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"What
are you talking about?" he asked them.

"Bullfighting,"
one of the Mexicans said in English.

As
he was leaving he heard someone call his name. Mr. Fate. He turned around and
was met with Omar Abdul's broad smile.

"Don't
you say hello to your friends, man?"

From
up close he could see that both of the fighter's cheekbones were bruised.

"I guess Merolino's been working out," he said.

"Hazards
of the trade," said Omar Abdul.

"Can
I see the boss?"

Omar
Abdul looked over his shoulder, through the door to the dressing room, and then
he shook his head.

"If
I let you in, brother, I'd have to let in all these other punks."

"Are
they reporters?"

"Some
of them are reporters, but most of them just want their picture taken with
Merolino, want to kiss his hand, kiss his ass."

"How
you doing?"

"Can't
complain, can't really complain," said Omar Abdul.

"What
do you plan to do after the fight?"

"Celebrate,
I guess," said Omar Abdul.

"No,
I don't mean tonight, but after it's all over," said Fate.

Omar Abdul smiled. A cocky, teasing smile. A Cheshire cat smile,
as
i
f instead of being perched on a
tree branch, the Cheshire cat were out in an open field in a storm. The smile
of a young black man, thought Fate, but also a very American smile.

"I
don't know," he said, "look for work, hang out in Sinaloa on the
beach, we'll see."

"Good
luck," said Fate.

As he was walking away he heard Omar say: Count Pickett is the one
who's going to need luck tonight. When he got back to the hall two different
fighters were in the ring and there were hardly any empty seats left. He headed
down the main aisle to the press pit. There was a fat man in his seat who
looked at him, not understanding what he was saying. Fate showed him his ticket
and the man got up and searched his pockets until he found his own ticket. The
two of them had the same seat number. Fate smiled and the fat man smiled. Just
then one of the fighters landed a hook that knocked his opponent down and most
of the audience stood up and roared.

"What
should we do?" Fate asked the fat man. The fat man shrugged and kept his
eyes on the referee as the countdown proceeded. The fallen fighter got up and
the audience roared again.

Fate
raised a hand, with his palm toward the fat man, and retreated. When he was
back in the main aisle, he heard someone calling him. He looked all around but
he couldn't see anyone. Fate, Oscar Fate, the voice shouted. The fighter who
had just gotten up threw his arms around his opponent. His opponent tried to
get out of the clinch by aiming a flurry of blows at the first fighter's
stomach and backing away. Here, Fate, here, the voice shouted. The referee
broke up the clinch. The fighter who had just gotten up made a move as if to
attack but danced slowly backward waiting for the bell. His opponent backed
away, too. The first fighter was wearing white shorts and his face was covered
in blood. The second fighter was wearing black, purple, and red striped shorts
and looked surprised that the other fighter wasn't still on the ground. Oscar,
Oscar, we're over here, shouted the voice. When the bell rang, the referee
headed for the corner of the fighter in white shorts and motioned for a doctor
to come up. The doctor, or whatever he was, examined the boxer's eyebrow and
said the fight could go on.

Fate
turned around and tried to find the people who were calling him. Most of the
fans had gotten up from their seats and he couldn't see anybody. When the next
round began, the fighter in striped shorts
 
 
w
ent on the offensive, looking for a knockout. For the first
few seconds the other fighter stood his ground, but then he threw his arms
around the fighter in striped shorts. The referee separated them several times.
The shoulder of the fighter with striped shorts was stained with the other
fighter's blood. Fate walked slowly toward the ringside seats. He saw
Campbell
reading a
basketball magazine, he saw another American reporter coolly taking notes. One
of the cameramen had set his camera up on a tripod, and the lighting boy next
to him chewed gum and every so often checked out the legs of a girl in the
first row.

He heard his name again and turned around. He thought he saw a
blond woman motioning to him. The fighter in the white shorts fell again. His
mouth guard popped out and flew across the ring, falling right next to Fate.
For a moment Fate thought about bending down and picking it up, but then he was
disgusted by the idea and didn't move, watching the sprawled body of the
fighter and listening to the referee's count. Then, before the referee got to
nine, the fighter stood again. He's going to fight without a mouth guard,
thought Fate, and then he bent down and felt for the mouth guard but he
couldn't find it. Who took it? he thought. I haven't moved and I haven't seen
anybody else move, so who the fuck took the mouth guard?

When
the fight was over, a song played over the loudspeakers that Fate recognized as
one Chucho Flores had called Sonoran jazz. The fans in the cheap seats howled
in delight and then they started to sing along. Three thousand Mexicans up in
the gallery of the arena singing the same song in unison. Fate tried to get a
look at them, but the lights, focused on the ring, left the upper part of the
hall in darkness. The tone, he thought, was solemn and defiant, the battle hymn
of a lost war sung in the dark. In the solemnity there was only desperation and
death, but in the defiance there was a hint of corrosive humor, a humor that
existed only in relation to itself and in dreams, no matter whether the dreams
were long or short. Sonoran jazz. In the seats below, some people were singing
along, but not many. Most were talking or drinking beer. He saw a boy in a
white shirt and black pants run down the aisle. He saw the man who sold beer walk
up the aisle singing to himself. A woman with her hands on her hips laughed at
what a short man with a little mus
t
ache was saying. The short man was shouting but his voice
was barely audible. A group of men seemed to converse just by clenching their
jaws (and their jaws expressed only scorn or indifference). A man stared at the
floor and talked to himself and smiled. Everyone seemed happy. Just then, as if
he'd had a revelation, Fate understood that almost everybody at the arena
thought Merolino Fernandez would win the fight. What made them so sure? For a
moment he thought he knew, but the knowledge slipped like water through his
fingers. All for the best, he thought, because the fleeting shadow of the idea
(another stupid idea) might destroy him on the spot.

Then, at last, he saw them. Chucho Flores was motioning him
to come sit with them. He recognized the blond girl next to him. He'd seen her
before, but now she was much more nicely dressed. He bought a beer and made his
way through the crowd. The blond girl gave him a kiss on the cheek. She told
him her name, which he'd already forgotten: Rosa Mendez. Chucho Flores
introduced him to the other two: a man he'd never seen before, Juan Corona, who
was probably another reporter, and an extremely beautiful girl, Rosa
Amalfitano. This is Charly Cruz, the video king, you know him, said Chucho
Flores. Charly Cruz shook Fate's hand. He was the only one still sitting,
oblivious to what was going on around him. They were all very well dressed, as
if after the fight they planned to attend a gala. One of the seats was empty
and Fate sat down once they had moved their coats and jackets. He asked whether
they were waiting for someone.

"We
were expecting a friend," Chucho Flores said into his ear, "but she
seems to have stood us up at the last minute."

"If
she comes, it's no problem," said Fate, "I'll get up and go."

"No,
man, you're with us now," said Chucho Flores.

Corona
asked him what part of the
United States
he was from.
New York
,
said Fate. And what do you do? I'm a reporter. After that,
Corona
's English was exhausted, and he didn't
ask anything else.

"You're
the first black man I've ever met," said Rosa Mendez.

Charly
Cruz translated. Fate smiled. Rosa Mendez smiled too.

"I
like Denzel Washington," she said.

Charly
Cruz translated and Fate smiled again.

"I've
never been friends with a black man," said Rosa Mendez, "I've seen
them on TV and walking around sometimes, but there aren't many black people in
the city."

That's
Rosita for you, said Charly Cruz, a good person, a little bit naïve. Fate
didn't understand what he meant by a little bit naïve.

"The
truth is, there aren't many black people in
Mexico
," said Rosa Mendez.
"Just a few in
Veracruz
.
Have you ever been to
Veracruz
?"

Charly
Cruz translated. He said that Rosita wanted to know whether he'd ever been to
Veracruz
. No, I've never
been there, said Fate.

"Me
neither. I was there on the way somewhere else, when I was fifteen," said
Rosa Mendez, "but I've forgotten everything about it. It's like something
bad happened to me in
Veracruz
and my brain erased it. Do you know what I mean?"

This time it was Rosa Amalfitano who translated. She didn't smile
like Charly Cruz but just translated what the other woman said in complete
seriousness.

"Sure," said Fate, though he didn't understand at all.

Rosa
Mendez looked him in the eye and he couldn't have said whether she was making
small talk or sharing an intimate secret with him.

"Something must have happened to me there," said Rosa
Mendez, "because I really don't remember a thing. I know I was there—not
for long, maybe three days or only two—but I don't have a single memory of the
city. Has anything like that ever happened to you?"

It probably has, Fate thought, but instead of admitting it he
asked whether she liked boxing. Rosa Amalfitano translated the question and
Rosa Mendez said that sometimes it was exciting, but only sometimes, especially
when the fighter was handsome.

"And
what about you?" he asked the girl who spoke English.

"I
don't care either way," said Rosa Amalfitano, "this is the first time
I've come to something like this."

"The first time?" asked Fate, forgetting that he wasn't
a boxing expert either.

Rosa
Amalfitano smiled and nodded. Then she lit a cigarette and Fate chose that
moment to look in the other direction, and his eyes met the eyes of Chucho
Flores. Chucho Flores was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before.
Pretty girl, said Charly Cruz next to him. Fate remarked that it was hot. A
drop of perspiration was rolling down Rosa Mendez's right temple. She was
wearing a low-cut dress revealing large
b
reasts and a cream-colored bra. Let's drink to Merolino, said Rosa
Mendez. Charly Cruz, Fate, and Rosa Mendez clinked bottles. Rosa Amalfitano
lifted a paper cup, probably full of water or vodka or tequila. Fate thought
about asking her which it was, but right away he realized it was a bad idea.
You didn't ask women like Rosa Amalfitano that kind of question. Chucho Flores
and
Corona
were
the only two members of the group still standing, as if they hadn't yet lost
hope of seeing the missing girl appear. Rosa Mendez asked him whether he liked
Santa Teresa a lot or too much. Rosa Amalfitano translated. Fate didn't
understand the question. Rosa Amalfitano smiled. Fate thought she smiled like a
goddess. The beer tasted worse than before, bitter and warm. He was tempted to
ask to take a sip from her cup, but that, he knew, was something he'd never do.

"A
lot or too much? Which is the right answer?"

"Too much, I think," said Rosa Amalfitano.

"Too much, then," said Fate.

"Have
you been to see a bullfight?" asked Rosa Mendez.

"No," said Fate.

"What
about a soccer game? A baseball game? Have you been to see our basketball team
play?"

"Your friend is very interested in sports," said Fate.

"Not
really," said Rosa Amalfitano, "she's just trying to make
conversation."

So
she's just making conversation? thought Fate. All right, then she's trying to
play dumb or act natural. No, she's just trying to be nice, he thought, but he
could feel there was more to it.

"I
haven't gone to see any of those things," said Fate.

"Aren't
you a sportswriter?" asked Rosa Mendez.

Oh,
thought Fate, she isn't trying to play dumb or act natural, she's not even
trying to be nice, she thinks I'm a sportswriter and so these things must
interest me.