The Delinquent Virgin - Softcover

of course he was a great editor, but Maxwell Perkins did not spend his whole life, pencil in hand, a paragon of self-effacing good taste and nobility. It is a little known fact that Max served in 1916 under General Pershing when the American cavalry went down into Mexico to find Pancho Villa. (In this, Pershing failed, but later, in 1918, he vanquished the German army.) For Max, however, Mexico was crucial. Here he met the jalape?o of destiny.

Lieutenant Perkins rode with cavalry into Chihuahua, fruitlessly searching for the elusive Pancho Villa. Max was saddle-sore, hot, cross, thirsty, and bored. At least until he met Maria Concepcion, with whom he had a torrid, hot tamale love affair. She taught him about sex, salsa, and everything he would need to be an editor. Maria Concepcion is ubiquitous in American Literature (she also appears in the Katherine Anne Porter story of the same name). However, before she bedded Max Perkins, she had an affair with Pancho Villa. This should not surprise anyone as all Mexican women born between 1855 and 1908 claim to have slept with Pancho Villa. Many American women, too. For all I know, Katherine Anne Porter slept with Pancho Villa. Certainly Pancho graced many a bed and he was always gallant, muy hombre, and never mistreated a horse.

During those short, hot nights in the summer of 1916, Max and Maria lay naked and--oh well, we can only follow this story as it applies to literature. Anyway, Maria Concepcion sometimes talked about Pancho Villa. She said Pancho could make love, yes, but what he really made was salsa! Holy frijole, Max! I tell you! Here in Chihuahua, virgins are not allowed to taste Pancho's salsa. In Chihuahua, Pancho's salsa is considered a sin of the flesh and the devout confess it to the priests. I don't know who the priests confess to. Pancho's salsa will win la revolucin, even if Pancho does not.

Max begged Maria to taste Pancho's salsa, having already adored Pancho's woman. And, on his last night in Mexico, so muy hornbre was Max to Maria, at dawn she rose. She brought to him a couple of tortillas, a cold beer, and a bowl of Pancho Villa's salsa. Maria nodded. The tortilla swathed in salsa, Max ate fearlessly. His eyes opened wide, tears streamed down his face while he groaned, salivated, shuddered, and his breath went oof oof oof, as the blood drained from his face on its way down to fight the fire in his belly; the agony was equaled only by the joy radiating out from his taste buds to his every extremity. He collapsed, breathless, ecstatic and satisfied.

OK, gringo--Maria said, kissing Max--Now you know. Never forget this: great literature is like great salsa. It must evoke a gut reaction, it must take your breath away, it must make your eyes water, you must weep and laugh, maybe at the same moment. And Max, you can always tell the great writers because they can do this to you more than once, in book after book. For great writers, the work --like Pancho's salsa--is always satisfying and yet, each time, a little different. Say what you want, amigo, no two jalape?os are exactly alike, so the salsa is never the same. Only the effect, that is the same. And with that, she sent Maxwell Perkins off to meet his destiny.