachute failed to intrigue them. The Book Cliffs, the Roan Cliffs, and mighty Battlement Mesa tried to amaze them, but Tacho and Nayeli were blind with shock and embarrassment. The land itself seemed to rebuke them. Every car that passed, they were sure, was dense with curses and accusations.

Wisely, Tacho pulled off at Rifle for Eskimo Pies and a visit to the trading post. Nayeli, caught up in patriotic guilt, bought a silver plastic rendering of the twin towers and mounted it on the dashboard. She attached an American flag decal to the windshield. Tacho bought a T-shirt with a picture of armed Apache warriors on it. It said: homeland security since 1492. It never crossed his mind that Geronimo and his warriors would have killed him in a second.





Chapter Twenty-nine



Chava Chavarín polished his best loafers for the fifth time. He spit on the leather and took a chamois to the uppers. He uncapped a shoe polish roller and carefully colored the edges of the soles. He made the heels look like new. He placed his shoes on folded newspapers on the table and let them dry. He tipped Quinsana foot powder into them so his feet would smell fresh. He chose white briefs fresh out of the package, and he pulled on long black nylon socks that rose well above his calves. He tugged on a snug white undershirt that helped control his small paunch, tucking the undershirt into his skivvies before putting on a peach-colored cotton shirt with slight cream stripes. He had dry-cleaned a handsome pair of pleated pearl gray slacks and added a brown belt with a faux gold coin buckle. His pocket handkerchief was also peach. Behind it, snug to his thigh, he inserted a gold money clip with seven crisp twenties, two tens, three fives, and ten new ones. His slimmest leather wallet went in his left back pocket. He had bought an Invicta Dragon Lupa watch from a television shopping network. It was massive, a watch Ronald Colman himself might have worn, its magnifying crystal face making the thing look even more massive. His tie was off-white and picked up the thin stripes of his shirt. He at first rejected a tie clasp as too flashy, then decided afree-flying tie was simply too risqué, debauched even. He clipped the tie with a fine gold scroll that spelled out chava, a small shining zirconium tucked in each A. Chava added a pale turquoise breast pocket hankie to the ensemble and regarded himself in the mirror. “Nice,” he whispered. “Very nice.” He spritzed himself with Aqua Velva. “There.” He was as ready as he would ever be. He combed his tiny mustache one last time. He made moochie lips at himself in the mirror: the mustache squirmed on his face like a caterpillar, as if it were 1961 again! He grabbed his keys and whistled some old sentimental favorites to build up his spirits. He locked the door and started downstairs and only realized when his feet hit the grass outside that he’d forgotten to put on his shoes.

He was all right driving to the hotel. It was another blue San Diego day, the glittering bay and the white sand and the gulls and the kites and the girls and the breeze in the palm trees. One white cloud hung above it all like some sort of angel. Why, it was almost like Mazatlán! Only better! ?VIVA LOS YUNAITES ESTAITES NORTE AMERICANOS!