"I hear Soledad has trouble with him," Pepe said.
"Well, lion tamers are probably difficult to live with--I suppose there's no small amount of testosterone involved in taming lions," Vargas said, shrugging. Lupe imitated his shrug.
"So the lion tamer is a macho guy?" Pepe asked Vargas.
"That's what I hear," Vargas told him. "He's not my patient."
"Not a lot of falls in lion-taming--no stress on the joints," Edward Bonshaw commented.
"Okay, we'll think about it," Lupe said.
"What did she say?" Vargas asked Juan Diego.
"We're going to think about it," Juan Diego told him.
"You can always come to Lost Children--you could visit me," Senor Eduardo said to Juan Diego. "I'll tell you what to read, we can talk about books, you could show me your writing--"
"This kid is writing?" Vargas asked.
"He wants to, yes--he wants an education, Vargas; he clearly has a gift for language. This boy has a future in some kind of higher learning," Edward Bonshaw said.
"You can always come to the circus," Juan Diego said to Senor Eduardo. "You could visit me, bring me books--"
"Yes, of course you could," Vargas told Edward Bonshaw. "You can practically walk to Cinco Senores, and La Maravilla also travels. There are occasional road trips; the kids will get to see Mexico City. Maybe you can go with them. Travel is a kind of education, isn't it?" Dr. Vargas asked the Iowan; without waiting for an answer, Vargas turned his attention to the dump ninos. "What is it you miss about the basurero?" he asked them. (Everyone who knew the ninos knew how much Lupe missed the dogs, and not only Dirty White and Diablo. Brother Pepe knew it was a long walk from Lost Children to Cinco Senores.)
Lupe didn't answer Vargas, and Juan Diego silently counted to himself--adding up the things he missed about Guerrero and the dump. The lightning-fast gecko on the shack's screen door; the vast expanse of waste; the various ways to wake up Rivera when he was sleeping in the cab of his truck; the way Diablo could silence the barking of the other dogs; the solemn dignity of the dogs' funeral fires in the basurero.
"Lupe misses the dogs," Edward Bonshaw said--Lupe knew it was what Vargas had wanted the Iowan to say.
"You know what?" Vargas suddenly said, as if he'd just thought of it. "I'll bet Soledad would let these kids sleep in the tent with the dogs. I could ask her. It wouldn't surprise me if Soledad thought the dogs would like that, too--then everyone would be happy! Small world, sometimes," Vargas said, shrugging again. Once more, Lupe imitated his shrug. "Does Lupe think I don't know what she's doing?" Vargas asked Juan Diego; both the boy and his sister shrugged.
"Children sharing a tent with dogs!" Edward Bonshaw exclaimed.
&n
bsp; "We'll see what Soledad says," Vargas said to Senor Eduardo.
"I like most animals better than most people," Lupe remarked.
"Let me guess: Lupe likes animals better than people," Vargas told Juan Diego.
"I said most," Lupe corrected him.
"I know Lupe hates me," Vargas said to Juan Diego.
Listening to Lupe and Vargas bitch about each other, or to each other, Juan Diego was reminded of the mariachi bands that forced themselves on tourists in the zocalo. On weekends, there were always bands in the zocalo--including the miserable high school bands, with cheerleaders. Lupe liked pushing Juan Diego in his wheelchair through the crowds. Everyone made way for them, even the cheerleaders. "It's like we're famous," Lupe said to Juan Diego.
The dump kids were famous for haunting Zaragoza Street; they became regulars there. No stupid stigmata tricks on Zaragoza Street--no one would have tipped the ninos for wiping up any blood. Too much blood was routinely spilled on Zaragoza Street; wiping it up would have been a waste of time.
Along Zaragoza Street, there were always prostitutes, and the men cruising for prostitutes; in the courtyard of the Hotel Somega, Juan Diego and Lupe could watch the prostitutes and their customers come and go, but the kids never saw their mother on Zaragoza Street or in the hotel courtyard. There was no verification that Esperanza was working the street, and there may have been other guests at the Somega--people who were neither prostitutes nor their clients. Yet Rivera was not the only one the kids had heard call the Somega the "whore hotel," and all the coming and going certainly made the hotel appear that way.
One night, when Juan Diego was wheelchair-bound, he and Lupe had followed a prostitute named Flor on Zaragoza Street; they knew the prostitute wasn't their mother, but Flor looked a little like Esperanza from behind--Flor walked like Esperanza.
Lupe liked to make the wheelchair go fast; she would come up close to people who had their backs turned to her--they never knew the wheelchair was there until it bumped them. Juan Diego was always afraid that these people would fall backward into his lap; he would lean forward and try to touch them with his hand before the speeding wheelchair made contact. That was how he first touched Flor; he'd meant to touch one of her hands, but Flor swung her arms back and forth when she walked, and Juan Diego unintentionally touched her swaying bottom.
"Jesus Mary Joseph!" Flor exclaimed, spinning around. She was very tall; she'd been prepared to throw a punch at head level, but she found herself looking down at the boy in a wheelchair.
"It's just me and my sister," Juan Diego said, cringing. "We're looking for our mother."