The end of the foyer seems to lead to another hallway. That hallway seems to point north. When in doubt, follow Polaris, the North Star. That’s a Jipari rule. The mariachi band is playing one of his mother’s favorite songs, and he draws comfort from that.
He’s about to leave the foyer when a young woman in a black dress and frilly white apron turns a corner and almost bumps into him. She smiles a beautiful smile that instantly reminds Emiliano of his sister. “Emiliano?” she asks.
He nods, grateful to find a friendly face.
“Perlita told me to look out for you. I recognized you from your picture in the newspaper.”
“Newspaper?”
“When you won the big soccer game in Chihuahua.” Her eyes fall on the cake. “What a gorgeous cake!”
“For Mrs. Esmeralda. My mother made it.”
“Those little whirls of frosting are very difficult to make.” The young woman starts to take it from his hands, but stops when Emiliano hesitates to let it go. “I’ll put it in a safe place and let Mrs. Esmeralda know it’s from you and made by your mother.”
He allows her to take the cake. “It’s a liqueur cake, my mother’s specialty,” Emiliano tells her.
“I can’t wait to taste it when no one’s looking,” the young woman whispers to him. “Come, I’ll take you to Perlita. She’s by the pool.”
They walk to the end of the hallway and stop in front of some glass doors, through which he can see a stone terrace full of people, and beyond that, the turquoise light of a pool. Emiliano hesitates.
“Go on,” the young woman says. “The rich people’s bark is worse than their bite.”
He laughs. How does she know he’s not one of the rich people? Is it that obvious? She smiles at him one more time before she walks away.
That was pleasant, Emiliano says to himself as he opens the glass door and steps bravely onto the terrace. Pushed against the walls of the house are tables with dozens of hot and cold dishes. There’s more food and more different kinds of it in one place than Emiliano has ever seen. It’s like a banquet scene from a movie about the Roman Empire. When he looks at the abundance of desserts on one of the tables, he feels a pang of sadness. His mother’s masterpiece will be lost in all that richness.
But the sadness dissipates when he sees Perla Rubi sitting at a table by the pool. She’s with a group of people her age—their age. When she sees him coming down the steps from the terrace, she jumps up and walks toward him, arms outstretched, to hug him as if he was lost and is now found.
“I was worried about you!”
“Why?”
“You’re so late. I thought you were going to get here around six.”
“It was a rough day.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it. Come on, I want you to meet my cousins.”
Emiliano is used to shaking hands when being introduced, but neither of the two young men nor the young woman sitting at the table gets up when Perla Rubi introduces him, so he simply nods and gives a babyish five-finger wave to each one. He tries to remember their names, but the only one that sticks with him is the name of the last person: Federico. Perla Rubi drags a chair from the next table and Emiliano sits.
“He’s a hunk!” the young woman whispers in Perla Rubi’s ear, loud enough for Emiliano to hear. Blood rushes to his face. “Look, I made him blush. How cute!”
“Veronica, behave!” Perla Rubi says. Emiliano repeats the name to himself so he won’t forget.
One of the male cousins is looking at his phone and laughing to himself. The other, the one named Federico, is staring at him with cold intensity. There is something about his ears that seems out of proportion with the rest of his head.
“Are you hungry? Want something to drink?” Perla Rubi waves her hand until she catches the attention of a boy with a tray at the other end of the pool.
Emiliano notices that the tables are decorated with miniature piñatas, and the image of Javier’s shack, with its plywood walls and tin roof, flashes in his mind.
“So all of you are related?” he asks, for something to say. He instantly feels stupid. Perla Rubi already told him they were cousins.
“Carlos is my mother’s brother’s son. Veronica is the daughter of my aunt, my father’s sister. And Federico is the son of Veronica’s father’s uncle, so we’re distant cousins, I guess.”
“Extremely distant,” Federico adds, looking at Perla Rubi in a way that makes Emiliano immediately dislike him.
Carlos reaches for his can and chugs whatever beer is left in there. When the boy with the tray reaches them, Perla Rubi says, “Mario, bring us plates of different things. A little of everything. As many of those small plates as you can fit on your tray.”
“Bring me another one of these.” Carlos shakes his empty beer can.
“Three more?” the boy asks.
Emiliano shakes his head. “A Coke for me, please.”
“You don’t like beer?” Federico asks.
“I like it. I just don’t drink it.”
“Rum? Tequila? Wine? Scotch? Do you like anything a man would drink?” His tone is not friendly. The guy is a jerk.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Emiliano says, forcing a smile.
“Oh, how sad!” Federico exclaims.
“Why?” Veronica asks Emiliano, serious.
He shrugs.
“Emiliano belongs to an explorer group,” Perla Rubi jumps in, pride in her voice. “Part of their code is not to drink or do drugs. Isn’t that right, Emiliano?”
“An explorer group? Like the Boy Scouts?” Federico asks.
“I love their cookies!” Carlos says, clapping his hands. “We buy them when we go shopping in El Paso.”
“That’s the Girl Scouts, idiot!” Veronica says.
Emiliano reminds himself that these are Perla Rubi’s relatives and he should be nice to them for her sake. “There are some similarities with the Boy Scouts, but we’re more focused on desert survival.”
Perla Rubi moves her chair closer to him. “Emiliano’s the captain of our school’s soccer team. We won the state championship last year, as you know.” She directs these words at Federico.
“Anyone can play soccer,” Federico responds. “Try hitting a tiny ball with a wooden mallet while your horse is at a gallop.”
“Federico is on our country club’s polo team,” Veronica tells Emiliano. “They think they’re oh so hot, even though it’s the horse that does all the work.”
“Very funny,” Federico says. He turns around. “Where the hell is that kid?”
“He’s trying to figure out what to bring us,” Veronica says, glancing up at the terrace.
“You could walk up and get your own beer, you know,” Perla Rubi says. “Moving your own legs now and then would do you good.”
“Ooo! Touché!” Carlos laughs and picks up his phone again.
Federico says to Emiliano, “Ever been on a horse?”
Emiliano thinks of his bike. When Sara gave it to him, she said it reminded her of Don Quixote’s horse, Rocinante. “I’ve been on a burro. He had these really big, ugly ears.” Emiliano stares for a few moments at Federico’s ears. “Does that count?”