The then waxing counterculture had pulled Marian out of her school and California family eight years ago. Her mother—a dear friend of one member of our little group— was Spanish born, and Marian had ended up in Madrid, where she was now studying, she told us, to be a veterinarian “specializing in large animals.” She was wearing jeans, which, in the context of the five star hotel where we were staying, told us that though she was willing to parley with the Feds, she was not yet ready to return to the reservation.
The telephone call turned out to be for her, and she talked in fast Spanish. “That’s Fernando,” she reported, “my ex-boyfriend who won’t admit the ex. He’s downstairs and is on his way up. I’m trying to find a way to shake him loose”—this wasn’t altogether convincing when one reflected that he had known where to find her—“but he’s bright, and if you really want to eat local, he’s a painter and he knows everything about this city.”
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