Chapter 13

I read Nan's paper on Conrad and Ford on the bus on Wednesday morning. It was very good. She had the makings of a first-rate literary critic and I couldn't wait to tell her. I also couldn't wait to tell her that I was petrified that some of her friends might see us together. I had spent the night recalling stories about Hispanic gangs. SDSU was certainly causing sleepless nights.

Nan's paper had started something in the back of my mind, but it was elusive. Something in the tone, the construction.

I got to the cafeteria at 9:45, but Nan was already there, wearing a shirtwaist and low-heeled sandals. I caught my breath as I glimpsed her -- no one that beautiful could possibly be waiting for me.

"Hi," she said, blushing slightly.

"Hi," I responded and gestured with the envelope. "You on paper is nothing like you in the flesh." She really blushed. "I've got to talk to you."

She smiled. "My place?"

I shook my head. "No. Maybe there's a free table in a corner. It's pretty early."

Actually, the cafeteria was nearly empty. Most of the customers were out on the terrace or sitting near the windows. We sat down in a far corner without buying coffee.

"I got roughed up by two friends of yours yesterday," I blurted.

"What?"

"Two Chicano guys manhandled me yesterday afternoon on the way to the bus stop. They told me to stay away from you."

"They ... two guys..." Nan sputtered. I had seen her complexion olive, pale rose, really blushing, now it was pale. She drew a breath. "What did they look like?"

"Not too tall. Shorter than I am. One had a pencil-line mustache Both were wearing 'Cinco de Mayo' shirts. Maybe twenty. Maybe still teenagers."

"Carmelo and one of his dumb friends! Stupid kids! What did they say?" Her eyes looked as though they were going to burst into flame.

"Just that they had seen me with you and that you didn't need no gringo."

"Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Do you have a quarter?"

I gave her one. "Don't go away. I just have to make a phone call."

"I'll tag along."

"OK."

We exited the cafeteria to a bank of phones between it and the Aztec Stores. Only one was in use and Nan went to the one at the other end and dialed.

"Tia Elena? Fernanda. Is Carmelo home? Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm at the university right now. Si. OK." She turned to me. "He's still asleep, but she's getting him." She went back to the phone. It was a short wait. "Carmelo? Si, Fernanda. I just heard you met one of my professors yesterday. You did? And Martin was with you? You are both idiots. No, I am serious. He is a visitor from Canada, y muy importante..." And there I lost her. Nan launched into a stream of rapid-fire Spanish that sounded as though a terrorist had opened up with a Uzi. I wasn't sure whether I wished I could understand Spanish or was glad that I didn't. I had certainly not seen this side of Nan. In fact, outside of a few comments, I really didn't perceive her as a Chicana. She paused for a few seconds, obviously letting Carmelo get a word in. "No, I am not interested in apologies. Just stay away. And thank God when you go to Mass that I am not going to tell Sebastien!" She hung up and turned to me. "That should hold him, the dumb kid. Now, let me make you some coffee."

"OK. But I think I deserve an explanation."

"Carmelo's my cousin. He's 19 and at SDCC -- San Diego City College, just south of Balboa Park. His mother and father are my Aunt Helen and Uncle Ernest; she's my father's sister. They're the people I lived with when I started here. Carmelo and his friends don't go to class much. They just hang out. Sometimes here, sometimes downtown. Sometimes they get into a little trouble. Not much, just a little. They saw you say goodbye to me near the library on Monday and thought it would be funny to scare you away. They don't like it when Chicanas go out with anyone except Chicanos, anyway. I told him you were a very important professor from Canada and that he could ruin my chances of getting into a good graduate school, that you were being kind enough to read my papers." She stopped, turn and flashed me another of her kiloton smiles. "And I told him that if he got me angry I'd tell my uncle Sebastien." She paused. "Sebastien isn't really my uncle. He is some sort of distant relative. But he now lives with us in Ramona. He is not a good man, though he has always been nice to me. He made a lot of money helping a group called 'The Plumbers' in the early '70s." I gasped. I was a lot older than Nan. "The Mexican government put him in prison for several years. Then they deported him. And he has lived with us ever since. Sebastien has many friends who aren't very nice. I don't think that Carmelo and Martin would want to meet them." I thought about the whole thing. Carmelo and Martin had been right: this was not a group I wanted to be involved with.

"What does your father do?" I was genuinely curious. I was a good Canadian. All the Americans I knew had been anti-Nixon. And what Sebastien had been doing -- laundering money for the Committee to Re-Elect the President, supporting the Watergate break in ... I recalled all that talk of wads of hundred dollar bills in paper bags.

"He's a businessman. Some real estate. Some ranching -- horses. Some construction. He's a lawyer, but he doesn't practice. Many people come to him for advice."

I bet they did. I read a lot. I had a rich fantasy life.

"Here we are! You sit down while I make coffee!"

But first, just inside the door, I grabbed her and gave her a kiss and ran my hands up and down her back. She giggled and pulled away. "No. Wait." I sighed and followed her into the kitchen where she got busy with beans and grinder and a genuine espresso machine. I sat down at the table but didn't get a chance to say anything. Nan was very hyper.

"I thought about you all Monday afternoon and Monday night. And all day yesterday. I was afraid that once you had ... fucked me, I'd never see you again. I thought you'd stand me up today. Then I got worried that I'd get pregnant. Everybody else in my group is on the pill or has had their tubes tied. And then, last night, when I went to my group, everyone was talking about sex. Really..." She turned to me. "You know, I've been going to that group for six or eight weeks and I can't say the sort of things the others say."

"Isn't that what the group is for? So you can just open up?"

"Well ... yes ... but ... You know I shouldn't tell you this. You don't know any of them. Anyway I won't say any names. One of the women was complaining that her husband just climbs on top and pumps away; and one of the others asked if any of us liked to eat men. Because she thinks it's just great." Nan blushed again. "The first time she talked about it, I didn't know what she meant." She put out two little cups and filled them from the espresso machine. "Burt, will you teach me things? I can't ask anyone else. I want to do so many things." I was hard as a rock.