Authors: Sarah Andrews
Killer Dust (13 page)
“The hurricanes are a problem for you, right? I noticed that boat you had at dockside beyond your house.”
He snorted. “Not much you can do once a storm gets going. Them things can turn any which-away, you never know where they’s gonna make landfall until it’s too late to move a boat. You can’t outrun it. Florida is a big place, but it’s flat as a pancake, and anywhere the wind blows, it just blows and blows. So I just lash everything down and hope.” He gave the satellite image a little tap right on St. Petersburg.
My eye riveted on the image, taking in all the blue water that surrounded the big, flat peninsula on which I had somehow found myself. Not for the first time, I wondered just what had really brought me here.
My lunch with Olivia Rodríguez Garcia brought a series of odd surprises. First, she did not take me to Chattaway’s, or, for that matter, to any other place in St. Petersburg. Instead, she drove across the vast expanse of Tampa Bay—the elevated causeway must have been almost ten miles long, with water and nothing else on either side—to Tampa itself (St. Petersburg is on a neck of land that forms the western side of the bay, and Tampa forms the east). She
drove like a seared bat and made idle chitchat as we rocketed along. I went with the flow as best I could, all the time wondering what her agenda was in inviting me to lunch.
drove like a seared bat and made idle chitchat as we rocketed along. I went with the flow as best I could, all the time wondering what her agenda was in inviting me to lunch.
Once off the causeway into Tampa, she turned north and maneuvered us around until we pulled up in front of a place called Mambo’s Cafeé. It was a small place with one row of booths and tables. At the sight of the owners, a husband and wife team, Olivia broke into rapid, elegantly enunciated Spanish that was full of idioms and contractions I could not follow. After quick hugs and what sounded like rounds of “Hi there” and “How’s the family,” she turned and introduced me. Then she said, “You are wondering why I brought you so far for a simple little meal, no?”
“I am wondering, yes.”
She smiled. “Food is important. We women must stick together, celebrate over food. We have much to reclaim from the way our grandmothers, and our grandmothers’ grandmothers, did business. We do our work differently from men: We understand working
together
.” She gave me an expansive smile and opened her hands upward, presenting the restaurant to me. “So I bring you here. This is the food of my grandmother’s grandmothers.”
together
.” She gave me an expansive smile and opened her hands upward, presenting the restaurant to me. “So I bring you here. This is the food of my grandmother’s grandmothers.”
I thought of what I had heard the evening before, that the women in hunter-gatherer societies provided the grand majority of the nutrition, and I smiled in spite of my wariness.
She said, “Please, have anything you want. I remember too well being a graduate student and worrying about money. This is on me.”
I said, “Thank you, Dr. Garcia.”
She smiled a motherly smile, odd considering that she could not have been more than a decade my senior. “Please don’t be so formal. We do not call each other ‘doctor’ at the USGS, or we’d be at it all day. Besides, in Latin culture the paternal surname—what you would call me in America—is the first of my last names, Rodríguez. Garcia is the maternal surname, and is not usually used here. My middle name is Carmen. So, Olivia Carmen Rodríguez Garcia. My
family calls me ‘Puru,’ but you may call me Olivia until we know each other much better.” She gave me a wink.
family calls me ‘Puru,’ but you may call me Olivia until we know each other much better.” She gave me a wink.
I’m afraid I gaped at her, wondering,
Why is this woman sucking up to me?
But I played along with it, partly because on the money side of things she was right, I was an inch from penniless. “Well, okay, uh—Olivia, what do you recommend ?” Trying to meet her halfway with the cultural thing, I tried it again in Spanish.
“¿Que es bueno aqui?”
Why is this woman sucking up to me?
But I played along with it, partly because on the money side of things she was right, I was an inch from penniless. “Well, okay, uh—Olivia, what do you recommend ?” Trying to meet her halfway with the cultural thing, I tried it again in Spanish.
“¿Que es bueno aqui?”
“Ah,
que bien, senñorita
. I recommend
la pechuga de pollo a la parilla.
And here, you must have
los tostones, y para beber, un jugo de mango.”
She pronounced
mango
idiosyncratically, with the emphasis on the
o.
que bien, senñorita
. I recommend
la pechuga de pollo a la parilla.
And here, you must have
los tostones, y para beber, un jugo de mango.”
She pronounced
mango
idiosyncratically, with the emphasis on the
o.
“Is this a Cuban restaurant?” I asked.
She drew herself up with mock affrontedness.
“¿ Cubano? No! Es Puertorriquenño!”
“¿ Cubano? No! Es Puertorriquenño!”
She helped me choose from the cafeteria line and we sat down at a table. She gestured at each item on my tray.
“Mira:
Grilled chicken breast, seasoned with
adobo
, the best you’ll ever eat this side of my mother’s. White rice
(arroz blanco)
, red beans
(habichuelas coloras)
seasoned with
sofrito, y
plaintains
(tostones)
, very crispy.” She made a sweeping gesture with both hands.
“Todo es Puertorriquenño.”
“Mira:
Grilled chicken breast, seasoned with
adobo
, the best you’ll ever eat this side of my mother’s. White rice
(arroz blanco)
, red beans
(habichuelas coloras)
seasoned with
sofrito, y
plaintains
(tostones)
, very crispy.” She made a sweeping gesture with both hands.
“Todo es Puertorriquenño.”
The way she was cutting from English to Spanish and back was beginning to make me feel a little swimmy. I smiled weakly at my hostess–Center Chief and found her observing me frankly, with no attempt to cover her intent. Tentatively, I said, “Your idioms are quite different from what I hear back in the Rockies.”
She laughed easily. “I imagine so. It is as if you were comparing an American English speaker with one raised in Britain. Or South Africa. Or Australia. Very different sound to it. And here in Florida we have more than the one Spanish. We have the Cuban, as you supposed, as well as the Puerto Rican.”
“How do they differ? Give me a for instance.”
“Oh! You can always tell a Puerto Rican, because we say
‘mira.’
A Cuban would say, ‘
oye.
’” She smiled, like
it was a saucy little joke between just us two.
‘mira.’
A Cuban would say, ‘
oye.
’” She smiled, like
it was a saucy little joke between just us two.
I tucked this away, thankful for something small and concise to think about in the middle of the growing miasma of feelings and impressions that had begun to ball up since I had gotten in the car with Olivia Rodríguez Garcia … or since I had arrived in Florida … hell, since I had gone to bed with Jack Sampler. A nice, intellectual examination of a difference in word usage was about my speed right then.
Mira
meant “look;”
oye
meant “listen,” one small but significant difference in the way the two peoples caught each others’ attention. “And I suppose the cuisines are different as well?” I took a bite of my red beans. They were delicious.
Mira
meant “look;”
oye
meant “listen,” one small but significant difference in the way the two peoples caught each others’ attention. “And I suppose the cuisines are different as well?” I took a bite of my red beans. They were delicious.
“Sí. Red beans.
Habichuelas coloras
. In Cuba, they would be
frijoles negros. En tu parte del paiz, tu dices, ‘frijoles,’ ¿verdad? Lo mismo en Cuba. Tu arroz es blanco. En Cuba, amarillo.
Come on, eat!” She tapped the edge of my plate with her fork and gestured that I use mine to shovel some food into my mouth.
Habichuelas coloras
. In Cuba, they would be
frijoles negros. En tu parte del paiz, tu dices, ‘frijoles,’ ¿verdad? Lo mismo en Cuba. Tu arroz es blanco. En Cuba, amarillo.
Come on, eat!” She tapped the edge of my plate with her fork and gestured that I use mine to shovel some food into my mouth.
I put my elbows on the edge of the table and put my face in my hands. I was feeling almost faint.
“Something the matter?” she inquired, not sounding convincingly concerned.
I shook my head. “Probably the heat getting to me. Or the humidity. It gets hot back in Utah, but it’s a dry heat.” I was beginning to feel like I was pouring through the tiles in the floor, all liquid and flowing, totally lacking in spine. What the hell was I doing talking about the weather?
“You’re sure it’s nothing else?”
I looked up. She was examining me again. I decided that I did not enjoy being examined. “Sure. There’s plenty going on,” I said, images of Jack all disheveled flashing through my head, chased quickly by Miles Guffey’s rubbery smile. Both were shot full of holes by Olivia Rodríguez Garcia’s gratuitous kindnesses. “But maybe we could get there faster if you tell me what I can do for you. I don’t mean to be rude, but surely you have something on your mind.”
Olivia nodded decisively. “Yes, yes. Business. Certainly.
Eat, and I will tell you.” She gave my dish another whack with her fork. When she saw me pick up mine and take a stab at my chicken, she said, “You are thinking of working with Miles Guffey on his dust project. I am the Center Chief. It is my job to keep things running smoothly.” She turned her attention to her dish and began to pick around among the beans.
Eat, and I will tell you.” She gave my dish another whack with her fork. When she saw me pick up mine and take a stab at my chicken, she said, “You are thinking of working with Miles Guffey on his dust project. I am the Center Chief. It is my job to keep things running smoothly.” She turned her attention to her dish and began to pick around among the beans.
I chewed and swallowed some delicious meat, then said, “Okay, let me guess: Dr. Guffey has his ways of making things go
un
smoothly.”
un
smoothly.”
Olivia nodded. “I see you understand. This makes things easier. And by the way, it is not Dr. Guffey. He has only a bachelor’s degree.”
I blinked in amazement.
“Yes,” Olivia continued. “It is surprising. But this is how the Survey used to be. Bright people would come on straight out of college, and the Survey would train them, bring them along, almost an apprentice system. Heaven knows it hardly pays any better than that!” She laughed at her own joke.
“Well, he sure is highly regarded.”
She nodded and stabbed into her rice. “Yes, yes. Miles has a way of involving people in his work, and that’s good, but …”
“But he’s trying to shake things up with the public to get some funding.”
“Sí … I thought I should explain a few things about the way work is done at the Survey. Help you fit in better.” She glanced up at me.
So this was all about going along to get along, and bringing me all the way onto her ethnic turf was symbolic. I did the emotional math: Miles Guffey had pissed her off. He was bringing needed publicity to the USGS, but at the same time ignoring rules in order to get funding for his project. This made him a management nightmare. She had to answer to the chain of command over her head. He had to get funding, or his idea would stay an idea and never make it to fully fledged theory status, let alone proven fact.
I was from outside the system and therefore a resource each of them could try to co-opt. “I’m all ears,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. More than anything, I wanted to slap my hands over my ears and hide under the table. I hated politics with a passion. “So tell me, just what is the funding picture at the USGS?”
I was from outside the system and therefore a resource each of them could try to co-opt. “I’m all ears,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. More than anything, I wanted to slap my hands over my ears and hide under the table. I hated politics with a passion. “So tell me, just what is the funding picture at the USGS?”
Olivia glanced skyward. “We have been on hard times since the self-imposed RIF—reduction in force—of the 1990s. There was bloodshed there. I came on board after that, so I am not part of that fight. But it had to be done. Congress was looking for an agency to cut, and we were vulnerable, because the public did not know what we did for them. And we were top-heavy: Over ninety percent of the budget went to salaries; there was no money to fund projects whatsoever. So something had to go. Now, we are more stable, but we still have a very limited funding picture unless we take in project money from other federal agencies, or even from private-sector grants. We are increasingly like a university department, or a consulting company, where people fight for the small pieces of pie.”
“But I am outside that picture,” I said cautiously. “I am a graduate student. I cost little or nothing. So why are you concerned about me?”
Olivia lowered her eyelids halfway and cleared her throat, her meal forgotten. “It is because of the nature of the specific project.” She ticked items off on her fingers as she went. “First, African dust does not fall—pardon the pun—within our mandate. Second, even if it did, we have many projects far more critical in nature, and perhaps you would find many of them more interesting as well. Third, while Miles has managed to get quite a lot of publicity for his dust, he has very few facts at his disposal, which means that his dust may in fact be—and now I make the ironic play on words—all wet. Again you might be better served to consider another project, if only to be taken seriously as a scientist.”
I shot my eyebrows up. I was quite certain that what I
was hearing lay far outside the usual welcome-aboard pep talk.
was hearing lay far outside the usual welcome-aboard pep talk.
Olivia put out a hand to shush me, then pointed a finger and waggled it at me. “I can see your surprise. I am speaking very candidly, no? I see in you a lot of myself, and I am concerned. As Center Chief, my responsibilities are many and varied. I have a lot of people to serve and hundreds of issues to juggle, and
I must not show preferential treatment
. But, as a woman working in a man’s profession, I will
damned
well look out for other women if I please. It was not easy for me to get where I am, as you can imagine.”
I must not show preferential treatment
. But, as a woman working in a man’s profession, I will
damned
well look out for other women if I please. It was not easy for me to get where I am, as you can imagine.”
I blinked. It was the first time I had heard one woman scientist say anything like this to another. Embarrassed, moved, and unprepared to receive such a kindness or discern it from manipulation, if that was what this was, I changed the subject. “And then there is the matter of Calvin Wheat.”
Olivia gave a quick nod. “Yes. Where is he? And what does this mean? And I am concerned that Miles is using this disappearance of one of his workers to promote his project. Really, this is the limit! Controversy, as I said. Not good in a budding career.
Ahora,
fifthly,” she went back to counting on her fingers, then threw her hands up in a gesture of frustration. “
¡Ayi! Mira
, has Miles mentioned Chip Hiller’s work?”
Ahora,
fifthly,” she went back to counting on her fingers, then threw her hands up in a gesture of frustration. “
¡Ayi! Mira
, has Miles mentioned Chip Hiller’s work?”
“Uh, no … .”
“Of course not. Miles will lead you to believe that he is the inventor of the African dust idea, but in fact it was Chip Hiller who first looked at this dust. And of course, the phenomenon is nothing new. We have iron-rich dust forming the bulk of the soil horizon on coral islands throughout the Atlantic, and the Pacific, for that matter. It is part of the history of our planet. It is where our planet came from! Ashes to ashes, dust to …” She trailed off dramatically, as if suddenly aware that she was raving, but I caught a glint in her eyes, as if she was watching to see what impact her words were having on me.
I cleared my throat and said nothing. We stared at each other a while. I let my thoughts drift to Jack, and to the longings and curiosity that had brought me to Florida in the first place. I felt that odd tug at my heart, and was, somehow, reminded by it that I had not come here as much to earn a degree as to find out how and why my lover had flown off into a cloud of dust. Finally I said, with the full irony of utter sincerity, “I thank you for your concern. I have never known a fellow scientist to go to bat for me to quite this extent. I am floored.”
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