Dumb founded, I stared at the guest speaker. In his three-piece suit, short, curly hair, and clean-shavenface, Joe Cortez looked like someone from another time amidst the longhaired,bearded and beaded, casually dressed students in one of the large lectureauditoriums at the University of California in Los Angeles.  

Hastily, I slipped into the empty seat in the back row of the packed auditorium, a seat saved for me by the samefriend I had gone hiking with in the Santa Susana Mountains.  

"Who is he?" I askedher.  

Shaking her head in disbelief,she regarded me impatiently, then scribbled Carlos Castaneda on a piece ofpaper.  

"Who in the dickens isCarlos Castaneda?" I asked and giggled involuntarily.  

"I gave you his book,"she hissed, then added that he was a well-known anthropologist who had doneextensive fieldwork in Mexico.  

I was about to confide to myfriend that the guest speaker was the same man I had met in the mountains theday I had gotten lost.  

However, for some very goodreason, I didn't say anything.  

That man was responsible foralmost destroying our friendship, which I treasured immensely.  

My friend had been adamant in heropinion that the story about Evans-Pritchard's son was hogwash.  

I had insisted that the two menhad nothing to gain by telling me a tall tale. I just knew that they hadcandidly spoken the truth.  

My friend, mad at me forbelieving them, had called me a gullible fool.

Since neither of us had beenwilling to yield, our argument had become quite heated.  

Her husband, hoping to bring usout of our frenzy, had suggested that perhaps I had been told the truth.  

Irked by his lack of solidaritywith her, my friend had yelled at him to shut up.  

We had driven home in a morosestate, our friendship strained.  

It took a couple of weeks to washaway the bad feeling.  

In the meantime, I had tried myinformation on Evans-Pritchard's son on several people more versed inanthropological matters and in anthropologists than I or my friend. Needless tosay, I was made to feel like an idiot.  

Out of stubbornness, I held on tomy blind belief that I alone knew the truth.

I had been reared to bepractical; if one lies, it has to be to gain something that can't be gainedotherwise. And I was at a loss to figure out what those men could have had togain.  

I paid little attention to CarlosCastaneda's lecture. I was too absorbed with wondering about his reason forlying to me about his name. Given as I was to deducing other people's motivesfrom a simple statement or an observation, I had a field day trying to searchfor a clue to his. But then I remembered that I, too, had given him a falsename. And I couldn't determine why I had done so.  

After long mental deliberation, Idecided that I had lied because automatically I hadn't trusted him. He was tooself-confident, too cocky to inspire my trust. My mother had reared me todistrust Latin men, especially if they were not somewhat subservient. She usedto say that Latin machos were like bantam cocks, interested only in fighting,eating, and having sex, in that order. And I suppose I had believed her withouteven thinking about it.  

I finally looked at CarlosCastaneda. I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was talking about. But Ibecame fascinated by his movements.  

He seemed to speak with his wholebody, and his words, rather than emerging from his mouth, seemed to flow fromhis hands, which he moved with the gracefulness and agility of a magician.  

Boldly, I walked up to him afterthe lecture.  

He was surrounded by students. Hewas so solicitous and engaging with the women that I automatically despisedhim.  

"You've lied to me aboutyour name, Joe Cortez," I said in Spanish, pointing an accusing finger athim.  

Holding his hand over hisstomach, as if he had received a blow, he gazed at me with that same hesitant,disbelieving expression he had had when he first saw me in the mountains.  

"It is also a lie that yourfriend Gumersindo is the son of Evans-Pritchard," I added before herecovered from his surprise at seeing me. "Isn't it?"  

He made a pleading gesture for menot to say any more.  

He didn't seem to be in the leastembarrassed.  

There was such plain and simplewonder in his eyes that my righteous wrath was stopped short.  

Gently, he held me by the wrist,as if afraid I would leave.  

After he finished talking withthe students, he silently led me to a secluded bench, shaded by a gigantic pinetree, in the north campus.  

"All this is so strange thatI am truthfully speechless," he said in English as we sat down.  

He gazed at me as if he stillcouldn't believe I was sitting beside him.

"I never thought I wouldfind you again," he mused:  

"After we left, my friend-his name, by the way is Nestor- and I discussed you at great length.  

We concluded that you were asemiapparition."  

He abruptly changed to Spanishand said that they even went back to the place where they had left me in thehope of finding me.  

"Why did you want to findme?" I asked in English; confident that he would respond in English thathe went there because he liked me.  

In Spanish, there is no way tosay that one just likes someone else. The response has to be more florid and atthe same time more precise. In Spanish, one can either happen to evoke a goodfeeling- me caesbien- or arouse total passion- me gustos.  

My candid question plunged himinto a long silence. He seemed to be fighting whether he ought to speak ornot.  

At last, he said that finding mein the fog that afternoon had caused him a profound upheaval.  

His face was enraptured as herevealed all this, and his voice betrayed the deepest awe as he added thatfinding me in the lecture room had been nearly the end of him.  

"Why?" I asked, myvanity pricked.

I instantly regretted it becauseI was convinced he was going to tell me he was head over heels in love with me,and that would have been too disturbing. I wouldn't have known how torespond.  

"It's a very longstory," he said, still in a pensive mood.

He puckered his lips, as if hewere talking to himself, rehearsing what he was going to say next.  

I knew the signs of a man who ispreparing to make his pitch. "I haven't read your work," I said inorder to head him off in a different direction. "What is itabout?"  

"I've written a couple ofbooks about sorcery," he replied.  

"What kind of sorcery?Voodoo, spiritualism, or what?"

"Do you know anything aboutsorcery?" he asked with a note expectation in his voice.  

"Of course I do. I grew upwith it.  

"I've spent a great deal oftime in the coastal region of Venezuela: It's an area that is famous for itssorcerers.  

"Most summers of mychildhood were spent with a family of witches."  

"Witches?"

"Yes," I said, pleasedwith his reaction. "I had a nanny who is a witch.  

"She was a black woman fromPuerto Cabello. She took care of me until I was an adolescent. Both my parentsworked, and when I was a child, they were quite happy to leave me in hercare.  

"She could handle me muchbetter than either of my parents. She would let me do as I pleased.  

"My parents, of course, lether take me everywhere. During the school holidays she would take me with herto visit her family.  

"It was not her biologicalfamily but her witch family. Although I wasn't allowed to participate in any oftheir rituals and trance sessions, I did manage to see a great deal."  

He regarded me curiously, as ifhe didn't believe me.  

Then he asked with a bemusedsmile, "What made her a witch?"

"All sorts of things. Shekilled chickens and offered them to the Gods in exchange for favors. She andher fellow witches- men and women- would dance until they would go into atrance. She recited secret incantations that had the power to heal her friendsand injure her enemies. Her specialty was love potions. She prepared them withmedicinal plants and all sorts of bodily refuse, such as menstrual blood, nailclippings, and hair, preferably pubic hair. She made amulets for good luck ingambling or in matters of love."  

"And your parents allowedall this?" he asked in disbelief.  

"At home, no one knew aboutit, except myself and my nanny's clients, of course," I explained."She made house calls, as any doctor would.  

"All she ever did at homewas to burn candles behind the toilet bowl whenever I had nightmares. Since itseemed to help me and there was no danger of anything catching fire amidst thetiles, my mother openly allowed her to do this."  

He suddenly stood up and began tolaugh.  

"What's so funny?" Iasked, wondering whether he thought I had made it all up. "It's the truth,I assure you."  

"You assert something toyourself, and as far as you are concerned, once you make the assertion it turnsinto the truth," he said with a serious face.  

"But I told you thetruth," I insisted, certain that he was referring to my nanny.  

"I can see throughpeople," he said calmly. "For instance, I see you're convinced that Iam going to make a pass at you. You've convinced yourself about it and now itis the truth. That's what I am talking about."  

I tried to say something, butindignation took my breath away. I would have liked to run away. But that wouldhave been too humiliating.  

He frowned slightly, and I hadthe unpleasant impression that he knew what I was feeling.  

My face got red. I trembled withsuppressed anger.  

Nonetheless, within moments Ifelt extraordinarily calm. It wasn't due to any conscious effort on my part;yet I had the distinct sensation that something in me had shifted.  

I had the vague recollection thatI had gone through a similar experience before, but my memory faded away asfast as it came.  

"What are you doing tome?" I muttered.  

"I just happen to seethrough people," he said in a contrite tone. "Not all the time andcertainly not with everybody, but only with the people I am intimatelyassociated with.  

"I don't know why I can seethrough you."  

His sincerity was apparent. Heseemed much more baffled than I was.  

He sat down again and movedcloser to me on the bench.  

We remained in total silence fora while. It was a most pleasant experience to be able to drop all effort atmaking conversation and not feel that I was being stupid.  

I looked up at the sky. It wascloudless and transparent like blue glass.

A soft breeze blew through thepine branches, and the needles fell on us like a gentle rain.  

Then the breeze turned into awind, and the dry, yellow, fallen leaves of the nearby sycamore blew towardus.  

They swirled around us with asoft, rhythmic sound. In one abrupt swoop, the wind carried the leaves high upinto the air.  

"That was a fine display ofthe spirit," he murmured. "And it was for you; the wind, the leavesspinning in the air in front of us.  

"The sorcerer I work withwould say that that was an omen. Something pointed you out to me, at theprecise moment I was thinking that I'd better leave. I cannot leavenow."  

Thinking only about his laststatement, I felt inexplicably happy. It wasn't a triumphant happiness, thekind of glee one feels when getting one's way. It was rather a feeling ofprofound well-being that didn't last long.

My ponderous self took oversuddenly and demanded that I be rid of those thoughts and feelings. I had nobusiness being there. I had cut a class, missed lunch with my real friends,missed my daily laps at the pool in the women's gym.  

"Perhaps it'll be better ifI leave," I said. I intended it as a statement of relief, but when I saidit, it sounded as if I were feeling sorry for myself- which somehow I was.  

But instead of leaving, I askedhim, as casually as I could, whether he had always been able to see throughpeople.  

"No, not always." Hiskind tone clearly betrayed that he was conscious of my inner turmoil. "Theold sorcerer I work with has recently taught me how."  

"Do you think that he couldteach me, too?"  

"Yes, I think hewould." He seemed amazed at his own statement. "If he feels about youthe way I do, he'll certainly try to."

"Did you know about sorcerybefore?" I asked timidly, slowly coming out of my agitation.  

"In Latin America everybodythinks that they know, and I believed I did.

"In that sense, you remindme of myself. Like you, I was convinced that I knew what sorcery was.  

"But then, when I reallyencountered it, it wasn't like I thought it was."  

"How was it?"  

"Simple. So simple that it'sscary," he confided:  

"We think that sorcery isscary because of its malignancy.  

"The sorcery I encounteredis not malignant at all, and because of that, it's the scariest thing thereis."  

I interrupted him and commentedthat he must be referring to white as opposed to black sorcery.  

"Don't talk nonsense, damnit!" he impatiently snapped at me.  

The shock of hearing him speak tome in that manner was so great that I gasped for breath. I was instantly thrownback into turmoil.  

He turned his face to avoid mygaze.  

He had dared to yell at me. Ibecame so angry I thought I was going to have a fit. My ears were buzzing. Isaw dark spots in front of my eyes.  

"I would have hit him, if hehadn't jumped out of my reach so swiftly.

"You're veryundisciplined," he said and sat down again. "And quite violent.

"Your nanny must haveindulged your every whim and treated you as if you were made of preciousglass."  

Seeing my scowling frown, he wenton to say that he hadn't really yelled at me out of impatience or anger."It doesn't matter to me personally whether you listen or not," heexplained. "But it matters to someone else on whose behalf I shouted atyou. Someone who is watching us."

I was perplexed at first, thenuneasy. I looked all around me, wondering whether his sorcerer teacher might bewatching us.  

He ignored me and went on to say,"My father never mentioned to me that we have a constant witness. And henever mentioned it because he didn't know it. Just like you, yourself, don'tknow it."  

"What kind of nonsense areyou talking about?" My raspy, angry voice reflected my feelings at themoment.  

He had yelled at me, he hadinsulted me. I resented that he was talking his head off as if nothing hadhappened. If he believed that I was going to overlook his actions, he was infor a surprise. "You won't get away with it," I thought, smiling athim maliciously. "Not with me, buddy."  

"I'm talking about a force,an entity, a presence which is neither a force nor an entity nor apresence," he explained with an angelic smile.  

He seemed totally oblivious to mybelligerent mood. "Sounds like gibberish, but it isn't.  

"I am referring to somethingthat only sorcerers know about. They call it the spirit. Our personal watcher,our perennial witness."

I don't know exactly how or whatprecise word triggered it, but suddenly he had my full attention.  

He went on talking about thisforce, which he said wasn't God or anything to do with religion or morality,but an impersonal force, a power that was there for us to use if we onlylearned to reduce ourselves to nothing.  

He even held my hand, and Ididn't mind it. In fact, I liked the feel of his strong, soft touch. I becamemorbidly fascinated with the strange power he had over me. I was aghast that Ilonged to sit with him on that bench indefinitely with my hand in his.  

He went on talking. And I went onlistening to every word he said. But at the same time I perversely wonderedwhen he was going to grab my leg, for I knew that he wasn't going to haveenough with my hand, and I couldn't do anything to stop him. Or was it that Ididn't want to do anything to stop him?  

He explained that he had been ascareless and undisciplined as one could be, but that he never knew thedifference because he was imprisoned by the mood of the time.  

"What's the mood of thetime?" I asked in a rough, unfriendly voice, lest he think I was enjoyingbeing with him.  

"Sorcerers call it themodality of the time," he said. "In our day, it's the concern of themiddle class. I am a middle-class man, just like you're a middle-classwoman--"  

"Classifications of thatnature don't hold any validity," I interrupted him rudely, yanking my handout of his. "They are simply generalizations."  

I scowled at him suspiciously.There was something startlingly familiar about his words, but I couldn't thinkwhere I had heard them before or what significance I was attaching tothem.  

Yet I was sure those words had avery vital significance for me if I could only recall what I already knew aboutthem.  

"Don't give me this socialscientist gaff," he said jovially. "I'm as aware of it as youare."  

Giving in to a wave of totalfrustration, I took his hand and bit it.

"I'm truly sorry aboutthat," I instantly mumbled, before he recovered from his surprise. "Idon't know why I did it. I haven't bitten anyone since I was achild."  

I sidled to the far edge of thebench, in readiness for his retaliation. It didn't come.  

"You're absolutelyprimitive" was all he said, rubbing his hand in a dazed sort of way.  

I let out a deep sigh ofrelief.  

His power over me was shattered.And I remembered that I had an old score to settle with him.  

He had turned me into thelaughingstock of my anthropology student friends. "Let's go back to ouroriginal problem," I said, trying to arouse my anger. "Why did youtell me all that nonsense about Evans-Pritchard's son? You must have realizedthat I was going to make a fool of myself."  

I watched him carefully, certainthat confronting him like this after the bite would finally break hisself-control or at least rattle him. I expected him to yell, to lose hisconfidence and impudence.  

But he remained unperturbed. Hetook a deep breath and adopted a serious expression.  

"I know that it looks like asimple case of people telling tall tales for their amusement," he began ina light, casual tone. "But it's more complex than that."  

He chuckled softly, then remindedme that he hadn't known at that time that I was a student of anthropology andthat I would make a fool of myself.  

He paused for a moment, as ifsearching for the proper words, then he shrugged helplessly and added, "Ireally can't explain to you now why I introduced my friend to you asEvans-Pritchard's son, unless I tell you much more about myself and my aims;and that's not practical."  

"Why not?"

"Because the more you knowabout me, the more entangled you'll become."  

He regarded me thoughtfully, andI could see in his eyes that he was sincere. "And I don't mean a mentalentanglement. I mean you'll become personally entangled with me."  

This was such a blatant displayof gall that I regained all my confidence.

I fell back on my well-triedsarcastic laughter and said in a cutting tone, "You are perfectlydisgusting. I know your kind. You are the typical example of the conceitedLatin macho I have battled with all my life."  

Seeing the expression of surpriseon his face, I pressed on in my most haughty tone, "How dare you to thinkthat I'll be entangled with you?"  

He didn't become red in the faceas I expected. He slapped his knee and laughed uproariously, as if that was thefunniest thing he had ever heard. And to my utter dismay, he began to tickle mein the ribs as if I were a child.  

Afraid to laugh- I was ticklish-I screeched with indignation. "How dare you to touch me!" I stood upto leave. I was shaking.  

And then I shocked myself evenfurther by sitting down again.  

Seeing that he was about totickle me again, I curled my hands into fists and held them before me."I'll smash your nose if you touch me again," I warned him.  

Thoroughly unconcerned by mythreat, he reclined his head against the back of the bench and closed hiseyes.  

He laughed gaily, a deepchortling laugh that made him shiver all over. "You're a typical Germangirl who grew up surrounded by brown people," he said, turning sidewaystoward me.  

How do you know I am German? Inever told you that," I said in a faltering voice I intended to be softlymenacing.  

I knew that you were German whenI first met you," he said. "You confirmed it the moment you lied thatyou were Swedish. Only Germans born in the New World after the Second World Warlie like that. That is, of course, if they live in the UnitedStates."  

Although I wasn't going to admitthis to him, he was right.  

I often felt people's hostilityas soon as they learned that my parents were Germans; in their eyes itautomatically made us Nazis.  

It didn't make any differencewhen I told them that my parents were idealists.  

Of course, I had to admit tomyself that, like good Germans, they believed that their kind were inherentlybetter; but basically they were gentle souls who had been apolitical alllives.  

"All I did was to agree withyou," I pointed out acidly. "You saw blond hair, blue eyes, highcheekbones, and all you could think of was a Swede. You are not veryimaginative, are you?"  

I pushed my advantage. "Youhad no business lying yourself, unless you're a fucking liar by nature," Iwent on, my voice rising against my will. Tapping his chest with my indexfinger I added derisively, "Joe Cortez, eh?"  

Is your name really CristinaGebauer?" he shot back, imitating my odious, loud voice.  

"Carmen Gebauer!" Ishouted, offended that he hadn't remembered the name correctly.  

Then, suddenly ashamed of myoutburst, I went into a chaotic defense of myself.  

After a few moments, realizingthat I didn't know what I was saying, I abruptly stopped and confessed that Iwas indeed German, and that Carmen Gebauer was the name of a childhoodfriend.  

"I like that," he saidsoftly, a barely suppressed grin on his lips. Whether he was referring to mylying or to my confession I couldn't tell.

His eyes were brimming withkindness and with amusement. In a tender, wistful voice he proceeded to tell methe story of his childhood girlfriend, Fabiola Kunze.  

Confused by his reaction, Iturned away and gazed at the nearby sycamore and the pine trees beyond.  

Then, eager to hide my interestin his story, I began to play with my fingernails: I pushed back the cuticlesand peeled off the nail polish, methodically and thoughtfully.  

The story of Fabiola Kunzeresembled my own life so closely that after a few moments I forgot all about mypretense at indifference and listened to him attentively.  

I suspected that he wasfabricating the story, and yet I had to give him credit for coming up withdetails that only a daughter of a German family in the New World wouldknow.  

Fabiola allegedly was mortallyafraid of dark Latin boys, but she was equally afraid of the Germans. TheLatins scared her because of their irresponsibility; the Germans, because theywere so predictable.  

I had to restrain myself fromlaughing out loud when he described scenes of Fabiola's home on a Sundayafternoon when two dozen Germans would sit around a beautifully set table- withthe best china, silver, and crystal- and she would have to listen to two dozenmonologues that passed for conversation.

As he went on giving specificdetails of those Sunday afternoons, I began to feel more and moreuncomfortable: there was Fabiola's father prohibiting political debates in hishouse but compulsively aiming at starting one, seeking devious ways to telldirty jokes about Catholic priests.  

Or her mother's mortal dread: herfine china was in the hands of these clumsy oafs.  

His words were cues to which Iunconsciously responded. I began to see scenes of my Sunday afternoons likepictures flashed on the wall for my observation.  

I was a veritable bundle ofnerves. I wanted to stomp and carry on as only I knew how. I wanted to hatethis man, but I couldn't. I wanted vindication, apologies, but I couldn't getany from him. I wanted to dominate him. I wanted him to fall in love with me soI could reject him.  

Ashamed of my immature feelings,I made a great effort to pull myself together. Pretending to be bored, I leanedtoward him and asked, "Why did you lie about your name?"  

"I didn't lie," hepronounced. "That's my name. I have several names. Sorcerers havedifferent names for different occasions."

"How convenient!" Iexclaimed sarcastically.  

"Very convenient," heechoed and gave a slight wink, which infuriated me beyond measure.  

And then he did somethingcompletely outlandish and unexpected. He put his arms around me.  

There was no sexual overtone inhis embrace. It was the spontaneous, sweet, and simple gesture of a child whowants to comfort a friend. His touch soothed me instantly and so completelythat I began to sob uncontrollably.  

"I'm such a shit," Iconfessed. "I want to beat you, and look at me. I am in your arms." Iwas about to add that I was enjoying it when a surge of energy rushed throughme.  

As if I had awakened From adream, I pushed him away. "Let go of me," I hissed and stompedaway.  

I heard him choking with laughter.I wasn't in the least concerned about his chuckles: my outburst had dissipatedinstantly.  

I stood rooted to the spot,trembling all over, unable to walk away. And then, as if I had a giant rubberband attached to me, I returned to the bench.

"Don't feel bad," hesaid kindly.  

He seemed to know exactly what itwas that was pulling me back to the bench. He patted my back as one does ababy's after a meal.  

"It isn't what you or Ido," he continued. "It's something outside the two of us which is actingupon us.  

"It's been acting upon mefor a long time. Now I am accustomed to it.

"But I can't understand whyit acts upon you.  

"Don't ask me what itis," he said, anticipating my question. "I can't yet explain it toyou."  

I wasn't going to ask himanything anyway: My mind had stopped functioning.  

I felt exactly as if I wereasleep, dreaming that I was talking.  

Moments later, my numbnesspassed. I felt more animated yet not quite like my usual self. "What'shappening to me?" I asked.  

"You are being focused andpushed by something that doesn't come from you," he said. "Somethingis pushing you, using me as a tool. Something is superimposing anothercriterion on your middle-class convictions."  

"Don't start on thatmiddle-class idiocy," I said feebly. It was more like I was pleading withhim.  

I smiled helplessly, thinkingthat I had lost my usual gall.  

"These, by the way, are notmy own opinions or ideas," he said:

"I'm like you, strictly aproduct of middle-class ideology.  

"Imagine my horror when Icame face to face with a different and more prevailing ideology. It ripped meapart."  

"What ideology isthat?" I asked meekly, my voice so low it as barely audible.  

"A man brought that ideologyto me," he explained. "Or rather, the spirit spoke and acted on methrough him.  

"That man is a sorcerer.I've written about him. His name is Juan Matus. He's the one ho made me face mymiddle-class mentality.  

"Juan Matus once asked me agrand question: 'What do you think university is?'  

"I, of course, answered himlike a social scientist: 'A center of higher learning.'  

"He corrected me anddeclared that a uniersity should be called a 'Middle-Class Institute' becauseit is the stitution we attend to further perfect our middle-class values.  

"We attend the institute tobecome professionists, he said. The ideology of our social class tells us thatwe must prepare ourselves for occupying managerial positions.  

"Juan Matus said that men goto the middle-class institute to become engineers, lawyers, doctors, etc., andwomen go there to get a suitable husband, provider, and father of theirchildren. Suitable is naturally defined by middle-class values."  

I wanted to contradict him. Iwanted to shout at him that I knew people who weren't necessarily interested ina career or looking for a spouse; that I knew people who were interested inideas, in learning for its own sake.  

But I didn't know suchpeople.  

I felt a terrible pressure in mychest and had an attack of dry coughing.

It wasn't the cough or thephysical discomfort that made me wriggle in my seat and prevented me fromarguing with him. It was the certainty that he was speaking about me: I wasgoing to a university precisely to find a suitable man.  

Again I stood up, ready to leave:I had even extended my hand to shake his in farewell when I felt a powerful tugon my back.  

It was so strong I had to sitdown, lest I fall. I knew he hadn't touched me: I had been looking at him allthe time.  

Thoughts of people I didn't quiteremember; of dreams I hadn't quite forgotten came crowding into my mind formingan intricate pattern from which I couldn't extricate myself.  

Unknown faces, half-heardsentences, dark images of places, and blurred images of people threw memomentarily into some kind of limbo.  

I was close to rememberingsomething about all this kaleidoscope of visualizations and sounds; but theknowledge flittered away, and a feeling of calm and ease overtook me; atranquility so deep that it screened out all my desire to assert myself.  

I stretched my legs in front ofme as if I didn't have a care in the world- and at the moment I didn't- andbegan to talk.  

I couldn't remember ever talkingabout myself so frankly before, and I couldn't fathom why I was suddenly sounguarded with him.  

I told him about Venezuela, myparents, my childhood, my restlessness, my meaningless life.  

I told him of things I wouldn'teven admit to myself.  

"I've been studyinganthropology since last year. And I really don't know why," I said.  

I was beginning to feel slightlyuncomfortable by my own revelations.  

I shifted restlessly on thebench, but I couldn't stop myself from adding, "Two subjects that interestme more are Spanish and German literature. To be in the anthropology departmentdefies all I know about myself."  

"That detail intrigues me tono end," he said. "I can't get into it now, but it seems as if I hadbeen placed here for you to find me, or vice versa."  

"What does all thismean?" I asked, then blushed, realizing that I was interpreting andcentering everything on my womanhood.  

He seemed to be thoroughly awareof my state of mind.  

He reached for my hand andpressed it against his heart. "Me gustas, nibelunga," he exclaimeddramatically, and for good measure he translated the words into English,"I'm passionately attracted to you, Nibelung."  

He looked at me with the eyes ofa Latin lover and then burst into raucous laughter. "You're convinced Ihave to say this to you sooner or later, so it might as well be now."  

Instead of getting angry at beingteased, I laughed: His humor gave me great pleasure.  

The only Nibelungen I knew werefrom my father's German mythology books. Siegfried and the Nibelungen. As faras I could remember, they were underground, magical, dwarfish beings.  

"Are you calling me adwarf?" I asked in jest.  

"God forbid!" heprotested. "I'm calling you a German mythical being."  

Shortly afterwards, as if it werethe only thing we could have done, we drove to the Santa Susana Mountains, tothe place we had met.  

Neither of us said a single wordas we sat on the cliff overlooking the Indian burial ground.  

Moved by a pure impulse ofcompanionship, we sat there in silence, oblivious to the afternoon turning intonight.