by Todd Borg
But I still had possession of a kid who had no home. The doctor near Paco’s school suggested that I contact people in the Basque community.
I looked at my cell and saw that I had reception.
I called Information for The Center for Basque Studies at the University of Nevada in Reno, the organization that Dr. Mendoza had mentioned as a good resource for all things Basque. They connected me, and I told the young woman who answered that I was looking for general information that might help me find some family connections for a young orphan who is Basque.
“Well,” the woman said, thinking, “none of our professors is available. But you might want to speak to Marko. Sorry, but I can’t pronounce his last name, but it starts with a V so that’s what I call him. Marko V. He’s a student working on his doctorate in Basque linguistics. He just stepped out, but he’s due back shortly. I could have him call you.”
“Thanks,” I said. I gave her my cell number.
Paco was still sleeping when Marko V called twenty minutes later. I paced along the shoulder of the highway while I talked.
Marko V gave me his full name, but I also found the last name difficult to understand. Despite the unusual Basque name, Marko V spoke like he grew up in Long Beach.
After a quick introduction, I told him I wanted a quick education in those things Basque that might help me place an orphan boy who might be Basque and who had no family that I knew of.
“What’s the boy’s name?”
“First name Paco. He’s not sure of his full last name. He goes by Ipar. A Basque doctor near Stockton told me he thought Ipar was short for Iparagirre.”
“That sounds likely. Tell you what. I’m teaching a class in ten minutes. Then I have to run downtown. Could you meet me at the Nevada Art Museum in, let’s say, an hour and a half?”
“I’ll be there.”
“How will I know you?”
“Tall guy with a baseball cap.” I pulled if off to see which one I was wearing. “Red,” I said.
THIRTY-TWO
I woke Paco and helped him raise his seat back, then called Spot in from the meadow. Paco helped me coax Spot into the back of Street’s little car.
We drove into the clouds as we crested the Mt. Rose Summit, the highest year-’round pass in the Sierra. Then we popped back out of the gray soup and wound down ten twisty, switch-backy miles as we dropped 4500 vertical feet to the sunny desert in the valley that Reno and Sparks residents call The Truckee Meadows. As always, I kept my eyes on the rear-view mirror. I didn’t see any dark pickups.
We drove into a patch of sunshine. It got warm, and Paco had rolled down his window. Spot leaned forward to put his head out the window, testing how much air pressure he could take in his nose and ears. I’m always amazed at how dogs are unique among all other animals. If you took any other creature, from guppies to rhinoceroses, and held them out a car window at high speed, they would probably think it terrifying. Yet dogs think it’s the greatest thing since steak.
Paco hadn’t said a word in an hour.
Although humans and dogs are very different species, the comparisons between Paco and Spot were unavoidable. Quiet and shut down compared to loud and enthusiastic. Placid and without expression versus boisterous and expressive to a fault. Paco gave new definition to introverted. Spot was the essence of gregarious extrovert. If Paco had any dramatic personality qualities, they would be hard to discover. Whereas Spot was all drama, and his personality quirks and characteristics were inescapable. He imprinted himself on you even if you tried to ignore him.
At the desert floor, we turned north on the 395 freeway and took it up to downtown Reno. I got off 395 onto Mill and headed west to downtown, found a parking place near the Nevada Art Museum, and got out.
“C’mon, Paco. Time for a dose of art.”
He got out and stood, shoulders slumped, still lethargic after his lunch and nap.
I let Spot out and put Paco’s left hand on Spot’s collar.
“You’ve got hound duty, kid. Don’t let go of Spot. Remember how he heels? This is more practice.” As I said it, I worried that Spot might see something exciting and take off running. At 170 pounds to Paco’s 64, the result would be like a cowboy being dragged by a runaway horse.
We headed across the street and down the block. I walked on the other side of Spot. When we got near the museum, I saw a cop parked nearby, filling out what looked like a long form. She might be there awhile. Handy in case Salt and Pepper had managed to follow us.
We walked into the museum. They probably had a rule prohibiting dogs, but I didn’t see any sign.
I brought Paco over to a corner where we were out of sight from some of the windows.
Spot sat down, then slid his front paws forward, lowering himself to the ground. Paco was still holding onto his collar. He sank down to his knees as Spot lowered. Paco sat on the floor, then shifted a bit so that he could lean against Spot, his arm reaching sideways so that he could keep his grip on Spot’s collar.
A woman rushed up, scowling at me.
“Sir, I’m sorry but we don’t allow dogs in the museum.”
I gave her my best smile. “He’s a service dog. The law allows service dogs everywhere.”
She shook her head. “Service dogs have to wear the official bib. I know because my friend is blind, and she has a dog.”
“We forgot the bib. We had a meeting here with Marko V from UNR. I’m sure you know him. Anyway, we were half way down from Tahoe before we realized it. If I’d taken time to go back, we would have been late for our meeting, and Marko V would be annoyed.
The woman looked doubtful. “I don’t know any Marko V. What kind of a name is that, V? Anyway, my friend also told me that her service dog trainer says that service dogs are always from the medium size breeds so they can fit in elevators and such.”
“Usually, that’s true. But this dog was apparently so attentive to his job that the training school made an exception.”
As I said it, Spot rolled over onto his side, jerking his collar from Paco’s grip. Spot’s panting tongue flopped out onto the floor, the size and shape and look of a Kokanee salmon fresh-caught during spawning season when they turn bright red. He appeared to immediately go to sleep.
“You obviously don’t need a dog,” the woman said. “The dog serves the boy?”
I nodded. I tried to look solemn. “Yeah. Poor little William. Born deaf. And we haven’t had much success with sign language. But he’s smart. Trust me, I can tell these things. It’s only been a couple of days since William got the dog. But already they’re inseparable.”
The woman looked doubtful. “William can’t hear?” she said loudly, carefully watching Paco to see if he turned at the name. Paco didn’t show any reaction. He just stared at the floor.
I shook my head.
The woman’s reaction went from disbelief to sympathy. “We have a woman working here who signs. I’ll have her come out and work with William while you have your meeting.”
“Uh, no thanks. The boy is very shy. And he’s got, ah, a condition...”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s an unusual situation. The doctor says he should refrain from social interaction with strangers. It could really set him back.”
Behind the woman came a man in a suit.
“Tall guy. Red baseball cap,” the man called out as he raised up his index finger. “Gotta be Owen McKenna.”
“Marko,” I said, stepping past the woman to shake his hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”
The woman looked Marko over carefully, then raised her hand toward me in a little wave and left.
The man bent down in front of Paco. His shoes were black and freshly polished. “So your name is Paco Ipar.”
The boy wouldn’t meet Marko’s eyes. He looked vaguely at the floor.
I said, “As I mentioned on the phone, Dr. Mendoza, a doctor near Paco’s hometown, thought that Paco’s last name, Ipar, might be short for Iparagirre. He said that
name refers to a house that faces the north wind.”
Marko nodded. “It is common for the Basque to name their houses like that. And in some cases, when a Basque family home is sold to new residents, the new residents will take the name of the residence as their new family name. Tell me, Paco,” Marko said. “Do you think that Iparagirre is a possibility for your last name?”
Paco shrugged. Affirmative version.
Marko straightened up and smiled. “If Iparagirre is Paco’s last name, this boy’s ancestors are certainly Basque. Many of the Basque, when they came west from the east coast of the U.S., headed to this part of the world, from Idaho down to Mexico City. They also went in significant numbers to Chile.”
I turned to Paco. “Has anyone ever said anything to you about being Basque?”
Paco made a nearly-imperceptible shake of his head.
I said to Marko V, “Paco was born in Mexico, orphaned in this country as a baby. We have no knowledge of any relatives. But we could look for other Iparagirres.”
“I’ve learned that some of the Basque in Tahoe eventually relocated to Mexico because their high-elevation range lands are great for raising sheep, and they don’t have the downside of heavy winters. So it’s possible that Paco is completing the circle. His lineage may include Tahoe. You could take him hiking up on the meadows of the East Shore mountains and show him the arborglyphs.”
“What are those?”
“The Basque have always been artistic. The sheepherders carved drawings into the bark of Aspen trees. One of our UNR professors has documented them in a beautiful book. It’s an ephemeral art form. Every year we lose the oldest drawings as the trees die off, which makes those that remain more precious as time goes on.”
“What did they carve?”
“You name it. Names, dates, poems, landscapes, pictures of their girlfriends. Those sheepherders may have lived quiet lives as loners up on the mountains, but they certainly were boisterous as artists. Some of the arborglyphs are X-rated. If you take all of the arborglyphs as a body of work, it is an amazing record of the lives of the Basque sheepherders. Could be that Paco has some artistic ability in his genes.”
“It sounds like sheep herding was sort of the national occupation,” I said.
“It was important,” Marko said, “but as with all groups, the Basque pursued a wide range of occupations. Baseball player Ted Williams was part Basque. As was Olympic skier Jimmie Huega. And John Ascuaga, the guy who owns the Nugget.”
“The giant hotel in Sparks.”
“Yeah. And back in the late nineteen sixties, Paul Laxalt was governor of Nevada, and, in the seventies, he became a senator from Nevada.”
I remembered the name. “Senator Laxalt is Basque?”
“Along with his brother, Robert, who wrote a bunch of books and started the University of Nevada Press.”
“Tell me,” I said, wanting to ask a question as much for Paco as for me. “The little I’ve heard about Basque people, it always sounds like they’re a big deal. If I hear something about the Scottish, Irish, and Welsh – my ancestors, for example – it’s no big deal. But it seems different with the Basque. What’s that about?”
“It’s probably because of our uniqueness. We have very little connection to the other people of Europe or anywhere else. It shouldn’t be that way because our land is on the border of Spain and France, on the Bay of Biscay. So we are proximate to most of Europe.”
“Proximate,” I repeated.
“Yeah. It would make sense that we would have many similarities to people in nearby countries. But we don’t.”
He continued, “We are linguistically and culturally distinct. To a substantial degree, we are even genetically distinct. Our DNA contains components not found elsewhere. Our blood type is like no other group of people on earth. We have dramatically more O negative blood than any other people, and we have almost no B type.
“The Basque language, Euskara, has no clear relation to any other language, European or otherwise. Our history is a mystery. The best guess seems to be that we were some of the earliest Europeans. The other early European inhabitants were overrun by subsequent waves of migrations from all directions. Celts, Romans, Goths. But somehow the Basque survived centuries of onslaught,” Marko said. The man was obviously proud of his heritage.
I noticed Paco shifting his position on the floor, always draping his arm over Spot’s prostrate form.
“Tough people, huh?” I said.
“Some say,” Marko V said, “that the reason the Basque country has been so durable is the nature of Basque government. President John Adams even commented. He went there in the late eighteenth century and was impressed that, while the rest of Europe had succumbed to the rule of kings, the Basque had resisted any kind of overlords.
“But I have yet another theory about how the Basque have remained cohesive,” Marko continued. “And it is part of my dissertation.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“You probably know about the Spanish Civil War,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry to say that I’m ignorant about that.”
“Well, very briefly, during the Depression, Spain’s right wing became more alarmist and disenchanted with the democratically-elected Republican government. So General Franco, who was a fascist, staged a coup and took over the government and put his Nationalist Party in charge. They executed tens of thousands of suspected leftists, especially Jewish leftists. The resulting civil war pitted the Republicans across the country against the fascist Nationalists.”
“And because the Basque were in Spain,” I said, “they must have got caught up in the war. Which side were they on?”
“As they have always done throughout history, the Basque fought against tyrannical leaders. They were against Franco and the Nationalists. They wanted to be left alone. But Franco wanted to appoint himself king and rule everything. He knew from Basque history that the Basque would never submit. So he engineered one of the worst massacres in history.”
“Killed the Basque?” I said, wincing at the thought.
“Yes, and in the most vile way. He talked Hitler and Mussolini into using their warplanes to bomb the Basque country.”
“This was before the start of World War Two,” I said.
“Right. Nineteen thirty-seven. It was one of the worst terrorist attacks in history, like an evil World War Two training run for Hitler and Mussolini. They unleashed the German Luftwaffe and the Italian Aviazione Legionaria onto a defenseless Basque town where there hadn’t even been any fighting.
“The Basque men were all off fighting Franco’s forces on other fronts, so when the bombers came in to blow up the Basque country, they mostly killed women and children. It was a ferocious, surprise attack on the most innocent of people. Thousands of mothers and their kids.”
“Hard for a people to forget that,” I said.
“Yes. The Basque were peaceful sheepherders. That massacre still sears in family memories. Many writers and composers and painters have commemorated the atrocity.”
“The Basque men must have been outraged.”
“Yeah, some of those peaceful sheepherders turned out to have as much appetite for vengeance as anyone. There were reports of them slaying some Nationalist sympathizers.” Marko gritted his teeth. “War is an ugly thing.”
I was silent for a moment as I contemplated what he said. I walked a short distance away from Paco. Marko followed.
Marko turned to me so that his words wouldn’t be heard by Paco. “You said the boy is an orphan?”
“Yeah. And his foster mom died recently.”
“The foster system can’t find a new home?”
“Not quite,” I said. “Turns out that Paco is an undocumented kid. His foster mothers have been neighbor women in the town where he lived when his real mom died. We could prevail upon the state of California to try to find a home for him, but he’s been in trouble, and they would likely deport him to Mexico, a country he doesn’t know.”
/> Marko looked over at Paco who was still sitting on the floor, half-draped over Spot.
“Do you know about the Basque clubs?” Marko V asked.
“Haven’t heard of them.”
“There are about four dozen of them spread across the country. Their purpose is to give people of Basque ethnicity a way to connect with each other.”
“And keep the culture alive,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“You think I should contact the clubs? See if they know anyone who would take in a Basque child?”
“Might be worth trying.”
“You have a list?” I asked.
“I can email it to you,” he said.
I pulled out my card and handed it to him.
I thanked Marko for his time and the information about the Basque clubs. We all left.
THIRTY-THREE
When we were back in the car, Paco said, “Why did you tell that woman that my name is William and that I was born deaf?”
“You were listening?”
“I always listen,” he said.
I realized that I would have to be much more careful in the future. Paco was not as unobservant as I thought.
“The woman wanted us to take Spot back outside. I’d already made an appointment with the Basque expert Marko V. So I told a white lie so we could stay inside the museum and meet him. I didn’t want us to wait outside where it would be easier for Salt and Pepper to see us.”
“What’s a white lie?”
“A white lie is what you tell when you have good intentions,” I said, thinking that there was probably a better way to phrase it.
“So it’s good to tell white lies,” Paco said.
“No. It’s probably bad. Most of the time, anyway. It’s just not as bad as telling other lies.”
“Does everybody lie?”
Now I regretted saying anything to the woman. I should have just left the museum and met Marko V outside. “Probably most people lie sometimes,” I said. “Especially white lies.”
“Like breaking the law,” Paco said.
“How do you mean?”
