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entrada into New Mexico, were under attack.
    â€œI love you,” she whispered. “Whatever the day holds.”
    â€œI love you. My fair Ophelia,” he whispered.
    She smiled. “That’s a sweet thing to say.”
    â€œI mean it.”
    â€œI know, but doesn’t Ophelia go crazy and drown herself?”
    He blushed and looked down at his feet. His boots needed a shine.
    â€œMaybe you could be my Helen of Troy.”
    â€œOh no. She was too beautiful. Besides, she left her husband for Paris. I would never leave you, mi amor.” She touched his cheek.
    â€œHey, what if I said you’re my chile and beans.”
    â€œI like that best,” she replied. “Now to work. Lorenza’s not here today. She called early this morning. She might not return in time to attend the Algodones meeting.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œShe went to Las Cruces to help a friend. A writer whose friends swear the image of Pedro Infante appeared on a tortilla. You know how Elvis appears, now it’s Pedro. First he was spotted in El Paso, now in Las Cruces on a tortilla they were baking for their Pedro Infante Club party. We all have our spirits, que no?”
    â€œYeah, we do,” Sonny agreed. “I’ll take Chica.”
    â€œI’ll fix you two a lunch.”
    â€œGreat.”
    He wished they could cancel everything and spend the day together in Jemez Springs. But she had to be ready. Something fragile had broken in her during the miscarriage, and that would take time to mend.
    She needs time, Lorenza had told him. Right now she’s just dealing with the cafe, living on the surface of the world. Her love is still there, perhaps stronger than ever. You just be ready.
    â€œI will be—”
    Rita turned. “What?”
    â€œNothing. I love you.”
    She winked.
    Sonny walked into the dining area, which was buzzing and crackling. Jemez Springs was the morning’s conversation. What the hell was going on?
    In a corner table sat the mayor, Fox, and a couple of his cronies from city hall, men who wore two faces.
    Chicano activists called the mayor Fox because his favorite TV show were reruns of the X-Files . La plebe loved to nickname politicians. Once baptized the name stuck for life, and those who recognized the crafty man’s politics said he played like a Zorro, so Fox it was.
    Today the Fox was sniffing around Rita’s Cocina.
    The mayor looked at Sonny and signaled.
    Yeah, Sonny thought, genetic drift. Now I’m caught in it.

3
    Rita’s Cocina was packed with an assortment of North Valley paisanos, including a chorus of retired elders. Los viejitos ate breakfast at Rita’s then headed for the North Valley senior citizen center, their agora, to discuss the politics of the day. Today they would sit glued to the TV set, ignoring the primped-up, purple-haired comadres who tried to get them to play bingo. Instead the old codgers would watch the sketchy news they were getting from Jemez Springs. A terrorist plot in the air. They loved it. Any news was fodder for their plática.
    Retired, bent, slurping their coffee, they talked, a continuous buzz, bees in a hive. “En aquellos tiempos la gente vivía en paz.” “Hoy no sabe nada la plebe.” “Chingaron bien a Saddam. Pulled down his statue. Nothing lasts.” “You know, todo se acaba.” “You got that right!”
    Plática, the oral tradition of the forum, ancient as the Nuevomexicanos who first settled the Rio Grande Valley. In the shadow of the Sandia Mountain they had settled to farm, to raise sheep and kids, and to leave their bones in the penitente earth once their plática was done.
    Plática was a cultural ritual, old as the Greeks at the agora, old as the Sumerians who told stories of the flood and the creation of first man and woman long before those stories were recorded by the Hebrews. Stories older than the telephone and TV. The oral