Into the Beautiful North (26 page)

“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.”

From the backseat, Tacho piped up: “Oh, good!”

Chava looked at him in the rearview mirror with a bemused half-smile on his face.

They were in Del Mar, on the far side of La Jolla. The ocean was insanely blue—Nayeli thought she could see porpoises in the surf, cruising north. Surfers rode the sultry little waves toward shore. Hang gliders like giant multicolored kites drifted in the sky.

Suddenly, Nayeli said, “I still want to find my father.”

Idly, Tacho said, “Why would he want to go back?”

“Me,” she replied.

“Ay, m’ija,” he sighed. “All they need is a few hot-air balloons to make it perfect here.” Ahead of them, a hot-air balloon rose. “Oh,” he said. “America wins every time.”

Chava cleared his throat.

They turned their attention to him.

“I have only been to the camp a few times,” Chava told Nayeli. “I make it my habit to stop at the store to buy them supplies. It is…” He thought for a moment. “It is very hard where they live.”

They got off the freeway and entered the town. All green: palm trees, ice plant, ferns on patios, pine trees, gardens, lawns. Big haciendas everywhere—or the red-roof-tile versions of haciendas. Fine cars. All shiny. Tacho felt he could definitely live in Del Mar. Atómiko awoke and looked out at rich ladies in hats. “Nice,” he noted. They pulled into the lot at the big supermarket. Atómiko stayed in the car, and the other two followed Chava Chavarín into the store.

Glories of food. The yellowest peppers. The reddest apples. The crispest asparagus. Small cartons with mushrooms piled inside like snowballs. The vegetable bins periodically sang “Singin’ in the Rain” and started to sprinkle water on the coddled produce. Nayeli ran her hands through the mist and laughed.

In the meat section: no blood, clean cuts set out neatly like books in a library. Fish lay in mounds of ice, no stink. Tacho was thrilled that refried beans came in different flavors in Los Yunaites: they sold traditional beans and vegetarian beans (which was kind of odd, in his opinion—weren’t beans already vegetables?), hot ’n’ spicy jalapeño refried beans, and chorizo-flavored beans. They also had low-fat beans. Nayeli lost interest in the Mexican section and found herself studying the breakfast cereals. This was truly astounding to her. Who was Count Chocula? What was a Boo-Berry?

Two young white men with shaved heads were standing at each end of the aisle, watching them.

Tacho insisted the Quaker Oats guy was gay. “Look at him!” Tacho said, pointing to the oatmeal box. “He’s like the old queen who does an Elizabeth Taylor drag show!” Nayeli laughed and pushed him away.

“¡Ay, Tacho!” she gasped.

He made her laugh so much she couldn’t even breathe. She was so
happy
. Tacho was back!

They turned to head up to the coffee aisle. A boy was there, blocking the way. Sully.

“Hey, Jimbo,” he called.

“Yeah, Sully.”

They turned. Jimbo was behind them. His stubbly scalp bore an 88 tattoo. He was as tall as the top of the highest cereal shelf. They turned back to Sully. He wore a military jacket. He had heavy black work boots with bright red laces.

“Check out the wetbacks,” Sully said.

“I can smell ’em from here,” Jimbo said. They snickered.

Nayeli and Tacho stood in place, looking up at Sully. He was smiling at them. Why were they so afraid of him?

“You illegals?” Sully asked. “Are you, amigos? Wets?”

“Jesus,” Jimbo said. “They’s mute, too.”

Sully shook his head.

“We have
standards,
” he said. “We have
laws
. ¿Comprende?”

“Sí,” Nayeli said, taking Tacho’s hand and trying to move past Sully.

“Hey,” he said softly. He moved in front of her. “Don’t you want an American baby? Huh? You came here for an American baby, right? So you can stay forever?”

“Mud people,” Jimbo offered.

“I’d do you,” Sully said. “But, you know, I don’t want the AIDS.”

Jimbo barked out a single laugh.

“Check out the homo,” Sully said.

He reached out to touch Tacho when Chava Chavarín ran into the back of his heel with his shopping cart.

“Ow!” Sully yelled.

“Oh!” Chava cried. “So sorry! Sorry, boys! Stupid Mexican! My fault!”

He had Nayeli and Tacho in tow and was out of the aisle and in line at the checker before Sully and Jimbo could regroup.

“Who are they?” Nayeli asked.

Chava shook his head.

“Don’t look at them.”

The two boys appeared and hovered, glaring and looming but unable to do anything with so many witnesses around. Before they slammed out the electric doors, Jimbo pointed at them.

“Catch you later!” he called.

“Some people,” Chava noted mildly, “don’t like us here.”

Nayeli had no idea where she was. They crossed the freeway on a small bridge, heading away from the beaches and the magnificent buildings. The hills were dry, yellow. Valleys and small canyons fell into shadow. In the distance, the fields and hills were crimson, pink, yellow, baby blue.

“Flowers,” Chava said.

“Duh,” said Atómiko.

Chava pulled off the road and parked against a steel barrier. They got out and each took a bag of groceries. Atómiko held his bag in one arm and his staff over his right shoulder with the other.

Chava said, “This is the richest country in the world.” He looked at each of them. “This is the richest state of that rich country.” They watched him. “And this is probably the richest city of the richest state of the richest country. Let’s go.”

He stepped over the barrier and started downslope, into one of the dry canyons. The friends looked at one another and shrugged. They followed him down. It wasn’t far. At bottom, they found a small creek running with green water. Atómiko was delighted to see tiny fish scattering from under his shadow. They walked upstream, toward a stand of salt cedar and bamboo. They could smell the camp before they saw it: smoke, trash, human waste. Atómiko perked right up: home!

Chava called out, “¡Hola! ¡Somos amigos!” He made it a habit of letting the paisanos know he was a friend before he trudged into their camp—seeing them flinch or run simply broke his heart. He hated it. So he announced himself. Still, they would be tense until he revealed himself. “¡Amigos Mexicanos!” he called.

He pushed through the bamboo, and they followed him. They stopped and stared. A dog ran at them, barking, and Atómiko immediately crouched and growled a few friendly curses at the dog, and it wagged its tail and bumped into him with its chest.

Dark, thin men stood staring at them. Smoke. The ground was muddy, darker than the men. Improvised tents were gathered in a rough U shape. Splintery poles propped up sheets of plastic. The fires in the small clearing held coffeepots on stones, frying pans. The men nodded—a few looked at Nayeli and dropped their eyes shyly. They had managed to hammer together a little wooden shrine. It was lifted off the ground by a stout wooden pole. In it, covered by a shingle roof, standing on a small shelf, was a statue of the Blessed Mother.

Tacho’s shoes and pants were ruined. He didn’t care. He said, “We brought groceries.”

“Are you missionaries?” a man with terrible teeth asked. Tacho and Nayeli blinked—he could have been Don Porfirio at the Tijuana garbage dump. When was that? A year ago?

“No, paisa’,” Chava said. “Just friends. I am a friend of Angel’s.”

“Ah!” The man’s face creased in a deep smile. “I remember you! Don Salvador!” He stepped forward and shook Chava’s hand.

Chava said to the friends, “This is the jefe of the camp. Don Arturo.”

Don Arturo shook all their hands.

“Welcome to Camp Guadalupe,” he said. “Have some coffee.”

Atómiko went right to the nearest pot. One of the paisanos handed him a battered cup. “Orale, carnal,” he said. He poured himself a stout shot and drank it. The paisanos were checking out his staff. “I’ve only killed about twenty cabrones with it,” he noted.

“Angel is washing up,” Don Arturo said. “He will be here in a minute. Sit, sit.”

They squatted on crates around the fire. Chava handed Don Arturo a box of doughnuts.

“¡Ah, caray!” the old man said. “Donas.”

He handed doughnuts out to his men. They all said gracias almost silently, nodding their heads and keeping their eyes downcast.

“You live here?” Nayeli said.

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“We pick flowers.”

The boys nodded.
Sí, sí,
they murmured.