Black Pomegranate Read online

  Preface

  Hobson’s Choice

  “When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

  … Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, Chapter 6.

  OXYMORONS ARE PHRASES comprised of words that are contradictory or mutually exclusive. Examples: giant shrimp, tight slacks, long shorts, military intelligence, governmental responsibility, and, to some, happily married.

  Looking-glass phrases are strikingly similar to oxymorons, yet distinctly different. They’re as distorted as reflections from a funhouse mirror.

  A near miss is not a miss, it’s a collision. The lion’s share is not the largest portion, it’s the entirety, as (according to Aesop) lions don’t share their kill. And then there’s Hobson’s Choice.

  During the late 16th and early 17th centuries, Thomas Hobson ran a livery stable in Cambridge, England, with about forty horses for hire. After realizing the favorites were being overworked, Hobson instituted a system of rotating them. He required each customer to choose the horse nearest the stable door, or none at all. Thus, an ostensibly free choice was actually no choice.

  Perhaps the most famous example of a Hobson’s Choice was Henry Ford’s offer to customers of his Model T automobile: “You can have it any color you want, as long as it’s black.”

  Prologue

  The Big Find

  IT WAS THE AUTUMN of 1917. Most of the so-called civilized nations were at arms, but Diego Rosales Rosales knew nothing about such matters. Not the Great War, not the year, not even the season.

  Indeed, why should he be concerned with the season? In the region of Central America where Diego lived, the weather was essentially the same year-round and each day was virtually identical to every other day.

  Nor did Diego know the name of his country, if in fact anyone had ever bothered to give it a name. His entire universe consisted of a small, sparsely-populated valley mostly covered with dense jungle growth. There were a few huts here and a few huts there, but not nearly enough clustered in any one spot to comprise a village.

  The only outsiders he had ever seen were the men who wore crisp white uniforms and carried long rifles and came periodically to steal from the locals—collecting taxes, they called it.

  When he was younger—much younger—Diego impetuously set out to see the world. He hacked a narrow passageway through the jungle undergrowth and ascended all the way to the top of the small hill separating his valley from the next. When he reached the crest, he climbed a coconut palm and looked down the other side. Determining that the next valley appeared to be exactly the same as his own, he decided it was not worth the effort to explore any farther. That one journey—never more than twenty kilometers from where he had been born—constituted the entire extent of Diego’s travels.

  At the moment, Diego was relaxing in the rocking chair he had made for himself. For weeks he’d bravely gathered mangrove saplings from the caiman-infested swamp and used his prized possession, a cuchilla with a razor-sharp eight-inch steel blade, to methodically remove all of the twigs and branches and bark. Once Diego had polished the supple green wood as smooth and as comfortable to the touch as his wife Rosa’s breasts, he curved and weighted each piece with stones from the river, so the wood would retain the proper shape when dry. Later, using rope-like vines from the jungle, he assembled his masterpiece, a rocking chair that made all who saw it envious.

  Diego’s home was typical for the area, made of the same type saplings as his chair, also tied together with jungle vines. A thatched roof of palm fronds kept only some of the rain out, but then the rainwater was always warm, so what did that matter? Two crude openings in the walls served as windows and another sufficed for a door. The floor was hard-packed dirt.

  His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep nor was he taking a siesta. If he had wanted to do that, he would have retired to the hammock inside his hut. A scrawny rooster, most of its feathers lost by molting, pecked at the horde of immense flies that were using Diego’s feet as a resting-place. The bird has seen better days, thought Diego empathetically. But then, so have I.

  At thirty-nine years of age, Diego was past the prime of life. A scant one hundred ten pounds standing barely five feet tall, Diego’s skin was weathered and leathery from lifelong exposure to the tropical sun.

  The rooster scurried out of the way when Rosa came storming up. Rosa Rosales Rosales. Her name had been the same before and after marriage. Rosa was Diego’s first cousin, but few people lived in the valley, so what was a man to do? It would be difficult to find anyone in the valley who wasn’t related in at least one way or another to his or her mate, and as a result, most everyone in the valley bore the surname Rosales Rosales.

  Rosa shook a stubby brown finger at Diego. She was as fat as he was scrawny, weighing at least twice as much, even though she was several inches shorter. Her round face, large eyes, and flat features pointed out she was primarily, if not exclusively, of indigenous blood. Diego’s more oval countenance indicated a smattering of Hispanic influence, perhaps the result of a centuries-ago dalliance of one of his female forebears with a Spanish conquistador.

  “The hole is full. I’ve been telling you to dig another one for weeks. When I sit, everything splashes up on me.”

  Diego pretended to be asleep, but Rosa would not cease her tirade. “Get up, my lazy husband, and dig another hole. If you start now, you can be finished by nightfall. I will not make another dinner for you until you dig a new hole.”

  He continued to ignore her. Their son would be coming home in a few days, perhaps a week, and he was much younger and stronger. The hole could wait. And, what if Rosa didn’t make dinner? Diego could always live on papaya and bananas, which grew wild everywhere and were his for the picking. In fact, he didn’t need to eat at all. He could get all the nourishment he needed from the marvelous beverage he prepared from the large grass-like plants in the field—cana dulce—and the shiny red granadas growing on the bushes surrounding his hut.

  Diego’s father had taught him how to make the concoction, as he had learned from his father before him. The drink was dark purple, nearly black; sweet and tart at the same time; and after a few sips Diego almost felt young again.

  Rosa knew she had lost the battle but not the war. She had another weapon in her arsenal.

  “And, until you have dug a new hole and moved the outhouse over it, you will get no more nooky.”

  That caught Diego’s attention. Food, he could live without. Nooky was another matter altogether. Slowly, he eased out of his comfortable chair. Without bothering to acknowledge Rosa’s presence, he picked up a worn shovel and trudged down the path.

  A fat green iguana sunned itself nearby and watched as Diego dug. If the iguana is still foolish enough to be there when I’m finished, Diego mused, I will catch him and Rosa can cook him for my dinner.

  Fortunately, the soil was soft and loamy and contained no large rocks. Diego was anxious to finish the chore and return to his rocking chair, so he didn’t dally, but worked industriously. Soon, he was up to his waist inside the ever-deeper hole, tossing dirt over his head in a rhythmic motion.

  When the hole was almost as deep as Diego was tall, the shovel hit something that resounded with a loud clank. He bent over to pick up what he thought was a stone, and was surprised to find the object was smooth and shiny.

  Puzzled at his discovery, Diego wiped the dirt from the glass-like object onto his trousers and squinted his eyes for a better look. The item was precisely the dark purple, nearly black color of his homemade wine, and the shape and size of a large granada. Diego did not know for certain what he had found, but immediately recognized he had dug up an item of some value.<
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  In fact, he had unearthed a giant ruby that had been painstakingly crafted and polished, used as a religious icon in long-forgotten ceremonies, and lost centuries before by the original occupants of the land—an ancient, highly-civilized but warlike tribe that had mysteriously disappeared without a trace, save for the genetic legacy of short bodies, round faces with flat countenances, and large eyes handed down to Diego, Rosa, and the other modern-day inhabitants of the valley.

  Elated at his good fortune—he’d always considered himself to be luckier than a two-peckered goat—Diego ran back up the path to show the pomegranate-shaped jewel to Rosa.

  “Rosa, come see what I found,” he called out.

  And then Diego spotted the two tax collectors wearing crisp white uniforms and carrying long rifles who had arrived at the hut while he was digging, and knew his good luck had suddenly turned sour.

  One

  Cat Enters My Life

  YOU AND I BOTH KNOW it’s never a good idea for a teacher to date his or her students. At Timberline College, where I was associate professor of computer science, fraternization between faculty and students is almost a capital offense. But, what could I do? Without a doubt, Cat was the most beautiful, enchanting, scintillatingly seductive creature I’d ever set eyes on.

  She also turned out to be the most audacious, impetuous, cunning, conniving, devious, double-dealing, doggedly determined, exasperatingly maddening woman I’d ever encountered. But then, as Joe E. Brown said in the final scene of the classic movie Some Like it Hot, “Nobody’s perfect.”

  Besides, it wasn’t as if I were a dirty, lecherous old man out to seduce a vulnerable teenager. When we first met, Cat was twenty-five years old—only three years younger than yours truly—and far more worldly. Tall and willowy, with glossy, dark brown hair hanging nearly all the way down to her waist. Flawless skin the color of a Starbucks latte. High-fashion-model cheekbones on a perfectly symmetrical oval face. Large, almond-shaped brown eyes, set wide apart. Lips as soft and plump as jujubes. Breasts like two ripe persimmons. Shapely legs that reached from her groin all the way to the ground. And buttocks so toothsome they made the word callipygian seem a gross understatement.

  What Cat saw in me I’ll never know. My stringy hair was the color of used crankcase oil and I was usually in sore need of a haircut, as I couldn’t afford the expense very often on my meager salary. Often, I sported a week’s growth of beard, because I tended to be lazy. I was skinny to the point of being scrawny, because I ate only when it became absolutely necessary in order to sustain life. There was a pallor to my acne-ridden face from being indoors most of the time. I wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, having strained my baby blues from reading fine print and staring at a vintage CRT too many hours on end. I’ve been told I have a near-terminal case of “speaking in alliterations syndrome.” And I’ve also been told I have tobacco breath and a lousy personality. In other words, I was the paradigm of a stereotypical computer nerd. Not surprisingly, I’ve been a loner most of my life.

  Until I met Cat, I had no incentive to do better. Which just goes to show what a big difference a woman can make in a man’s life.

  No matter. Cat—Catarina Perez Valdez (no relation to the guy on TV who hawks coffee)—made me feel like Tom Hanks, Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Paul Newman, John F. Kennedy, Albert Einstein, and a couple of mythical characters such as Apollo and Hercules, all rolled into one.

  I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when my lust for Catarina transformed into true love. It just magically happened, shortly after we met. Cat was everything I’d ever desired in a woman—she had intelligence, personality, looks, sensitivity, generosity, and was the sexiest woman I’d ever known. She was my exotic fairytale princess, and I was the ugly green frog her love transformed into a prince.

  My last name is Hobson, as in choice. I’ve always resented the fact that my parents saddled me with a dorky first name like Alfred instead of a modern moniker like Lance or Kyle or Kevin or a solid, hard-working handle like Frank or Mike or Jim or even a traditional tag such as John or William or David. I’ve got a theory that kids acquire personalities to match their names. Whoever heard of a Butch or Brutus or Bruno who grew up to be a wimp?

  I’ve been called Al, Alf, Alfie, Fred, and Freddie, when I wasn’t being called out of my name, and I answer to anything. But Cat always addressed me as Alfredo, the R rippling across her tongue like water coursing over stones in a mountain brook, and I suddenly developed an intense craving for little ribbons of pasta in a rich cream sauce.

  Cat majored in biology with minors in chemistry and political science. Where computers fit into her scheme of things I didn’t exactly know, but these days, no matter what field you’re in, it’s important to be able to at least understand computer basics.

  She was most secretive about her grades in other classes. I suspected they were no more than average. Although Cat speaks English fluently, she does so with an accent, which turns some professors off. It had the very opposite effect on me.

  In my class, Cat received straight As. She earned them, every one. They weren’t given to her gratuitously or in exchange for sexual favors. Of course, she had unlimited access to the best possible tutor. Me.

  I suppose you could call Cat an exchange student, though I doubt seriously if anyone from the United States has ever gone to her country to study. Not many people have even heard of it.

  Granada Negra, which translates to black pomegranate (so I was told; my knowledge of Spanish is limited to the items on menus in Mexican restaurants) is one of many tiny countries in Central America often disparagingly referred to as banana republics.

  Granada Negra is so small it wouldn’t constitute a medium-size town in Iowa or Nebraska, and when it does appear on an enlarged map of the area, which isn’t often, there still isn’t enough room to print the entire name of the country—only the initials G.N.

  The country immediately to the east of Granada Negra, Achiote Terra—so named because its soil is the color of the condiment—is of similar size. Thus, on most maps, together the two tiny nations spell out G.N.A.T.

  Yes, they do grow bananas in Granada Negra, as well as guavas, papayas, coffee, and even pomegranates. The country got its name, however, not from the fruit but from an immense, nearly black pomegranate-shaped ruby that was found in 1917 by a peasant who, according to legend, was digging a hole for an outhouse. The giant gem was either given to or appropriated by the ruler at the time—no one seems to know for sure—and became both the nation’s major treasure and its eponymous symbol.

  In more modern times, Cat’s father was the duly elected leader of the country, until he…but, I’m getting ahead of myself. More about Señor Perez later. First, I want to tell you how Cat and I became as tight as a knot tied in a rubber band.

  Three weeks into the fall semester, I’m pacing back and forth and up and down the aisles in my Computer 101 class, wondering what I can do to jump-start my students into thinking logically. For instance, they’ll write GOTO commands in their programs that branch out of nested loops and fill the stacks, causing their programs to crash.

  Suddenly my classroom door opens and in flies this gorgeous woman. Everybody stops what they’re doing and looks up, mouths agape.

  She glances around the room, spots me, and sashays up, stopping just inches from my face. My space is being severely invaded. Her exotic, erotic scent fills my nostrils. Only later did I learn she never wears perfume, because of allergies.

  “Are you Professor Hobson?” this goddess asks, breathing heavily as if she’s been running ever since the semester began.

  I take a step back before answering. “Yeah, that’s me,” I reply gruffly. “What do you want? I’m in the middle of teaching a class.”

  “I’m Catarina Perez Valdez, your new student,” she announces brightly, stepping forward to again reduce the distance between us. “You may call me Cat.”

  My class is already too large and I need another student as much as I
need another mouth to feed. That being the case, I summarily dismiss her. I looked at my watch for effect. “Well, Cat, you’re about three weeks too late. There’s no way you can catch up with the rest of the class now. Try again next semester.”

  I could see the tears welling up in her beautiful brown eyes. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “There was a revolution in my country and many people were killed and the airplanes weren’t flying and I had to take a teeny-weeny little fishing boat all the way from Granada Negra here to the college. I’ll study hard, I promise. Please let me join your class.”

  Timberline College is located in the mountains above San Bernardino; the ocean is about a hundred miles away and four thousand feet lower in altitude. I assumed Cat meant she had to take a boat to Los Angeles Harbor from wherever it was she said she came from, and found other transportation the rest of the way.

  “I’m sorry. It’s impossible,” I say, with finality.

  She starts crying in earnest. “That’s what the registrar said, too, at first. But I finally convinced him that I absolutely must take your class, and he said you’d probably be willing to tutor me for a while until I catch up.”

  Tutor. That’s the magic word! Tutor means extra money. The oil pump on my jalopy was frozen up and the brakes are on the verge of going out and I’m stuck in the mountains and can’t drive anywhere until I come up with over four hundred bucks for repairs.

  “It may take a lot of tutoring to bring you up to speed. Every night and every weekend, for at least the next month. Can you afford that?”

  “I’ll pay you in advance,” she said, wiping tears away with the sleeve of her white blouse. To my surprise, what I thought was an excess of mascara stays on her lashes and doesn’t transfer to the fabric. Later I learned Cat never wears makeup—again, because of allergies.

  She reaches into her book bag and brings out a wad of hundreds and twenties. “Will this be enough?” she asks innocently, handing the bills to me.