Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “I might have known,” she said. “How many have you called?”

  “You’re the first.”

  “Very sensible. I’ll call Barbara and Olive. You call Maria-Reposa and Dolly. We mustn’t take no for an answer. This situation is outrageous.”

  I had to agree, although we were talking about different situations. Insisting on attendance was not as easy as Vivian may have expected. Dolly had finally gotten back to her bulb-removal program and didn’t want to quit, wash the dirt off, and change clothes. I told her that a tragic situation was developing, a situation that demanded our attention. She gave in. Maria-Reposa was easier. She said, “Desert Pearl? The seafood restaurant? I’ve heard they have lobster enchiladas.”

  I assured her that they did, and she decided that lobster enchiladas warranted canceling an appointment to have her eyes examined. “I hate those machines with the little lenses that pop in and out. Of course, Martin complains if he passes me a newspaper article and I can’t read it because my glasses are wrong. I suppose I’m getting farsighted. Well, twelve o’clock? Just where is the restaurant?”

  “In the shopping center on the left on Resler just before you get to Redd Road.”

  By noon we were assembled and ordering interesting seafood: Thai shrimp on pasta, Mexican Seafood Pasta, and my favorite, Lobster and Crab Enchilada. Several of the ladies were wearing heels, while I was in tennis shoes, which had been appropriate for a visit to the very informal Luz Vallejo, but perhaps not for Dr. Tigranian later in the afternoon.

  I had thought the matter over carefully and decided, as Jason suggested, not to tell the ladies about the unfortunate jobs Vladik had provided for his students. I anticipated a prejudice against hiring former exotic dancers, even though the girls had been reluctant to take up that profession. What I said was that Vladik had provided them with housing and a car, both dreadful, plus an allowance. Now they were alone in this country. The car kept dying, the trailer, for all they knew, would be taken away from them, and they had no money on which to live.

  Olive was of the opinion that trailer parks were dangerous places, and that their trailer sounded disgusting.

  Vivian demanded to know what Vladik had wanted in return for his largess. Any ideas he might have had of a sexual nature, I assured her, had been shot down by the two girls.

  “I just knew he was that sort of man,” Vivian responded. “It’s a wonder he didn’t throw them out in the street when they refused him.”

  “If he had, the department would have heard and disapproved of the whole arrangement. Those poor girls were terrified to find themselves in a foreign country with no friend but a man who wanted to—ah—avail himself of their virtue. I intend to talk to Dr. Tigranian, chairman of the Music Department, this afternoon and see what can be done for them in the way of scholarship money.”

  Maria-Reposa said, “The state is no longer doing anything for the poor. Charity is falling to the churches and individual citizens.”

  “It’s the fault of the stingy ole Republicans,” said Olive.

  “I resent that, Olive,” Barbara retorted. “Frank and I are Republicans, and we’re as charitable as the next person.”

  “Which brings us to my idea,” I interrupted before a political catfight could ensue. “I think Opera at the Pass should try to help these girls. Surely, we can find them part-time jobs, maybe clothes. I have some of Gwen’s at home. You wouldn’t believe how shabby their clothing is. I think he outfitted them from a Goodwill store, or perhaps what they’re wearing came from Russia.”

  “I’ve heard that the wealthier Russians are becoming quite fashion conscious since the communists lost power,” said Barbara.

  “Not the poor people,” Maria-Reposa murmured. “My church gets lots of donations of quite good clothing. We’ll have to find out what their sizes are. And food? Do they need food until we can help them financially?”

  “I imagine they do,” I replied. “When I took them out to lunch yesterday, they were very hungry.”

  “Mah daughter-in-law could use a live-in baby sitter,” said Olive. “It would mean room, board, and a little bitty salary in return for watchin’ the babies at night and some afternoons—nothin’ very glamorous or challengin’.”

  “But perfect for a student,” I said enthusiastically.

  “How’s their English? She’d have hired a Hispanic girl, but she wants the children to grow up speakin’ good English.”

  “And why is that?” Barbara snapped. “With the large majority of the population here speaking Spanish, a knowledge of the language is a necessity.”

  I was embarrassed, because my Spanish is almost non-existent. I’d taken an accelerated night course at the university our first year here, and then found that my maid couldn’t understand a word I said. My neighbor said it was the difference between Castilian, which my teacher spoke, and border Spanish, which people in El Paso and Juarez speak.

  “Really, Barbara,” snapped Vivian. “Your Spanish isn’t that good, and I speak better Spanish than your children.”

  “That’s not true,” Barbara retorted.

  “Does anyone else have a job to suggest?” I asked, relieved that they hadn’t returned to the subject of the quality of English spoken by the two Russian girls. It had been peculiar.

  “Howard would be over the moon,” murmured Dolly, “if he had someone to translate Russian articles on Shakespeare, but I don’t know where he’d get the money.” She looked quite sad at the thought of the missed opportunity. I tried to imagine what Shakespearean criticism would sound like as rendered by Polya or Irina. And what were these ladies going to think of me if references were asked for and the girls listed Boris Stepanovich Ignatenko of Brazen Babes? Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

  “What a feather in the cap for Opera at the Pass if one or both of these young women should become famous and we were the group who came to their rescue in their time of need,” said Vivian. “I definitely think this is a charitable project we should take on.”

  Too late. Once convinced, Vivian wasn’t likely to give up the idea. She was a very forceful woman. “And I’ll tackle the music chairman about funding their education,” I said. At least I didn’t have to mislead him about their present occupation.

  To my mind there is nothing more delicious than a Maine lobster, but lobsters aren’t really very friendly creatures. For one thing they don’t care much for other lobsters. For another, they’re very belligerent. Although they swim backward, they’re always happy to turn around and face their enemies, conger eels and octopi, for a vicious fight. Lastly, they have the peculiar habit of sharing their burrows with conger eels. They hope to eat the eel’s eggs, while the eel is waiting patiently for the lobster to shed its shell, so that the room-mate eel can mount a full-scale attack.

  Another tasty denizen of the sea is the Canadian crab, quite possibly another grumpy creature, but even grumpier are the Canadian and Washington state fisheries officers who are trying to keep Canadian crab boats from fishing in U.S. coastal waters. High tech surveillance cameras are in use to spot the boats, global positioning equipment determines in whose waters the crabbers are fishing, and then the international crab thieves are arrested and their boats seized. And the result?

  Well, the pearl of the menu at Desert Pearl, a Mexican seafood restaurant in El Paso, Texas, incorporates Maine lobster and Canadian crab in a tortilla with a delicious sauce. Lobster and Crab Enchilada. Somehow the combination of the shellfish wrapped in a corn tortilla works. And the sauce—ah, the sauce. Creamy with a hint of chile and cheese. Not all Mexican food burns your tongue and brings perspiration to your forehead. Some is rich and subtle. Lobster and Crab Enchilada is one of the latter. I tried to make it at home, but somehow it just wasn’t the same. My advice is, visit chef/owner Jose Nolasco’s Desert Pearl and sample this dish for yourself.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer.

  18

  Dr. Ti
granian Hears Bad News

  Carolyn

  I looked at the faculty list on the wall. Armen Tigranian, Chairman, Room 303. The name was so familiar. I walked down the hall toward the departmental office as I combed my memory for the clue to that name. When I entered, the secretary was at her desk, painting her fingernails metallic lavender. She recognized me from the address-hunting visit and waved me toward the chairman’s door, which was partially open and from which issued loud humming sounds, plus others less easy to identify, although they were certainly human.

  “Go on in,” she said. “He’s expecting you.”

  I edged through the door and was confronted by the sight of a very tall, stout gentleman in a dark, rumpled suit with a tie too narrow for his wide chest. His broad, rosy face sprouted, high on an already high forehead, a pompadour of black hair dramatically streaked with silver, and he was tilted back in his chair, feet on the desk, waving his hands and arms, for all the world like a symphony conductor, but without orchestra, podium, or the customary upright position. And his feet, the soles of which faced me on the desk, were huge and looked from the bottom like big, rubber-ridged paddles. The noises were his personal humming-dum-de-dumming rendition of the music, although I couldn’t identify it.

  Then information attached to the name surfaced in my memory like a swimmer popping up out of the water. “Of course,” I exclaimed. “Armen Tigranian!”

  A ferocious scowl replaced the stern concentration of a maestro directing his players. “So?” he roared challengingly.

  “Your name. There’s an Armenian opera composer with the same name. Still, you couldn’t be he; he’s almost certainly dead.” I searched my memory for the name of an opera by Tigranian. “Anoush. He wrote Anoush.”

  Chairman Tigranian eyed me suspiciously. “You have heard this opera?”

  “On record,” I replied. “Quite a long time ago. A friend owned it and played it for us.”

  The chairman sighed. His scowl lightened. “There is an Armenian in the Middle West who is working on Anoush. Perhaps it will be performed again. As for me, I am the composer’s great nephew; he was my grandfather’s brother, but my father came to America before I was born. Although I was named for the composer, my great uncle, I never met him. Not too many people know of Anoush. It is not part of the standard repertoire.”

  “May I sit down?” I asked since he hadn’t issued the invitation.

  “Of course, of course.” His huge feet crashed to the floor like the hooves of a circus elephant that had been standing on its hind legs and gave up the effort too abruptly. Thump. He rose agilely, rushed around the desk, and pulled out a chair for me. Actually, he picked it up and dropped it down beside me.

  “So, you are Mrs. Blue, whom I don’t know,” he announced, going back to his seat. “Have you come to discuss Armenian music? There’s not much call for it in El Paso, Texas.”

  “Actually, I’ve come about two of your students and Vladislav Gubenko.”

  “If your daughter has been seduced by the Russian, I cannot help you. If Gubenko has seduced you, I cannot help you, other than to say that you are old enough to have known better. Gubenko has passed on to his reward, which may well be the fires of hell, but as he is no longer with us, he cannot be sued, charged with sexual harassment, or attacked because of the ludicrous Verdi he produced as his last operatic effort before his death.”

  I had to bite my lips to keep from smiling. “You saw Macbeth, then?”

  “I did. If the administration hadn’t already ordered that we eschew grand opera and take up zarzuela, they’d have done so when they heard of Vladik’s Macbeth. What an obscenity to put good singers on stage in such a criminal adaptation. A pun you notice. Eh? Criminal. Meaning offense against good taste, and also depiction of criminals.”

  “Very nice,” I said, assaying a smile. “And I did hear of his death. In fact, there’s reason to think he died at the hand of another rather than of a—gastric upset.”

  “So! Murder? And what else? Did two of my students kill him? They should have come to me with their complaints instead of dealing with problems themselves, but then youth is impulsive, and we live in a city of hot-blooded, transplanted Spaniards who probably raped Indians to produce our students many generations later.”

  “No one knows who killed him,” I hastened to say, although Adela, who was a student, came to mind, if only as a catalyst in the death. Catalyst. So many years in the company of scientists has affected my metaphors. “It’s the two Russian girls, Polina Mikhailov and Irina Primakov, whose situation is a cause for worry.”

  “So, they are sad. That is no surprise. They go to the health services and get antidepressants,” he said.

  “Vladik has put the department, in fact the whole university, into a position that could cause terrible scandal, perhaps even liability.”

  “Why am I not surprised? My father always said, ‘Never trust a Russian. The only person worse is a Turk.’ But what is your interest in the fate of my department and the university? Are you a lawyer representing the girls? Someone I haven’t met from the dean’s office who has come to threaten me and take away the last dribble of money we have to run the department?”

  “None of those, Dr. Tigranian,” I assured him. And I told him the story, the unwanted jobs at Brazen Babes, the sequestration of their earnings, the horrible car and trailer, not to mention shabby clothes, the demand—although not met—that they have sex with customers and with Vladik, and now their frightened dependence on a Russian friend of Vladik’s. Each new revelation turned Dr. Tigranian’s rosy face darker with congested fury.

  Finally he exploded, “And you know this how?”

  Oh dear, I thought. What if Dr. Tigranian was getting his cut of the arrangement at Brazen Babes? “I took them to lunch, and they told me,” I replied in a fading voice. Then I took heart. I’d done nothing wrong. “When I look back on the conversation, I think they may believe that all foreign students are turned into slaves in the sex trade in order to win a degree in this country. He kept them quite isolated from the university community. They live away from campus in a trailer park with no university people; they come to school, take classes, bring their lunches, study, go home, study, and go out to take their clothes off at a place that I assume is disgustingly sleazy.” A place to which I was going that night with Luz Vallejo. Maybe she carried a weapon. Not that I approve of firearms, but there are times when one wouldn’t mind being accompanied by an armed companion.

  While I was anticipating with dread my evening’s appointment, Dr. Tigranian was roaring curses. His secretary stuck her head in the door and backed out hurriedly. I huddled in my chair. Low-voiced conversations could be heard in the outer office. “Close my door,” he shouted. The secretary did that without ever showing herself. Volatile indeed, I thought. It was hardly considerate of Jason to go off to Austin and leave me to break the bad news to this man, who looked as if he’d either knock my head off or have a stroke in front of my eyes.

  “Hush,” I said.

  “What?” he shouted.

  “S-sh-sh.”

  He stopped cursing and gaped at me.

  “We have to deal with this, not shout it all over the building. The fewer people who know, the better. If we take care of it before it comes out—”

  “How is that possible?” he snapped. “How can this not come out? Accursed Russian! Penis-fixated scum! Son of a whoring mother!”

  “Please, Dr. Tigranian, nobody cares if he’s well remembered. In fact, the sooner he’s forgotten, the better, but we have to do something about the girls.”

  “What? Buy them a house and a new car? Bribe them with a big settlement held in trust if they’re too stupid to—”

  “Getting them out of that strip club would be a good start. I don’t think your other suggestions are necessary. They just want to finish school. If the department can pay for their tuition and books, maybe—”

  “We have no money!” he roared. “We can’t buy instr
uments or music or do performances, other than degree recitals. We don’t have paper for the copy machines.”

  “I know. My husband has been saying the same thing.”

  “Who is your husband? Someone who wants to get our money, which we don’t have, for his department, by sending his wife to blackmail me.”

  “My husband is a chemistry professor who loves opera, as I do. As weird as that performance of Macbeth was, the three young women in the witch’s chorus sang beautifully, especially for amateurs. People from Opera at the Pass want to help, but I haven’t told them about Brazen Babes or any of that, just that the girls are now almost destitute and don’t know what to do. Our committee is going to try to find jobs for them that will allow them to continue their studies, unless you can get them university jobs. That would be even better.”

  “It’s November. There are no university jobs now. They are all taken.” Then he stopped snarling at me. “But maybe this can be contained. As you say. Can I trust you to keep this story quiet? Ah, that scheming bastard, Gubenko, may the flames of hell devour him for a thousand thousand years. That cunning, soulless—”

  “Sssh,” I said, putting a finger to my lips. “I’m not the one who keeps shouting. I just want to help the young women. You need to do the same. Quietly. Without causing even the slightest ripple of interest.”

  “Humph!” he said. Then he swung his giant feet back up on the desk and waved his hand at me. “Go. Go. Call me tomorrow. We will consult on what can be done.”

  I doubt that anyone was ever gladder to get out of his office than I. Or maybe everyone fled at first opportunity!

  19

  Brazen Babes

  Luz

  Jesus Christ! She looked like she was dressed to attend the meeting of a university alumni group—not the kind gathering to drink beer at a tailgate party, the kind trying to figure out how to fund the museum or the library. Or maybe a group of sorority alumni, meeting to discuss the morals of the active chapter members. I’d been in a sorority. You got to go to more beer parties that way, but you can bet I didn’t make any alumni contributions or attend any meetings once I was out of school. The very idea of hanging out with my old sorority sisters was laughable. It was okay to be a criminal justice major in school, but you weren’t supposed to join the police force and go out on the streets to catch real criminals after graduation.