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Authors: John Irving
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Rivera had said: “You kids are so crazy about those squirt guns—people will think you’re practicing artificial insemination.”
The phrase had long been used in medical circles, but the dump kids had first heard of it from a science fiction novel saved from burning. Lupe had been disgusted. When she heard el jefe mention artificial insemination, Lupe had erupted in a fury of preteen indignation; she was eleven or twelve at the time.
“Lupe says she knows what artificial insemination is—she thinks it’s gross,” Juan Diego had translated for his sister.
“Lupe doesn’t know what artificial insemination is,” the dump boss had insisted, but he looked anxiously at the indignant girl. Who knewwhat the dump reader might have read to her? el jefe thought. Even as a little girl, Lupe had been strongly opposed but attentive to everything indecent or obscene.
There was more moral outrage (of an unintelligible kind) expressed by Lupe. All Juan Diego said was: “Yes, she does. Would you like her to describe artificial insemination to you?”
“No, no!” Rivera had cried. “I was just kidding! Okay, the water pistols are nothing but squirt guns. Let’s leave it at that.”
But Lupe wouldn’t stop babbling. “She says you’re always thinking about sex,” Juan Diego had interpreted for Rivera.
“Not always!” Rivera had exclaimed. “I try not to think about sex around you two.”
Lupe went on and on. She’d been stamping her feet—her boots were too big; she’d found them in the dump. Her stomping had turned into an impromptu dance—including a pirouette—as she berated Rivera.
“She says it’s pathetic to disapprove of prostitutes while you still hang out with prostitutes,” Juan Diego was explaining.
“Okay, okay!” Rivera had shouted, throwing up his muscular arms. “The water pistols, the squirt guns, are just toys —nobody’s getting pregnant with them! Whatever you say.”
Lupe had stopped dancing; she kept pointing to her upper lip while she pouted at Rivera.
“What now? What is this—sign language?” Rivera had asked Juan Diego.
“Lupe says you’ll never get a girlfriend who isn’t a prostitute—not with that stupid-looking mustache,” the boy had told him.
“Lupe says, Lupe says,” Rivera had muttered, but the dark-eyed girl continued to stare at him—all the while tracing the contours of a nonexistent mustache on her smooth upper lip.
Another time, Lupe had told Juan Diego: “Rivera is too ugly to be your father.”
“El jefe isn’t ugly inside, ” the boy had answered her.
“He has mostly good thoughts, except about women,” Lupe said.
“Rivera loves us,” Juan Diego told his sister.
“Yes, el jefe loves us— both of us,” Lupe admitted. “Even though I’m not his—and you’re probably not his, either.”
“Rivera gave us his name —both of us,” the boy reminded her.
“I think it’s more like a loan,” Lupe said.
“How can our names be a loan?” the boy had asked her; his sistershrugged their mother’s shrug—a hard one to read. (A little bit always the same, a little bit different every time.)
“Maybe I’m Lupe Rivera, and always will be,” the girl had said, somewhat evasively. “But you’re someone else. You’re not always going to be Juan Diego Rivera—that’s not who you are,” was all Lupe would say about it.
O N THAT MORNING WHEN Juan Diego’s life was about to change, Rivera made no vulgar squirt-gun jokes. El jefe sat distractedly at the wheel of his truck; the dump boss was ready to make his rounds, starting with the load of copper—a heavy load.
The distant airplane was slowing down; it must be landing, Juan Diego guessed to himself. He was still watching the sky for flying things. There was an airport (at the time, not much more than a landing strip) outside Oaxaca, and the boy loved watching the planes that flew over the basurero; he’d never flown.
In the dream, of course, was the devastating
The phrase had long been used in medical circles, but the dump kids had first heard of it from a science fiction novel saved from burning. Lupe had been disgusted. When she heard el jefe mention artificial insemination, Lupe had erupted in a fury of preteen indignation; she was eleven or twelve at the time.
“Lupe says she knows what artificial insemination is—she thinks it’s gross,” Juan Diego had translated for his sister.
“Lupe doesn’t know what artificial insemination is,” the dump boss had insisted, but he looked anxiously at the indignant girl. Who knewwhat the dump reader might have read to her? el jefe thought. Even as a little girl, Lupe had been strongly opposed but attentive to everything indecent or obscene.
There was more moral outrage (of an unintelligible kind) expressed by Lupe. All Juan Diego said was: “Yes, she does. Would you like her to describe artificial insemination to you?”
“No, no!” Rivera had cried. “I was just kidding! Okay, the water pistols are nothing but squirt guns. Let’s leave it at that.”
But Lupe wouldn’t stop babbling. “She says you’re always thinking about sex,” Juan Diego had interpreted for Rivera.
“Not always!” Rivera had exclaimed. “I try not to think about sex around you two.”
Lupe went on and on. She’d been stamping her feet—her boots were too big; she’d found them in the dump. Her stomping had turned into an impromptu dance—including a pirouette—as she berated Rivera.
“She says it’s pathetic to disapprove of prostitutes while you still hang out with prostitutes,” Juan Diego was explaining.
“Okay, okay!” Rivera had shouted, throwing up his muscular arms. “The water pistols, the squirt guns, are just toys —nobody’s getting pregnant with them! Whatever you say.”
Lupe had stopped dancing; she kept pointing to her upper lip while she pouted at Rivera.
“What now? What is this—sign language?” Rivera had asked Juan Diego.
“Lupe says you’ll never get a girlfriend who isn’t a prostitute—not with that stupid-looking mustache,” the boy had told him.
“Lupe says, Lupe says,” Rivera had muttered, but the dark-eyed girl continued to stare at him—all the while tracing the contours of a nonexistent mustache on her smooth upper lip.
Another time, Lupe had told Juan Diego: “Rivera is too ugly to be your father.”
“El jefe isn’t ugly inside, ” the boy had answered her.
“He has mostly good thoughts, except about women,” Lupe said.
“Rivera loves us,” Juan Diego told his sister.
“Yes, el jefe loves us— both of us,” Lupe admitted. “Even though I’m not his—and you’re probably not his, either.”
“Rivera gave us his name —both of us,” the boy reminded her.
“I think it’s more like a loan,” Lupe said.
“How can our names be a loan?” the boy had asked her; his sistershrugged their mother’s shrug—a hard one to read. (A little bit always the same, a little bit different every time.)
“Maybe I’m Lupe Rivera, and always will be,” the girl had said, somewhat evasively. “But you’re someone else. You’re not always going to be Juan Diego Rivera—that’s not who you are,” was all Lupe would say about it.
O N THAT MORNING WHEN Juan Diego’s life was about to change, Rivera made no vulgar squirt-gun jokes. El jefe sat distractedly at the wheel of his truck; the dump boss was ready to make his rounds, starting with the load of copper—a heavy load.
The distant airplane was slowing down; it must be landing, Juan Diego guessed to himself. He was still watching the sky for flying things. There was an airport (at the time, not much more than a landing strip) outside Oaxaca, and the boy loved watching the planes that flew over the basurero; he’d never flown.
In the dream, of course, was the devastating
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