Holy Guacamole! (17 page)

I woke up with the telephone ringing in my ear. It was Jason from Austin—and at seven o’clock in the morning—after I’d been up way past my bedtime at Brazen Babes, a consideration that kept me from complaining about the early morning call. Of course the first question my husband asked was, “Where were you last night? I called three times. The last at midnight.”

“Well, that was only eleven o’clock here,” I protested sleepily. “I was out with a new friend I met through Opera at the Pass,” which was sort of true. “I’m working on getting those two Russian girls out of that club. I did go to see Dr. Tigranian and, Jason, I have to say,
volatile
hardly describes him. All that shouting. And his vocabulary! My goodness. But he
is
the great nephew of the composer Armen Tigranian. Do you remember listening to
Anoush?
It was years ago.”

A moment of silence while my husband processed that information. “I don’t know why I never thought to ask him,” Jason replied. “Is he going to do anything about the students?”

“He’s going to try, and we have an ad hoc committee of women trying to get them clothes, food, and jobs, so they can leave the place they’re now working.” I mentioned neither that I’d actually visited Brazen Babes, nor that my “new friend” was not on the committee.

“If you manage to get the university through this without a scandal, they should give you one of the
Amigo
prizes,” said Jason.

“What would they say it was for?” I asked, laughing, imagining the speech that would go with the award. “And to Carolyn Blue, friend of the university, for rescuing two music students from careers in exotic dancing, prostitution, and other nonacademic pursuits, not to mention saving our beloved institution from participation in white slavery, we grant this award . . .”

“By the way, Jason, when will you be home?” I didn’t want him to return to his question about my activities the night before.

“Well, I’m not sure, Carolyn. I’ve put Mercedes in touch with a research group here and—”

“Who’s Mercedes?” I asked.

“My graduate student from Mexico City. Mercedes Lizarreta.”

“You didn’t mention her to me.”

“I’m sure I did. She started this fall. Very promising student, and God knows Mexico City has pollution problems that make ours look mild.”

“And you took her to Austin? You didn’t mention that either.”

“Hmmm. Thought I had. We’re talking to an environmental toxicologist at UT Austin, and now she’s working with his group for a few days. I may not be back until Saturday or Sunday.”

I can’t say that I liked that much. Jason and some young woman from Mexico. Was she as pretty as Adela Mariscal, also Mexican, who had slept with Vladik? Of course, that had been at Vladik’s instigation. But could my sensible husband be entering a midlife crisis? He’d just turned forty-eight last month. Probably a vulnerable age with fifty looming on his horizon. I didn’t know what to say to him.

“So who is your new friend’s husband?” he asked.

“Really, Jason. I’m surprised at you. Does a woman interested in opera have to be somebody’s wife? Your mother wouldn’t approve of an attitude like that.”

“For Pete’s sake, Carolyn, you never used to say that kind of stuff. I’m going to have to keep you away from her. She’s a bad influence.”

Jason’s mother is a radical feminist and women’s studies scholar in Chicago. We’re on better terms than we used to be, although I’d have no objection to being kept away from her. She still hadn’t replaced that dowdy size-sixteen dress she sent me for my birthday. I can’t think of when I’ve been more insulted. I may be in my forties, but I still wear a size ten, even if I am a food columnist and duty bound to eat all sorts of wonderful meals in restaurants.

“Maybe you should introduce me to Mercedes,” I suggested.

“Where did that come from?” He sounded aggrieved. “You’ll meet her at the ACS picnic.”

“That’s next spring,” I pointed out.

The Ad Hoc Committee at Work

I
punched my
pillow and tried to get back to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t let go of Jason and Mercedes, his graduate student, and Professor Collins saying to give him a call if Jason got interested in some cute, young student.
Mercedes probably knows all about poisonous chemicals, while all I know about is history and food, and I don’t even like to cook anymore.
My thoughts were interrupted by a second telephone call. What was wrong with people, calling before eight in the morning? Or maybe it was Jason calling back to say he’d changed his mind and was coming home today and leaving Mercedes in Austin.

No such luck. It was Barbara Escobar, who said she hoped she hadn’t called too early; she wanted to tell me that, according to Frank, the bank couldn’t hire the two Russian girls, no matter how much they needed jobs, but that she and Frank would be happy to make a donation to the cause, and she’d ask her friends if they needed babysitters. Barbara herself didn’t because her mother was always available to take her children and loved to have them at her house, even Frank, Jr., who wasn’t yet two, but adored his
abuelita
.

“That means
little grandmother.
No matter what Vivian says, I am teaching my children Spanish,” she added defensively, “and I don’t know why she thinks my Spanish isn’t fluent. I’ve even read books in Spanish.”

I thanked Barbara nicely, hung up, and closed my eyes again.

Not five minutes later Vivian Brockman called. Peter, she said, had been so touched by the plight of the two foreign-student sopranos that he offered, if they could type and do math, to hire them as billing clerks several afternoons a week. Now
that
was a good offer. I thanked Vivian enthusiastically and told her that I was pushing the Music Department to provide them with tuition and part-time jobs, not that anyone thought the university had any jobs, or money for that matter.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t help,” said Vivian. “There’s always some extra money to be found for a good cause.”

Especially when a scandal might ensue if the Russian girls weren’t taken care of, I thought. I didn’t mention that aspect of my conversation with Dr. Tigranian. He’d probably call next.

“And I had another idea,” said Vivian. “Barbara Escobar has two daughters who love to sing. Not that I think they have a future in it, but the Escobars are always attending some school performance and signing the children up for classes in something. Why shouldn’t they hire the Russian girls to give their daughters music lessons?”

I agreed. Why shouldn’t they?

“I’ll call her,” said Vivian, “and get back to you.”

Well, everything was moving along except for my need to sleep a few more hours after my late night. I dragged myself out of bed and took a shower. Naturally, the phone rang again while I was covered with soap. I didn’t rush to answer it. After all, what were answering machines for if not to let you finish your shower? I did check the messages once I’d dressed. Dolly Montgomery. I’d call her after breakfast—yogurt, toast, and a sliced apple. I planned to remain a size ten forever, or at least until they buried me in a size-ten dress.
So there Vera
, I thought. Vera’s my mother-in-law.

After sticking my nose out the sliding glass doors to check the temperature—which was still nice—donning a sweater; and tucking the telephone under my arm, I carried my breakfast outside onto the patio, where the sky was as blue overhead as my slacks and sweater set, and the mountains stood out clear and stark to the south and west. No smog. I arrowed through the caller ID screens to Dolly’s number, pressed the Talk button, and waited for her to answer, remembering the plain black telephone in my father’s house that did nothing but facilitate telephone calls. I had nagged him for almost a year before he agreed to get rid of the dial phone and replace it with a button-pad model. “Hi, Dolly, it’s Carolyn. I was in the shower when you called.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that important, Carolyn, but I know you’re hoping for calls about Polya and Irina. Unfortunately, I have no employment leads, but I do have lots of canned food around the house. Would that help?”

I was disappointed, but said it surely would. At least I’d have something to take out to the trailer.

“Howard was so envious to think that there are people available who can translate from the Russian and he has no money to hire them. The poor dear was in a blue funk when he left for the university. Or maybe it was that he has a freshman English class to teach today. The new chairman thinks everyone in the department should teach at least one, and Howard is always depressed at the literacy, if you can call it that, of the students.”

Dolly got back to her bulbs—she must have had hundreds of them, or else she only dug up a few at a time, which made sense to me—and I drank the last of my coffee with a last bite of apple and mouthful of toast. I’d spread some of the jalapeno-peach preserves on the toast—very tasty. While putting my breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, my doorbell rang. What a morning! I hadn’t even put on shoes yet. Maria-Reposa Hernandez stood at my door, arms full of clothes, bags of food around her feet.

“Martin can’t hire them,” she announced, “but the church sent all this over.” We carried the donations straight to the trunk of my car, while she told me about a dawn prayer breakfast for women. I hadn’t realized Catholics did that sort of thing, although I did know about early masses. Anything at dawn was not a function I’d have wanted to attend.

Then Maria-Reposa came in for coffee and to hear what other responses I’d had to our charitable endeavor. She loved our patio and the view of the city and the mountains beyond. I didn’t even know what those mountains were called. The one on which my house stood was named Franklin, possibly the middle name of a pioneer whose last name was peculiar, Coons or something. Maria-Reposa pointed out Mount Cristo Rey and told me tales of the pilgrims who climbed to the top, where the figure of Christ dominated the sky, and of the bandits who attacked them and stole from them. “Poor dears, some have to come down the mountain barefooted because even their shoes and socks have been stolen. Of course, some make the pilgrimage barefooted to begin with, so their shoes and socks aren’t available. I’m sure God takes note of their sacrifice and devotion, as well as the evil deeds of the bandits.”

“Bandits and armies weren’t allowed to attack pilgrims in the Middle Ages,” I murmured. “It was called the Peace of God, I think, or was it the Truce of God? Certain days and people were protected by the Pope.”

“Oh, there are always sinners who pay no attention,” she replied. “No doubt pilgrims in the old days were as much at risk as they are here and now.”

I was enjoying the conversation until my phone rang again—Dr. Tigranian ordering me to his office at one-thirty. We were going to see his dean. That’s all he’d tell me, but I was hopeful that the university planned to meet its obligations, not to mention avoiding a scandal because they’d hired a man who had preyed on their students. Who
had
hired Vladik? I wondered. Dr. Tigranian certainly didn’t think much of him.

Maria-Reposa and I were speculating on what the university might have in mind for Polya and Irina when my telephone shrilled again. How many calls was that? Some days it never rings. That day, when a nap would have made me very happy, it wouldn’t stop. My caller was Olive Cleveland, who had once mentioned that her husband was a relative of the late President Grover Cleveland. Hadn’t the president been fat? Olive certainly wasn’t. She was downright skinny. Maybe her husband was fat. I’d never met him.

“Which do you want to hear first?” she asked. “The good news or the bad?”

I didn’t much care but said
bad
and learned that Ray Lee Cleveland didn’t have any work for our protégés. “But the good news is,” she continued, “that he knows someone at a maquila who does business with Russia and could probably use a translator. Or two.”

“But aren’t the maquilas in Juarez?” I asked. “I don’t know if their immigration status would allow Polya and Irina to work in Mexico, not to mention their car. What if it broke down over there? They’d never get back, and it would take so much time waiting at the bridges, not to mention the fact that hundreds of girls working at the maquilas have been murdered and dumped in the desert in recent years. And they probably don’t speak Spanish.The Russian girls, not the murdered girls.”

“All true,” Olive agreed. “But our friend has an office over here. They just do the manufacturin’ over there an’ then send goods off under bond to avoid the tariffs or whatever. Now, this is not a sure thing, honey. The friend is thinkin’ about it. He’ll probably want to interview them, but he’s definitely interested. The local job market isn’t crowded with Russian speakers, now is it? I’m not sure they even teach it at the university. And then there’s the car. Hmmm. I’ll have to talk to Ray Lee about that. He does own a used-car lot. Maybe he could find them something.”

“Oh, my goodness Olive, you’re a lifesaver!” I cried. “A car and jobs!”

“It is not a done deal, honey. We’ll have to see. Any other offers?”

“Vivian said maybe Peter could provide them with part-time work typing bills, and she’s going to suggest to Barbara that they teach the Escobar daughters singing.”

“Oh, Lord yes. Those girls need lessons. Ray Lee an’ I got roped into a middle-school production of
Oklahoma.
It was awful! Not that you can say that to the proud parents. Frank thinks his girls are headed for La Scala.”

“Barbara offered money, and Maria-Reposa is here right now,” I added. “We just packed my car with clothes and food from her church, and Dolly offered canned goods, and I’m going to the university this afternoon to see what they can do. Dr. Tigranian—”

“Oh, mah dear. See if you can’t find someone else to talk to. That man is stark, ravin’ mad. He threw a whole plate of little bitty tacos at Ray Lee durin’ one of those alumni receptions. It had a bowl of salsa in the middle. And all because Ray Lee, who is, after all, a good ole Texas boy, said he’d rather give his money to the athletic program than to any ole dinner-theater fund.