"Come with me."

I followed her to a secluded corner of the courtyard, beside a high wall covered in vines, where there was a table and five metal chairs.

"Do you think they're…?" I said, and immediately I regretted my curiosity, which I'd hoped she'd share. Luckily, María was too angry to pay much attention to me.

"Fucking? No way."

For a while we sat in silence. María drummed her fingers on the table, and I crossed and recrossed my legs a few times and busied myself studying the plants in the courtyard.

"All right, what are you waiting for? Read me your poems," she said.

I read and read until one of my legs fell asleep. When I finished I was afraid to ask whether she'd liked them or not. Then María invited me into the big house for coffee.

In the kitchen, we found her mother and father, cooking. They seemed happy. She introduced me to them. Her father didn't look deranged anymore. He was actually pretty nice to me; he asked me what I was studying, how I planned to balance law and poetry, how good old Álamo was (it seems they know each other, or were childhood friends). Her mother talked about vague things that I can hardly remember: I think she mentioned a séance in Coyoacán that she'd been to recently, and the restless spirit of a 1940s rancheras singer. I couldn't tell whether she was joking or not.

In front of the TV we found Jorgito Font. María didn't speak to him or introduce us. He's twelve years old, has long hair, and dresses like a bum. He calls everybody naco or naca. To his mother he says no way, naca, no can do; to his father, naco, check it out; to his sister, that's my naca or naca, you're the best. To me he said hey, naco, what's going on?

Nacos, as far as I know, are urban Indians, city Indians. Jorgito must be using the word in some other sense.