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At the Instituto .”
    â€œYou speak Spanish well. Your accent is very good.” He sat down on the bench next to her.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œOlivia,” she said.
    â€œOlivia,” he repeated.
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œJorge. Jorge Luís Rodriguez Hernandez.”
    â€œI enjoyed your speech.”
    The young man shrugged and leaned back on one arm, forcing her to turn slightly to look at him. He had a narrow line of an upper lip, but the lower was wide and full and looked soft, like a baby’s. “It was just a chant,” he said. “Not a speech. I’ve given speeches at the University. Lots of them.”
    â€œAre you a student?”
    â€œYes,” he said, and his pride was obvious. “I study politics at the University of Guanajuato. Have you been to Guanajuato?”
    Olivia shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
    â€œYou should go. It’s a beautiful city. A real city, not like this tiny little town.” He waved his hand derisively at the now entirely empty field and the shuttered stores behind it.
    â€œIs that where you live? Are you from Guanajuato?”
    He shook his head. “No, I’m from San Miguel. My family is here. But I’ve been at the University now for almost two years.”
    Olivia was conscious of the heat of Jorge’s body. He sat close to her, almost touching, and she felt her leg ache to inch closer to his.
    â€œI came today for the conference,” he said. “Did you hear the speeches?”
    â€œYes, they were wonderful.”
    Jorge shook his head in exaggerated woe. “Old men. All of them. What do they know of the struggles of the youth movement or the Indians? But, still, their voices are better than ­nothing.”
    â€œAre you involved in the…in the movement?” Olivia asked, not sure what movement she was talking about.
    â€œI am a cell leader for the Guanajuato Student Revolutionary Union,” Jorge said, with just the faintest tinge of haughtiness in his voice.
    Olivia’s breath quickened in her chest, and she smiled. It was as though everything in her life—her love of Spanish, her commitment to social change, her itchy traveling feet—had been designed to lead her precisely to this dusty field, to this dark night, and to this young man wearing a shirt embroidered with birds.
    They talked for a long while. He told her about the guerilla theater his student group performed in the streets of Guanajuato and of the letters they wrote to the president of Mexico in support of the Indians in Chiapas. She shared with him her plans to travel to the violence-torn area and offer herself as a laborer for the revolution, and although his lips twitched in a smile, he told her he was impressed with her courage. Finally, as the night grew colder, he reached an arm around her. “You’re shivering,” he murmured.
    Olivia didn’t reply. She leaned her head back and felt his smooth, hairless forearm on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and wasn’t surprised to feel his mouth on hers. She parted her lips softly. His tongue darted into her mouth. He tasted faintly tangy and sharp, like nothing she had ever tasted before. He tasted like Mexico. They kissed, and then, finally, Olivia said, “I have to go.” But she didn’t move.
    â€œI’ll walk with you. Where are you staying?”
    She told him the address of her host family, and they walked there together, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and their footsteps echoing loudly on the empty cobblestone streets.
    Olivia looked up at the colonial houses lining the blocks. The street lamps cast pools of orange light along the walls, and the heavy night sky flickered with stars. In the distance, the bells of a hundred churches began to clang and jangle with the tolling of the hour.
    â€œIt’s so beautiful here,” Olivia said.
    â€œYes,