Holy Guacamole! (14 page)

And now it was only mid-morning with no appointment on my schedule until three o’clock. The question was: Should I try to solicit help from the opera ladies before I saw Dr. Tigranian, or hope that he could solve the whole problem? Given the financial straits at the university—all over Texas, for that matter—he probably couldn’t give my new protégés enough help. Remission of tuition, that sort of thing, maybe, but jobs, loans? I wasn’t even sure whether student loans ever went to foreign students. If I waited too long, Polya and Irina might be reduced to prostitution. I decided to call the other five women, those who had met at the Magic Pan to plot against Sergeant Guevara, and invite them to a charitable luncheon.

Once home, my first call was to Vivian Brockman, the leader of our ad hoc committee. “Vivian,” I said, “we have a problem. I think we need to get together with the others. Shall we say Desert Pearl at noon?” I didn’t tell her the nature of the problem but let her jump to the conclusion that Sergeant Guevara was coming after us again.

“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.

Dr. Tigranian Hears Bad News

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.”