Black Pomegranate Read online

  “How did your day go, sweetheart?” she asked, taking me by the hand and leading me into the kitchen. Since I’d guessed the surprise, I was no longer excluded from the kitchen. Rather, Cat wanted me to keep her company while she put the finishing touches on dinner.

  I stroked my chin, as if in deep contemplation. “Let’s see … I suppose you could say it was a fairly typical day at T. C. My morning class gave me a hard time, but it probably wasn’t their fault. I think we’re having an epidemic of sorts. My morning students seem to have developed terminal cases of infectious stupidity.

  “Then there was lunch. The salami sandwich I bought in the cafeteria gave me heartburn. Or maybe it was all the rotten school coffee I drank, I don’t know which. They must cut the coffee grounds with steer manure to save money. I should take a thermos of Granada Negra coffee in to work with me every day.

  “Oh, yes. Dean Martin, the gentle soul, called me into his office for a friendly little chat. He gleefully informed me you’re being kicked out of my computer class and you’ll have to take an incomplete on the course. Then, he fired me.”

  Catarina’s eyes doubled in size. “You were fired? What for? And, why am I being kicked out of your class? I’ve been working hard to get good grades. I’m actually ahead of the other students, thanks to your tutoring—even though I started late.”

  “It seems some stool pigeon snitched to Martin that we’re living in sin. And, to Martin and the other stuffed shirts and prudes in charge of the college, that’s a no-no. The dean must think we’re going to give my students ideas which, if he only realized it, already occupy their minds most of the time.”

  Catarina shrugged. “No big deal. So, you won’t have to go in to work any more. Good. I’m glad. I can keep you up most of the night making love and you can sleep till noon while I attend my classes. Then, you can spend the rest of the day watching Judge Judy on television or learning how to play the piano or—what do you call it?—surfing the information highway?”

  I held up my hand to cut her off. Cat was starting to make being a drone sound too pleasurable. “Hold on—don’t put me out to pasture yet. I’m still going to be teaching at Timberline until the end of the semester. The dean said he would have let me go right away, but he couldn’t find a replacement in mid-semester. I’d have told him to shove the job where the sun doesn’t shine and walk this afternoon, but Martin made it clear that if I don’t stay until the semester’s over, I won’t get a decent letter of recommendation. He’s got me over a barrel.”

  Cat shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. You don’t need the job or his letter of recommendation, Alfredo. I have more than enough money to take care of both of us. And, when the revolution is over and we move to Granada Negra, I will have my father appoint you as the chancellor of Universidad de Granada Negra. I will give my personal recommendation, and that will be sufficient.”

  I really believed she could do it. “That’s an interesting thought. Tell me about the university. How big is it?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “How big would you like it to be? I’ll have my father start construction as soon as he returns to power.”

  I was almost caught up in Catarina’s fantasy. At least, I think it was a fantasy. Granada Negrans often erase the fine line that separates fact from fiction, fantasy from reality, genius from insanity.

  “Well, for the time being, I guess I’ll stay on at the college,” I shrugged. “I’d get bored if I just hung out in this apartment all day. Besides, most of my students are pretty good kids, and I don’t want to let them down.”

  Catarina was still incredulous. “I don’t understand how Dean Martin learned about us. We’ve been very discreet, Alfredo.”

  “One of my students turned us in. I don’t know which one. Maybe it’s better if I don’t find out. I’d probably say or do something I’d regret later.”

  “And how did this busybody student know we’re living together? Have you confided in anyone?”

  I shook my head. “No, of course not. Apparently, he saw you buying something at the drug store that aroused his curiosity, so he followed you. When you came here, he put two and two together.

  “By the way, what were you doing in the drug store? Did you have to get a prescription filled?” I was consumed with curiosity, but did not want to ask Cat point-blank if she was pregnant.

  “No. I just picked up a few things to send to my cousin Maria. Many items are difficult to obtain in Granada Negra, especially with the revolution going on.”

  “What type of items, Cat?” I pressed.

  “Nothing in particular. Let me think. Some name-brand cosmetics. A few bottles of French perfume. And some over-the-counter medications. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t buy anything else?”

  She grinned. “I did buy a little something else. But it’s going to be a big surprise for you, Alfredo!”

  Uh, oh. If Cat’s expecting, that’s going to be a helluva lot more than a big surprise.

  “Did you buy a pregnancy test kit?” I could feel myself shaking while I waited for her answer.

  Cat looked puzzled. “Why on earth would you ask me that? Wait a minute. Yes, I did. I completely forgot. Maria and her husband have been trying to have a baby.” She started laughing. “Oh, my precious sweetheart! You were hoping I was going to have a baby, weren’t you?” she asked coyly.

  I deliberately ignored her question. “According to Dean Martin, our little informant saw you buy the pregnancy test kit and thought it was for you. He was curious about who the father might be, so he followed you to see what he could learn. When he saw you let yourself into our apartment and found out you and I are living together, he ran straight to the dean’s office to blab.”

  Catarina frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone do such an unkind thing? What would he have to gain? What we do in the privacy of our home doesn’t harm him.”

  “Who knows? Some of the kids at Timberline are as prudish as their parents and the college administration. Perhaps he wanted to make points with Dean Martin. More likely, he just hoped to stir up trouble. Some people are turned on by schadenfreude—that is, they delight in other people’s misery.”

  “Well, he did not succeed. He did not make me miserable and I hope he did not make you miserable.”

  “Miserable? No. I could not care less about the job. But, for a while there, I was pretty shaken up. When Dean Martin told me you’d bought a pregnancy test kit, I thought perhaps I was going to be a father.”

  “Oh, Alfredo! I didn’t realize you were so anxious to start a family. I thought you would want to wait until we were in Granada Negra. But, if that’s what you want, I will stop taking the pills …”

  “No, Catarina. You’re right. We should wait.”

  “If you say so, my love. If you say so.”

  MY EXISTENCE B.C.—before Catarina—was stodgy and boring and meaningless. In common with a multitude of other men, I was merely marching in place for that brief interval between birth and death, a human hamster on the treadmill of life. Each morning I rose from my bed, trudged wearily off to work, and stumbled through the day like an automaton, accomplishing only as much as was minimally necessary to survive. And every night I fell asleep with the knowledge that, save for insignificant variations, tomorrow would be a dull repetition of today.

  And then, miracle of miracles, Catarina blew into my life like a tropical hurricane. She was vibrant and exciting—and like the weather, unpredictable. Further, she loved me and I loved her. For the first time, I perceived that my life had import. I looked forward eagerly to each day, each hour, each minute.

  But, simultaneously, I felt trapped in the eye of the storm. All was calm for the moment, yet I was painfully conscious of being completely surrounded by a tempest and at any time I might be swept away by gale-force winds and torrential rain.

  If I could have had but one wish granted, one prayer answered, my request would have been for circumstances to remain the same for all
eternity. But I quickly realized the futility of that desideratum, for change is the only thing in life that’s certain.

  For the moment, there were no major decisions to make. But after peace returned to Granada Negra, what then? Catarina had grandiose, ebullient plans. They varied from day to day, her pendulum of fantasy swinging wildly from one pot of gold at the end of her mind’s rainbow to the other; all were grounded on the assumption I would pack my belongings and move with her to Granada Negra the moment it became feasible for us to do so.

  At first I thought Cat was merely bantering, and I strung along with the repartee. By the time I realized she was ardently committed to the notion, it was too late for me to burst her balloon without deflating her dreams and, undoubtedly, ruining our romance.

  I took small consolation in the fact that the revolution in Granada Negra continued unabated. Sooner or later would come a day of reckoning, a time for me to fish or cut bait.

  “CATARINA, WHERE ARE all the ashtrays?” I asked irritably. She had an annoying habit of emptying and washing an ashtray the minute I snuffed out a cigarette.

  Cat was at the sink, washing the dinner dishes. She pointed her head slightly in my direction, but continued with her chore. “Ashtrays? I broke them all.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “It didn’t just happen. I used a hammer.” That time, she didn’t bother turning her head.

  “What do you expect me to do with my cigarette butts? Drop them on the rug?” I said sarcastically. I was holding a cigarette with a glowing one-inch ash about ready to fall.

  “Here, let me help you,” Cat answered pleasantly, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached. She took the cigarette from my hand, walked back to the sink, turned on the water, and drenched it. “There. Now you won’t have to worry about the ashes anymore.”

  I was beginning to get the message.

  “I wish you would not smoke, my love,” Catarina declared. “It is not good for you, and the smoke aggravates my allergies. You’ve burned many holes in your clothes, and our entire apartment reeks with the stench of stale tobacco.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Smoking is a nasty, filthy habit. I’ve tried to quit—many times—all without success. I’ve tried the patches and the nicotine gum and the inhalers, but they didn’t help me. Someday I’m going to succeed. I really am.”

  “Alfredo, I can help you quit. Smoking is just a habit. Whenever you think you want a cigarette, let me know, and I’ll give you something better to do with your mouth and hands.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but I certainly planned to find out. Very soon. I realized that if Catarina wanted me to stop smoking, I’d better make an honest effort to do so.

  Eleven

  Pigs-in-Blankets

  BECAUSE OF ITS ELEVATION of 3,950 feet above sea level, Timberline doesn’t get heavy doses of smog like San Bernardino, Riverside, Ontario, or the other cities in the eastern part of the Los Angeles basin, except when an inversion layer of warm air holds in and stagnates the cooler air lying closer to the earth’s surface. Nevertheless, on most days, the skies in Timberline show a cast of brown near the horizon, and distant mountain peaks are partially obscured by a dirty haze.

  I wakened early on Sunday morning—even earlier than Catarina, who usually rose before dawn and showered and dressed and made coffee and started breakfast before I opened my eyes and stirred out of bed.

  Still in my bathrobe, I stuck my head outside the front door like a groundhog waking from a winter’s hibernation. The previous night’s rain cleansed the air and continued on its way. Had it been spring instead of autumn, the groundhog would have seen his shadow and retreated into his hole for another six weeks, for the sun was shining brightly. Except for a few puffy, marshmallow-white cumulous clouds, the skies were a deeper blue than I’d seen in a long time.

  A slight nip was in the air, a promise of the frigid days and nights to come in the following months. Freshly-washed pine trees and meadows of grasses dried golden by the summer heat gave off a heavenly aroma that blended with the sweet scent of wood smoke rising from someone’s fireplace or cast-iron stove. The deciduous trees—quaking aspens, I think—were starting to change color and were tinged with yellows, oranges, and reds.

  Cat woke up when I closed the door. “I’ll get up and make coffee, honey,” she called out to me. “Don’t do a thing. Just sit down and read the paper or watch TV.”

  Cat didn’t like me to help in the kitchen—partially because she considered it to be a woman’s responsibility, partially because she knew that nothing I cooked ever turned out right. My way of making toast was to burn a piece of bread and then scrape it. Besides, I always left the kitchen a mess. As I said, I tend to be a slob.

  “I have a better idea,” I told her. “It’s beautiful outside. Forget the coffee. Let’s go to the pancake house in the village for breakfast, then take a long ride.”

  She went for the idea in a big way. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” she replied, jumping out of bed. “I’ll bring my camera. And a box of baggies. I want to look for specimens for my botany assignment.”

  Cat bought matching outfits for us in anticipation of the change in weather: cowboy-style plaid flannel shirts and Levi’s blue jeans. We decided the weather had turned cool enough for flannel shirts, though we might be a little too warm later in the afternoon. I suggested we wear boots, if she intended for us to tramp through the woods gathering leaves and acorns or whatever it was she needed for her class.

  Many other people in Timberline decided to have breakfast at the pancake house that morning. The hostess told us it would be about half an hour before we could be seated, a few minutes longer if we wanted to eat outside on the patio. Thankfully, the restaurant had a pot of coffee and Styrofoam cups set up on a little table in the waiting area for those of us needing an immediate jolt of caffeine. Their java was not nearly as good as Cat’s Granada Negra coffee.

  Two of my students were also waiting for a table. They came over and said they’d heard a rumor I was leaving the college and wanted to know if it was true. I told them what happened, down to the nitty-gritty details, and they said I had been handed a rotten deal. I agreed with them wholeheartedly.

  Eventually, Cat and I were seated. The eight-page menus listed every imaginable type of pancakes and waffles, as well as a full page of omelets. I was surprised to learn Cat had never heard of pigs-in-blankets. She shuddered when she read the name on the menu, finding the appellation unappetizing. After I explained what pigs-in-blankets were, she decided to give them a try. I opted for a Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream.

  An hour and a half later we were finished with breakfast, sated with coffee, and on the road, heading up the mountain.

  Some people like to listen to the radio while driving. I prefer to make conversation.

  “Cat, you’ve never explained why there’s a revolution going on in Granada Negra. From what you did tell me, I gathered your father is a very good president, a man who is deeply concerned about the welfare of your country’s citizens. Why are the people so unhappy that they feel the need to overturn the government?”

  “Not all of the people are unhappy,” she answered, with a shrug. “Just the non-working employees.”

  “But you told me they get paid for not working. Your father’s plan certainly seems more than fair to me.”

  “It is. But some of the people think they do a better job of not working than others and should get a raise. Others want promotions to higher-salaried non-working positions.”

  I was puzzled. The Granada Negran mode of thinking was often hard for me to comprehend. “Then, the non-working employees are not all paid the same?”

  Cat looked at me as if I were a complete fool. “Of course not. Should a non-working ditch digger earn as much as a non-working engineer?”

  When she put it that way, the non-workers’ complaints seemed to have a certain degree of validity. “So, if a non-worki
ng ditch digger wanted to become a non-working engineer, what would he do?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “He’d have to present credentials to prove he was qualified for the engineer’s non-job, if one existed.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I nodded agreeably. It made as much sense as everything else I’d learned about Granada Negra.

  “Of course it does.”

  “Do the non-workers have any other grievances?” I asked.

  “Yes. There’s the matter of vacations. Workers get a two-week paid vacation annually, but the non-workers don’t. They have to non-work fifty-two weeks a year.”

  “But if the non-workers don’t go in to work anyway, and they don’t miss any pay, what difference does it make whether they get a so-called vacation or not?”

  “To them, it’s the principle of the matter. The non-workers feel they should be entitled to the same benefits as the workers.”

  Cat had again lost me. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. The non-workers believe that since they don’t have to go in to work, they shouldn’t have to go in to get paid, either. Many of them live some distance from their non-job and want the paychecks delivered to their homes by messenger service.”

  “That could prove to be expensive. Why don’t the employers just put the non-workers’ checks in the mail?”

  She shook her head. “That wouldn’t satisfy the non-workers, either. Someone made that suggestion once, and the non-workers said, ‘Why should we wait until Monday or Tuesday of the following week to receive our money, when the workers get paid on Friday?”’

  “Suppose the employers put the non-workers’ paychecks in the mail on Tuesday or Wednesday of each week. Surely, the majority of the checks would be delivered by Friday.”

  “Yes, but some people would receive them on Wednesday or Thursday. And then, the workers would become incensed because the non-workers got paid before they did, and they would rebel against the government.”

  My head felt like it was rapidly filling with cobwebs. “Maybe I just don’t understand. To me, the non-workers’ complaints seem trivial. Most certainly, they’re insufficient justification for starting a revolution.”