Connie Willis - Cibola

Carla, you grew up in Denver, Jake said. Heres an assignment that might interest you.

This is his standard opening line. It means he is about to dump another local interest piece on me.

Come on, Jake, I said. No more nutty Bronco fans whove spray-painted their kids orange and blue, okay? Give me a real story. Please?

Bronco seasons over, and the NFL draft was last week, he said. This isnt a local interest.

Youre right there, I said. These stories you keep giving me are of no interest, local or otherwise. I did the time machine piece for you. And the psychic dentist. Give me a break. Let me cover something that doesnt involve nuttos.

Its for the Our Living Western Heritage series. He handed me a slip of paper. You can interview her this morning and then cover the skyscraper moratorium hearings this afternoon.

This was plainly a bribe, since the hearings were front page stuff right now, and historical interests could be almost as bad as localssenile old women in nursing homes rambling on about the good old days. But at least they didnt crawl in their washing machines and tell you to push rinse so they could travel into the future. And they didnt try to perform psychic oral surgery on you.

All right, I said, and took the slip of paper. Rosa Turcorillo, it read and gave an address out on Santa Fe. Whats her phone number?

She doesnt have a phone, Jake said. Youll have to go out there. He started across the city room to his office. The hearings are at one oclock.

What is she, one of Denvers first Chicano settlers? I called after him.

He waited till he was just outside his office to answer me. She says shes the great-granddaughter of Coronado, he said, and beat a hasty retreat into his office. She says she knows where the Seven Cities of Cibola are.

I spent forty-five minutes researching Coronado and copying articles and then drove out to see his great-granddaughter. She lived out on south Santa Fe past Hampden, so I took I-25 and then was sorry. The morning rush hour was still crawling along at about ten miles an hour pumping carbon monoxide into the air. I read the whole article stopped behind a semi between Speer and Sixth Avenue.

Coronado trekked through the Southwest looking for the legendary Seven Cities of Gold in the 1540s, which poked a big hole in Rosas story, since any great-granddaughter of his would have to be at least three hundred years old.

There wasnt any mystery about the Seven Cities of Cibola either. Coronado found them, near Gallup, New Mexico, and conquered them but they were nothing but mud-hut villages. Having been burned once, he promptly took off after another promise of gold in Quivira in Kansas someplace where there wasnt any gold either. He hadnt been in Colorado at all.

I pulled onto Santa Fe, cursing Jake for sending me on another wild-goose chase, and headed south. Denver is famous for traffic, air pollution, and neighborhoods that have seen better days. Santa Fe isnt one of those neighborhoods. Its been a decaying line of rusting railroad tracks, crummy bars, old motels, and waterbed stores for as long as I can remember, and I, as Jake continually reminds me, grew up in Denver.

Coronados granddaughter lived clear south past Hampden, in a trailer park with a sign with Olde West Motel and a neon bison on it, and Rosa Turcorillos old Airstream looked like it had been there since the days when the buffalo roamed. It was tiny, the kind of trailer I would call Turcorillos modest mobile home in the article, no more than fifteen feet long and eight wide.

Rosa was nearly that wide herself. When she answered my knock, she barely fit in the door. She was wearing a voluminous turquoise housecoat, and had long black braids.

What do you want? she said, holding the metal door so she could slam it in case I was the police or a repo man.

Im Carla Johnson from the Denver Record, I said. Id like to interview you about Coronado. I fished in my bag for my press card. Were doing a series on Our Living Western Heritage. I finally found the press card and handed it to her. Were interviewing people who are part of our past.

She stared at the press card disinterestedly. This was not the way it was supposed to work. Nuttos usually drag you in the house and start babbling before you finish telling them who you are. She should already be halfway through her account of how shed traced her ancestry to Coronado by means of the I Ching.

I would have telephoned first, but you didnt have a phone, I said.

She handed the card to me and started to shut the door.

If this isnt a good time, I can come back, I babbled. And we dont have to do the interview here if youd rather not. We can go to the Record office or to a restaurant.

She opened the door and flashed a smile that had half of Cibolas missing gold in it. I aint dressed, she said. Itll take me a couple of minutes. Come on in.

I climbed the metal steps and went inside. Rosa pointed at a flowered couch, told me to sit down and disappeared into the rear of the trailer.

I was glad I had suggested going out. The place was no messier than my desk, but it was only about six feet long and had the couch, a dinette set, and a recliner. There was no way it would hold me and Coronados granddaughter, too. The place may have had a surplus of furniture but it didnt have any of the usual crazy stuff, no pyramids, no astrological charts, no crystals. A deck of cards was laid out like the tarot on the dinette table, but when I leaned across to look at them, I saw it was a half-finished game of solitaire. I put the red eight on the black nine.

Rosa came out, wearing orange polyester pants and a yellow print blouse and carrying a large black leather purse. I stood up and started to say, Where would you like to go? Is there someplace close? but I only got it half out.

The Eldorado Cafe, she said and started out the door, moving pretty fast for somebody three hundred years old and three hundred pounds.

I dont know where the Eldorado Cafe is, I said, unlocking the car door for her. Youll have to tell me where it is.

Turn right, she said. They have good cinnamon rolls.

I wondered if it was the offer of the food or just the chance to go someplace that had made her consent to the interview. Whichever, I might as well get it over with. So Coronado was your great-grandfather? I said.

She looked at me as if I were out of my mind. No. Who told you that?

Jake, I thought, who I plan to tear limb from limb when I get back to the Record. You arent Coronados great-granddaughter?

She folded her arms over her stomach. I am the descendant of El Turco.

El Turco. It sounded like something out of Zorro. So its this El Turco whos your great-grandfather?

Great-great. El Turco was Pawnee. Coronado captured him at Cicuye and put a collar around his neck so he could not run away. Turn right.

We were already halfway through the intersection. I jerked the steering wheel to the right and nearly skidded into a pickup.

Rosa seemed unperturbed. Coronado wanted El Turco to guide him to Cibola, she said.

I wanted to ask if he had, but I didnt want to prevent Rosa from giving me directions. I drove slowly through the next intersection, alert to sudden instructions, but there werent any. I drove on down the block.

And did El Turco guide Coronado to Cibola?

Sure. You should have turned left back there, she said.

She apparently hadnt inherited her great-great-grandfathers scouting ability. I went around the block and turned left, and was overjoyed to see the Eldorado Cafe down the street. I pulled into the parking lot and we got out.

They make their own cinnamon rolls, she said, looking at me hopefully as we went in. With frosting.