What Girls Are Good For by David Blixt

Author:David Blixt [Blixt, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

♦ ◊ ♦

When I told Miller the story, he was outraged on my behalf, and instantly protective. “We must put you on a train home at once!”

“I can't leave at once,” I said. “I have to report on the Easter celebrations. And besides, everyone tells me the food will improve when Lent is over. You insisted I try some dish of lamb and peppers.”

“That's hardly a reason to remain,” insisted Miller. “I will send the peppers and the recipe to Pittsburgh. Your mother can make it.”

“I would not know where to begin, having never tasted it myself,” replied Mother. “No, I think we must stay and try it here before attempting it at home.”

Her remark filled me with warmth. Though clearly nervous, she was on my side. Eventually Miller gave up with bad grace, and I didn't see him for a week as he sulked, doubtlessly composing complaining sonnets about mutinous mule-headed maidens.

The promised meeting took place in mid-April, in the offices of Gestefeld's boss, the owner of the Two Republics, Major Clarke. He was a cigar-chomping Texan who said nothing but made it clear by his presence that to trifle with me was to trifle with his whole paper.

Gestefeld and I sat on one side of a wide library table, while three representatives of the government-funded papers sat on the other. Their leader, seated in the center, was a careless man whose eyes alighted everywhere but on me. The Major sat at the far end of the room, smoking and apparently reading a local story in his own edition.

Gestefeld's voice was utterly polite as he presented my side of the matter in flawless Spanish. He insisted that I had made a small mention of something I had thought would be of interest at home. When the leader asked a question, Gestefeld studiously avoided looking my way as he rattled off a clearly defensive answer.

“Have they read my other pieces?” I demanded, pulling out a stack of clippings to share with them. “They are full of praise for Mexico and the Mexican people. Indeed, I have worked to dispel the myth held in America that Mexicans are lazy or less than honest. Here, see for yourselves.” I pushed the stack across the table.

The leader of the trio waved his cigarillo dismissively. “No, no. Un botón es suficiente.”

I turned to Gestefeld. “What does that mean?”

He ignored me even as he continued to plead my case. I was forced to sit in uncomprehending frustration while my fate was decided by men speaking a language I did not know.

At one point they did reference my articles, pointing to my name. “They want to know why you publish under a false name, if not to hide your intentions.”

“No woman publishes under her own name.”

Gestefeld translated, adding a long and flowery explanation about women in publishing that I was glad I could not understand. Suddenly they all laughed, and Gestefeld patted my shoulder in the most patronizing way imaginable. I had an impulse to bite his hand.

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