From this vantage point, the Universidad Iberoamericana doesn’t look much different than any university in southern California. I’m relaxing on a third-floor balcony that overhangs the campus plaza. Low sand-colored buildings recede in a jagged parallel line, flanking the cement walk that constitutes the heart of campus. Splashes of emerald green dot the view, a landscaping of cacti and flannelbush and iceplant — which is classified as an invasive species north of the border, just like other Mexican immigrants. The only movement is an untidy procession of undergrads who attended daily mass on campus. They clot back toward the dorms, some of them busty chicas in low-cut blouses. If only I was two floors lower.

My cellphone vibrates, teasingly close to my crotch. I fumble it out of my front pocket. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” Nooshin’s voice, coming from somewhere inside the same building. The Biblioteca Loyola — Loyola Library — is plenty large enough to lose yourself in, let alone another person. “I’m on the second floor, where I saw you last, but now I can’t find you!”

“I went up on the third floor. I’m out on the observation balcony. Find the curving stairwell up and hang a left. Did you get your library card?”

‘I wish,” she sighs. “The girl at the counter said I can’t get one because I only have a tourist visa.”

That makes me laugh. Nooshin is still too innocent to realize when she’s being asked for a bribe. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you get one.”

“Okay, you stay there. I’m coming up.”

I snap my cellphone shut and return to the view. The Universidad Iberoamericana is located in Playas de Tijuana — literally Beaches of Tijuana — a posh suburb of subdivisions and condo developments. They sprawl across the scrub-covered hills and down to the sandy lip of the Pacific. It’s a nice hangout if you can afford it. I can’t, since I’m a starving graduate student. I live miles inland, just like the rest of Tijuana.

My cellphone is vibrating again. “Lost much?” I answer.

“Mr. Roberts?” The gravelly voice of my dissertation advisor is confused. “Is that you, Mr. Roberts?”

“Professor! Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you calling.”

Professor Emeritus Hercules Gutierrez is impatient as always. No social niceties, just a dismissive grunted hello. “Are you in Tijuana?”

“Uh — what? Yeah, I’m in Tijuana. At the Biblioteca Loyola.” The Loyola Library is the first public library in Tijuana that grants full access to the public. Grasp that contradiction and you’ll understand Mexico. “How are you? How are Eugenia and the kids?”

“They’re watching a DVD inside.” So Hercules is puttering around in his garage, enjoying some quiet time. Good for him. “Mr. Roberts, I need a favor.”

My eyebrows climb into my Kangol hat. In the four years I’ve known the old reptile, he’s never asked me for a favor. Quid pro quos, sure. Dirt on other graduate students, plenty of times. But never a no-strings-attached favor. “A favor?” I echo warily.

“That’s right. You’re aware of the US-Mexico Border Symposium?”

“The big NAFTA conference that starts tomorrow at San Diego State? Yeah, I’m aware of it.”

Hercules takes a raspy breath. “Then you knew that Professor Chavez is presenting.”

“Frankie? Of course I know that Frankie is presenting.” I slide a palm under my hat and start polishing my bald spot. Something is wrong here. A big something, if I’m feeling the vibe right. “I plan to be there for his presentation. Sitting in the front row, even. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly…what?”

He clears his throat momentously. “I want you to take his place.”

“What are you talking about, Professor? Did something happen to Frankie? Can’t he make it?”

“I’m responsible for picking a representative from our department. It’s a little last-minute, but I’ve decided to take the privilege from him and give it to you.”

Hairs stand up on my neck. Hercules has a mean streak as big as his name, but this is fucking insane. Taking a presentation opportunity away from another professor and giving it to a mere grad student — and with almost zilch warning? Godfuckingdamn. What could Frankie possibly have done to deserve this? It doesn’t make sense. Not unless…

The world slows into crystalline clarity as I remember my last conversation with Frankie. The dean gave us approval to add a colonial Caribbeanist.

“Frankie wants to hire some kind of neocon to be the new Caribbeanist, doesn’t he?” Just saying it out loud, I become convinced that’s the angle. The youthful and rightist archrival of Hercules is machinating for a political ally in the department. “You need to show him who still runs the program. You need to freeze him out. Is that it?”

“Remember who you’re talking to!” Hercules thunders. For a while there’s only the hiss of static. I know he’s waiting for me to apologize, and knowing it just makes me more obdurate. Finally he groans in surrender. “A presentation to the US-Mexico Border Symposium will look great on your curriculum vitae. You can even claim a television credit. C-SPAN is recording the event.”

I sag over the balcony railing in misery. “You’re asking me to screw Frankie, dude.”

“My name isn’t dude. And Frankie isn’t your dissertation advisor. Frankie didn’t get the supplemental research grant and hire you with it. Frankie couldn’t even stop the rest of Javier’s funding from going to Maria, instead of you.” The words are heavy with menace. Hercules giveth, Hercules taketh away.

“Assuming I do this, what the hell am I supposed to present?”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Fucking fuck,” I sigh.

“Will you or won’t you? I need an answer.”

Somehow I find the balls to say, “I’ll think about it. Talk to you later.” It’s just posturing, really. I already know that I’ll screw Frankie. My bread is buttered on the Hercules side, and all three of us know it. But I don’t want to act like a pushover. Neither Hercules nor Frankie would respect me if I did.

By the time Nooshin arrives I’m draped over the railing at an even more dangerous angle. She bursts into motion and grabs my t-shirt, yanking me backwards. “Don’t scare me like that!” she gasps, maneuvering me against the cool stucco next to the balcony door. Her kiss ends with a brief glance down at the plaza and its procession of good Catholic students. “What were you doing, silly? Trying to look down some girl’s shirt?”

I feign a blush and make embarrassed noises, letting her think I was ogling boobs. If only life was that simple. Then I grab her bony elbow and pull her back into the Biblioteca Loyola, leading the way down several flights of stairs to the library card counter, where I’ve already resolved to give Nooshin a lesson in how a little bribery goes a long way in Mexico. Just as it does in my little fucked-up corner of UCLA.