Black Pomegranate Read online

  I quickly showered and shaved and put on a freshly-ironed shirt and a pair of slacks. My usual weekend attire was a pair of very-worn jeans and a ragged tee shirt, but I didn’t want to look like a slob when I was with Catarina. She may not have realized it, but in just three days she had changed me, made me over completely. I was transformed into a new person with a new personality. I even answered to a new—or, at least, a modified—name.

  Cat’s apartment was about the same distance from the college as mine, but on the other side of the campus, closer to Timberline Village. Her neighborhood was more upscale and the rents considerably higher.

  We were in for a shock when Cat opened the door. Her apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were emptied, clothes tossed everywhere, pictures pulled off the walls, furniture tipped over and ripped open.

  She held a hand over her mouth, as if to suppress a scream. “Sangre de Cristo!” she exclaimed. “They’ve found me!”

  I held her in my arms. She was trembling uncontrollably. “Who’s found you, Cat? What do you mean?”

  “The rebels. Someone must have told them I was here, and they came to murder me!” She started crying.

  I did not know whether or not Cat’s assumption was justified, but she obviously felt her life was in jeopardy. I dialed 9-1-1. While we were waiting for the police to arrive, we sat down on the couch.

  I lit a cigarette. “Perhaps it was a miracle your car didn’t start last night. If you were home when they broke in …”

  She put a finger to my lips. “Silencio, Alfredo. I don’t even want to think of what might have happened. You might have come to look for me and found me lying in a pool of my own blood.”

  That did it. I couldn’t let anyone harm my darling Catarina. “I want you to move in with me,” I insisted. “I’ll protect you. I have a gun, and I’ll buy another for you.”

  She shook her head sadly. “It won’t do any good, Alfredo. The rebels will find me and murder both of us in our sleep. Worse yet, if anyone from the college finds out we’re living together, you’ll lose your job.”

  “Those are chances I’m willing to take, though the alternatives are hardly comparable. It’s not a Hobson’s choice situation—if you’ll forgive the expression,” I laughed hollowly. “After last night, I would not want to go on living if anything happened to you. I promise I will protect you, Catarina.”

  “Oh, Alfredo, you make me feel so safe!” She leaned over and gave me a passionate kiss.

  “And, I’m certainly not worried about losing my job. If I get fired, I can always go to Granada Negra and help fight the rebels,” I kidded.

  Tears were still welled up in Cat’s eyes, but my response made her smile. “You’d … you’d really do that for me?” she asked coyly. She had taken me seriously.

  “I would go to the ends of the earth for you, my beloved,” I told her, somewhat melodramatically.

  “Then I will live with you. I will be your paramour. Your lover. We can move my things to your apartment this afternoon.”

  I got the impression that was what she really wanted, anyway.

  MY LIVING QUARTERS had seemed too small for even one person, but, because Cat had straightened and organized the apartment the day before, there was plenty of room for the two of us. She hadn’t brought many possessions from Granada Negra, and it took but a short while to move her to my place.

  When she arrived in Timberline, Cat had rented a completely furnished apartment. Other than her clothes, which all fit into four pieces of luggage; her school books; a pocket-size digital camera; and the three cases of coffee, everything else in her apartment, even the dishes and linens, belonged to the landlord.

  We quickly settled into a routine. Until my car was repaired, each weekday she drove me to the college, always dropping me off outside the campus so no one would see us together and suspect we were shacking up.

  After Cat’s last class of the day, which usually ended at one or two o’clock, she would drive back to our apartment, stopping off at the grocery store or cleaners if necessary. Then she’d study or do her homework assignments, while simultaneously preparing dinner. I’d never met a more efficient, multitasking person in my life. She accomplished more in an hour than I did in an entire day.

  I generally had to attend a faculty or department meeting after the day’s last class, so was seldom able to leave the campus before five. I’d call Cat when I was ready to come home. While she drove down the hill to pick me up, I’d walk to our appointed meeting place.

  Cat would usually have dinner ready to put on the table as soon as we arrived home. Since she did the cooking, I insisted on doing the dishes, but Cat was always beside me helping. Afterwards, I would either tutor her, or she would study for another class while I graded papers or prepared lessons for the following day. I have no idea when Cat found time to clean the house, but it was always immaculate; nor do I know when she did the laundry, but the dirty clothes hamper was perpetually empty.

  Weeknights, we’d usually be in bed before eleven. Sometimes we watched television—primarily the news, hoping to get word on the state of affairs in Granada Negra. Always, we would make passionate love before going to sleep.

  On weekends, we’d take long drives. To Lake Arrowhead. Big Bear. Disneyland. Universal Studios. Palm Springs. Once, we went all the way to San Diego and spent the night in a hotel overlooking Mission Bay. The following day we visited Sea World and the San Diego Zoo. We even went on several field trips in the mountains or to the desert, so Cat could collect plant specimens for her botany class.

  Cat seemed to have an unlimited source of money and insisted on paying for everything. She bought countless gifts for me, especially clothes, which I had needed badly. Other than not being able to tell the world of our love for each other, it was a near-perfect relationship.

  But let me back up. I’ve left out a number of important details.

  Six

  Uncle Carlos

  THE MORNING AFTER moving in with me, Cat phoned her Uncle Carlos. She spoke with him in rapid Spanish for ten minutes, then handed the phone to me. The voice on the other end of the line was thick and slurred, as if the man had been drinking heavily.

  “This is Carlos Perez. And you’re Alfredo Hobson?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  The voice turned inquisitorial. “My niece has informed me you and she are—shall we say, betrothed?”

  Cat and I hadn’t mentioned marriage, although the thought had already crossed my mind. Apparently she had felt it necessary to tell her uncle we were engaged in order to justify our living arrangement.

  “Yes, sir, we are.”

  The voice became pompous. “You do realize Catarina is the daughter of el presidente of the Sovereign Republic of Granada Negra?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  The voice became suspicious. “Catarina is a very important person in our country. Like a princess. It makes me very—shall we say, apprehensive, that she wants to marry a foreigner.”

  I’d never thought of myself as being a foreigner, but I could understand why Perez would think I was.

  “I, uh, I …”

  “Never mind,” he continued, abruptly cutting me off. “Catarina has told you our country is in the throes of a revolution?”

  “Yes, she has, sir.”

  His voice became serious. “Until our political problema is settled, Catarina’s life is in extreme danger. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I believe I do.”

  “It will be up to you to protect her. Are you up to the job?”

  “I’ll certainly do everything I can.”

  Perez’s voice turned unctuous. “That’s good. Catarina is, shall we say, the pomegranate of our eyes. Someday, she may become the ruler of our little country, which will make you the first gentleman of Granada Negra.”

  “I’d never considered that, sir, but …”

  “Never mind.” The voice became threatening. “If anything happens to Catar
ina, I and every member of our family—indeed, the entire nation of Granada Negra—will hold you personally reprehensible. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I certainly do.”

  The voice became hearty. “Good! We understand one another! Let me now offer my personal, shall we say, congratulations on your upcoming wedding victuals. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think I get the gist of what you’re saying.”

  “Good. I pray that soon the resolution will be over and Catarina can bring you with her to Granada Negra for a large, formal state wedding. Presidente Perez—my erstwhile brother—will most certainly declare your wedding day to be a national holiday.”

  I swallowed hard again. “Thank you, sir. Do you want to talk to your niece again now?”

  “No. She has given me your telephone number. I will call and let you know when her father is retrofitted to his office.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The voice became conspiratorial. “In the meantime, remember what I told you. Be very cautious. Be especially wary of swarthy strangers in black limousines.”

  Perez either hung up or we were cut off.

  Cat put her arm around my waist. “My uncle—what do you think of him?” she asked.

  “He seems, uh, he seems …”

  “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” she laughed.

  “Did you tell him we’re getting married?”

  “Of course. You know I will marry you, Alfredo. But not now. Not here. We must wait until we can travel to Granada Negra and all of my family can be present at our wedding.”

  “I think you’re right,” I concurred. “I wouldn’t want to rush you into anything.”

  “Oh, Alfredo, you’re so considerate!” she gushed.

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Cat and I were greatly relieved to learn a gang of teenagers had been arrested for burglarizing and vandalizing an apartment not half a block from where Cat had lived. There had been a spate of similar incidents in the neighborhood. The police set a trap and caught the culprits red-handed. While they did not admit ransacking Cat’s apartment, neither did they deny the act, the misguided youths being somewhat proud of their nefarious accomplishments.

  As the rebels apparently did not know where Cat was, the immediate threat to her life seemed to be over. But we did not let up our guard. Not right away. As I promised, I bought another gun (with Cat’s money), a Smith & Wesson .38 Special Ladysmith, which comes with a pretty carrying case that looks like a woman’s makeup bag.

  While teaching Cat how to use it, I told her, “The average response time for 9-1-1 is 17 minutes, while the average response time for an S&W .38 is 1,400 feet per second.”

  Well, it isn’t exactly true that I taught her how to use the gun. Target practice is a major competitive sport in Granada Negra, and girls as well as boys learn how to shoot a gun in elementary school. Cat was a little out of practice, though, so she honed her skills by plinking at empty cans and bottles when we went on safari in the desert to gather her botanical specimens.

  I FINALLY GOT MY CAR out of the shop, thanks to Cat’s financial assistance. The bill came to $723.84, which was about eighty-four cents more than the car was worth. But it ran, and Cat was freed from the chore of driving me to and from the college each day.

  One afternoon, I didn’t have any after-class meetings and was able to leave the campus early. When I arrived home, Cat was not there. She had taken off on one of her frequent “errands,” which usually meant driving to a shopping mall in San Bernardino and buying more presents for me. She’d already given me a new large-screen digital television; a DVD recorder; a stereo with CD player; more gold chains than I could wear at a time without getting a crick in my neck; a fancy rod and reel, though I’d never fished a day in my life; and an entire new wardrobe. In just a few weeks, we could barely move about the apartment because of her many acquisitions.

  I was feeling increasingly guilty because I was financially challenged and unable to reciprocate in kind, and told Cat so. But she assured me Granada Negra women were taught to always take care of their men, and she was doing only what had been instilled in her from early childhood. If American men ever find out about Granada Negra women, there will be a mass exodus of eligible bachelors from the United States.

  I certainly had no complaints. Catarina cooked gourmet dinners every night. She was an immaculate housekeeper and impeccable laundress. She more than carried her financial weight. Much more. She fulfilled every fantasy I’d ever had in my life, and then some. And, the more she did for me, the happier and more satisfied she became. Catarina never raised the issue of sexual equality. She was far superior to me and we both knew it.

  I picked up the telephone on the first ring, thinking it might be Cat. Instead, I heard a macho male voice.

  “Alfredo?”

  “Yes. This is he.”

  “This is your Uncle Carlos.”

  “Oh, hello, Señor Perez.”

  “Not Señor Perez. Uncle Carlos. Please. You’re family, Alfredo. Nearly family, anyway. I hope I’m not calling at an incontinent time?”

  “Uh, no, I was just working on my computer.”

  “Good. Is my darling niece Catarina there?”

  “No, she’s out for a little while.”

  “Good. I don’t want to alarm her.”

  “What’s wrong, Señor … uh, Uncle Carlos?”

  “It’s her father. My brother, Mario. Our revered presidente.”

  I feared the worst. “Has something happened to him?”

  “Yes. No. Rather, we don’t know. But we’ve heard rumors he’s dead. General Pancho Villa—you’ve heard of him, I presume?—personally captured one of the rebel captains and tortured—I mean, shall we say, Villa integrated the man until he confessed.”

  “Ohmigod. What did he confess to?”

  “He confessed everything Villa told him to confess. But, the man might have been lying. None of the rebels can be trusted.”

  “What shall I tell Catarina?”

  “For now, nothing. No—if you tell her I called and said nothing, she will not believe you. Tell her this. Exactamente. Word for word. ‘Uncle Carlos called to say your father has been captured by one of the rebel bands, and General Villa is trying to get him back.’”

  “That isn’t really the truth, is it?” I questioned.

  “The rebel captain that General Villa captured will swear to it on his mother’s grave. Even if she’s still alive.”

  I was more than a little confused, but I had already learned things aren’t always what they seem with Granada Negrans. Perhaps there was some secret message hidden in Uncle Carlos’s statement that Cat would understand.

  “Okay, I’ll tell Catarina what you said.”

  “Repeat it. Exactly.”

  “Uncle Carlos called to say your father has been captured by one of the rebel bands, and General Villa is trying to get him back.”

  “That’s it. One more thing …” His voice trailed off.

  “What’s that, Uncle Carlos?”

  “Beware of swarthy strangers in black limousines,” he boomed.

  It was the second time he’d made the same cryptic comment. Oddly enough, on a number of occasions I’d noticed an old black sedan—not a limousine, by any stretch of the imagination—that seemed to be following Cat and me. And, numerous times, I’d seen what seemed to be the same black sedan parked near our apartment or the college. If I saw the car again, I’d make it a point to check out its occupants. Carefully.

  The line went dead. Again, I wasn’t sure whether Uncle Carlos hung up or we were cut off. I’ve observed that when soap opera characters talk on the phone, they never say goodbye. Perhaps Carlos had just been watching too many soaps.

  Seven

  The Tantrum

  AS I HAD EXPECTED, when Catarina returned to our apartment she was loaded down with shopping bags. “Which store did you buy out this time?” I asked facetiously.

  “
I didn’t buy so much,” she shrugged. “Only a couple of new tropical-weight suits for you at Macy’s. They were having a sale. And some shirts and ties. Things you’ll need when we go on our honeymoon. Where would you like to stay first—Cannes or Monaco?”

  I’d learned there was no point in contradicting her. “You choose. I’ve never been to either place.” I spotted a bag from a music store. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, you weren’t supposed to see this,” she pouted, trying to hide the package behind her back. “It was going to be a surprise.”

  “You know I hate surprises. Why don’t you let me see it now?”

  Petulantly, she handed over the bag. It contained a half-inch-thick stack of sheet music—all tunes from Broadway shows—and a book titled, How to Become a Concert Pianist in Ten Easy Lessons.

  “I thought you’d like to learn how to play the piano,” she said.

  “What are you talking about? We don’t have a piano.”

  Her beautiful face lit up. “We do now! That’s the rest of the surprise! They’ll be delivering it Monday afternoon.”

  “Catarina, my wonderful Catarina, where can we put a piano? This apartment is bulging at the seams now.”

  She was crestfallen. Too late, I realized I’d crushed her feelings. “It isn’t a very big piano, Alfredo. It’s only a baby.”

  “What do you mean, only a baby? Do you mean it’s an electronic keyboard?”

  “No. It’s a baby grand. That’s what the salesman told me. But he promised it would never get any bigger than it is now.”

  I shook my head. “If you buy much more, we’ll have to get a larger apartment.”

  “Oh, no we won’t!” she sang in a taunting, sing-song voice, making the word won’t into at least three syllables. “As soon as the revolution is over and we can move to Granada Negra, we’ll have room for everything. Including as many children as you want, Alfredo. My father promised me the entire west wing of the presidential palace when I get married.”