The Barbarian Nurseries
“With every serving he raised the eyebrow that was hovering between his Jupiter eye and his moles Io and Europa, and asked if she wanted more coffee. Araceli grinned widely at the sight of this unshaven family patriarch of about fifty-five, a semiretired truck driver dressed in faded green work pants, holding a pan and making breakfast for her when, to her knowledge, he never even made breakfast for himself. “Ay, Octavio,” his wife, Luz, said, after she noted the irony too, “a mí nunca me haces ...breakfast. Qué bonito sería if you brought me breakfast in bed one morning.” Since Araceli’s arrival at his home last night, Octavio Covarrubias had a sudden and strange need to dote over her, a woman whose presence on earth had only faintly registered in his consciousness before.
Octavio Covarrubias was impressed that an ordinary mexicana could be put through an arrest and a symbolic flogging by the machinery of the English-language media, survive with her mexicana dignity más o menos intact, and then enter his living room, of all places.MoreLess
Octavio Covarrubias was impressed that an ordinary mexicana could be put through an arrest and a symbolic flogging by the machinery of the English-language media, survive with her mexicana dignity más o menos intact, and then enter his living room, of all places.MoreLess
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