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The Noblest of Blood
- University of Arizona Press
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151 The Noblest of Blood September 1992 The blue-and-white bus lurched forward. Pilar’s fifty-seven-year-old legs were cramped from the long plane ride from Germany. Her arms were sore after carrying her suitcase to the Tel Aviv bus terminal. She tucked her black suitcase underneath her legs and rolled the plastic bag of food into a ball on her lap. Cuauhtémoc had lugged his own heavy suitcase and their backpack farther than she had, in search of the bus to Jerusalem at the Tel Aviv airport. At the Jerusalem bus terminal, Cuauhtémoc gave himself his insulin shot in a public restroom that he effusively praised as extraordinarily clean. Dozens of young Israeli soldiers patrolled the terminal, carrying black machine guns and inspecting luggage, and never for a moment smiling. Cuauhtémoc exclaimed, “I bet you these Israeli soldiers aren’t watching television for three hours a day, or putting makeup on all morning. I wish some of the stupid tirilónes from Ysleta could spend a year or two in the Israeli army.” On the bus Cuauhtémoc looked exhausted again. His coarse black hair was matted against his forehead, his thick neck was flushed, and his left hand trembled slightly. Yet his eyes flashed with a boyish excitement at the narrow, cobblestone streets, ancient stone edifices, and the Jewish men in long black robes, thick beards, and curly sideburns. Pilar and Cuauhtémoc were in the Holy Land, breathing the very air that Dios Nuestro Señor had once breathed almost two thousand years ago. “Oye, Cuauhtémoc, where did the man say we should get off to find a hotel?” Pilar asked. 152 “I didn’t understand all he said. He talked too fast in English, and he had a strange accent. He said Bus No. 18, but that’s all I got.” “Well, you better pay attention and help me find a good neighborhood. Didn’t he also say about half an hour on the bus?” “Yes, half an hour.” Ismael couldn’t believe his parents traveled to a country without hotel reservations, nothing but the suitcases in their hands. “That’s how Mexicans do it,” they had said to Ismael. “We just look around and ask people. The locals know what the best places are. We’re not gringos, with hotel reservations at la Sheraton or la Marriott. Who’s going to pay those exorbitant prices?” Ismael warned his parents about getting lost, about getting into bad neighborhoods by accident. What if they ended up robbed, or stabbed, or worse? “You worry too much, m’ijo,” they had said. “Remember that couple from Peru we met in Barcelona? And that viejito chueco at the Biergarten who told us about taking a boat on the Rhine River? If you give people a smile, and you’re polite, you’d be surprised how nice strangers are! Also, don’t ever tell them you’re American. Tell them you’re Mexican. They’ll treat you much better. We don’t wear clothes that announce to the world, ‘Hey, here are rich tourists. Come and rob us!’ We’ve never thought ourselves as muy muy. We’re from Ysleta.” “Did you notice when we got on this bus?” “Yes, a little after five o’clock.” Pilar was anxious about finding their hotel before nightfall. Two little girls and their mother, in matching black chadors, sat near the front of the bus. Pilar imagined this was how her grandchildren might look in Iran with Julieta. They had come to El Paso to visit for two weeks this summer, including Mohammed, “El Narizón,” as they called him behind his back. The thin, exceptionally tall Mohammed had been quiet, and generally respectful, until the topic turned to politics. Mohammed lectured them on how the Republican and Democratic parties weren’t that different, how these politicians were puppets of big business and the military, and how their unqualified [54.208.238.160] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 18:54 GMT) 153 support for “the terrorist state of Israel” was a reflection of American political corruption. Why had Cuauhtémoc opened his big mouth and mentioned their trip? What was the point of arguing with Mohammed and Julieta anyway? Instead, Pilar had taught seven-year-old Zahira how to make flour tortillas from scratch. Julieta tried to order Zahira to help her clean the green beans, but Zahirita said, “Mamani, no! I am helping Abuelita with her...