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Tomb of the Arqueologist @ Palenque |
But that was before today, before I shot myself in the foot and then swallowed it all the way up to the knee.
This afternoon, in his restaurant, he introduced me to a couple whose family I have read about in the library while studying local history books (taking a break from writing my screenplay). After a few moments I mentioned that a friend of mine in San Diego has the same apellido -- last (family) name -- as they do. Let's call them "Ls***." (No, dear diary, I won't tell you, not even you.)
"Oh, no," Agustín moaned, "there's no comparison, no relation, darling, these are the Lss of Tijuana. None of your little Chicano friends."
Thus far it had been his game. He held the ball. But then, I made what might yet prove a fatal error in play, one which could lead to this pelota player having his head chopped off and the serpents of blood shoot forth to irrigate our hungry earth monster. Thinking of my reading about fundadores -- founders, old families -- I said, "Oh yes, yours is the family which owns the block across/behind/ beside/diagonal/before the cathedral, no?"
A cool silence fell across that corner of the restaurant. Even the traffic on Fourth Street seemed to pause, and I swear I could hear the doves muttering in the park.
The husband smiled politely. Ah, dear reader, don't even bother looking across the street from the cathedral -- it ain't there. This is fictional like dragnet, and I will never tell you who, but they are every inch and centimeter a lady and a gentleman. Unlike boorish me. Unlike stupid, babeling, me.
Entonces, tonight, Agustín has called me onto the carpet of his apartment upstairs.
In this moment I remember my mother telling me my father's favorite saying from before he was shot down & killed over Hanoi. It was: "Curiosity has often killed the cat."
Frown. "I never write about your friends, Agustín, or about the things they tell me. Those are personal, private affairs. Yes, sometimes I write about you, about the way you yell at people in your parking spaces, or maybe drinking until three a.m. in the kitchen behind your restaurant, with your friends. But I never tell names or details of lives, lovers, divorces, nothing."
"Do you know I might make just one phone call to the right person and this very instant you could be declared an unwanted foreigner and would then be thrown out of my country. And don't come whining for me to protect you. I don't care about you any more, no, I don't. You have aborted me and today you completely aborted my friends. I don't even care about that prize you won, you can take the plaque off the wall and throw it away. You are no longer welcome here. Please don't come into my restaurant any more, and maybe, yes, yes, maybe you had better move. I certainly don't need your rent, no! Yes. Now get out before I lose my temper....