The Barbarian Nurseries by Héctor Tobar Read Free Book Online

d’oeuvres. When she returned to serve the guests she refused to acknowledge those few who were courteous enough to say thank you, and gave a sidelong glare to Mrs. Tyler Smith when she dared to say
“Gracias.” I speak English,
Araceli wanted to say.
Not much, but “Thank you” has been in my vocabulary since the fourth grade.
On one of these trips she crossed paths with
la señora
Maureen, who was walking back into the yard with a baby monitor in hand. Araceli began to lose track of the number of trips she had made with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Finally came the culinary climax, her
sopes,
which were a California variation on a recipe of her aunt’s. The
sopes
had begun their existence as balls of corn
masa
in Araceli’s palms last night. Each was fried and garnished with Haas avocados, shredded cilantro, vine-ripened tomatoes, and white Oaxaca cheese, so that as she walked into the crowd of partiers she was presenting the colors of the Mexican flag.
I could eat five of these all by myself,
Araceli thought. Maybe if I go through here quickly enough I can keep them from getting all the
sopes.
    The Big Man began to gather an audience around him, regaling the group with tales from his new “mercenary” work as a consultant/lobbyist. He came to Scott and Maureen’s parties because he respected them for their work ethic and loyalty, qualities he did not possess in large quantities himself, and once he was in their home his “gift” to them was to keep their guests amused and entertained. “So there I am, all of a sudden, shuffled into the mayor’s office. The mayor of Los Angeles. He’s saying goodbye to some people in Spanish. That guy, let me tell you, he’s got a thankless job. Because there’s a whole city filled with Mexicans who elected him to office—they think their day has come. And that’s going to be a problem: because he can’t keep them all happy. There’s too many Mexicans. It’s mathematically impossible.”
    The Big Man lived in Los Angeles, on its Westside, but to the rest of the partygoers that city and its overpopulated unpleasantness were far away, and the reference to the ethnic divisions in Los Angeles led to a moment of awkward silence filled by the laughs and squeals of children inside the inflated castle. In the circle of Maureen and Scott’s friends, discussing any topic related to ethnicity was on the fringe of what was considered polite. Many now had interracial children, and all believed themselves to be cultural sophisticates, and had given their progeny names like Anazazi, Coltrane, and Miró that reflected their worldly curiosity. They avoided discussing race, as if the mere mention of the subject might cause their fragile alliances to come apart. “Mexican” was a word that sounded harsh, somehow, and it caused a few of them to look at Araceli.
    Maureen’s maid was a woman with the light copper skin of a newly minted penny, and cheeks that were populated with a handful of summer freckles. Araceli’s Mexican forebears included dark Zapotecs and redheaded Prussians, and in her family she was on the paler side of the spectrum. But in California, and at this party, she stood out unmistakably as an ambassador of the Latino race. Still, she appeared oblivious to the Big Man’s comments as she walked past. Others glanced briefly at Scott: he didn’t have any of the qualities associated with “Mexicans” by those in the metropolis who were not Mexican, but his surname was Torres, after all. Scott was sipping his sangria and had just closed his eyes and wasn’t listening either. He was, instead, trying to discern all the different fruits in this beverage: grapes from the wine, of course, and also orange and apple.
And is that pomegranate? Pomegranate? That takes me back.
    “Still, I guess they really do deserve a share of the pie,” the Big Man said, renewing his monologue with a conciliatory tone, as if there might be a closeted Mexican in his audience. “But this