Mexico City Noir

by Paco Ignacio II Taibo

  After Papa’s death and during my mother’s supposed terminal illness, I was forced to leave my academic life in Dallas and return to Mexico City. Alice wanted to go with me because she wanted to find out about my family’s businesses. According to our divorce agreement—which wasn’t yet final—she would get half of whatever I inherited. To be frank, we should never have gotten married. It happened because, as it turned out, Alice always believed that if she were going to marry, it should be to her best friend. Over the course of time, only our friendship survived.

  As soon as we got to Mexico City and Colonia del Valle, she got the house in order, prepped rooms for both of us, discovered that most of the neighbors wanted to get to know her (as usually happens with foreigners in this country), and began to work on her Spanish. She bought Wilson from the veterinarian at the San Francisco street market. The kitten struck me as too big to be a newborn, and I am pretty sure I saw him smile after his first bottle of milk at our house. In a year, he had become the evolutionary link between the sabertoothed tiger and the domestic cat.

  From the start, Alice got in the way of my having women friends, in spite of her easygoing demeanor. I told her, “I don’t understand what you’re doing here, in Mexico, with me, in this house; if you were a drunk or a drug addict it would make more sense.” Her answer was always the same: it had to do with our friendship and her interest in finding out how much she was entitled to of “man’s earthly goods,” or, in this case, woman’s. She said she’d finish dealing with my parents’ businesses and properties in Mexico and then we could each go to our own sancho. “Santo, Alice, the word is santo.” She said she’d heard that you could say sancho too. Well, yes, but that was something else entirely.

  In fact, the only person on our street, and on any streets for that matter, with whom our foreign neighbor maintained friendly relations, was Alice, whether it was because she was also a gringa, or whatever. It was like she was the only person the neighborhood mad dog wouldn’t bite, something doubly strange given the antagonism between them: for example, one day, annoyed by the loud music coming from the neighbor’s house, she called him and, after identifying herself and asking him to stop his “scandalous behaviour,” she insulted him in English for several minutes. This rant—at times completely incomprehensible to me, thanks to my being from a higher social class than Alice—began with the phrase “With all due respect” and finished off with the old American favorite, “Have a nice day.” As soon as she hung up, she said, “Stupid old man,” but she wasn’t angry anymore; she was on the verge of laughter. Quickly, she added, “Better watch out, he told me he was going to break my husband’s face.”

  One morning, I spied Alice through the large living room windows talking with somebody out in the park. The sun was strong and, because of her height and the light reflecting off her blond hair, it took me a moment to identify the gringo. They were chatting without the slightest trace of hostility.

  “What were you talking about with the neighbor?” I asked as soon as she returned to the house.

  “He’s a vulnerable old man,” she replied.

  In those first days in Mexico, the process of liquidating my family’s businesses was frequently bogged down by my ignorance. I didn’t have a sense of the bigger picture, and this caused tremendous paranoia: as far as I was concerned, the partners, lawyers, and accountants were a gang of conspirators trying to rip me off. Besides, my mother—whom I stopped believing was on her death bed when I saw her playing golf after just one week in the hospital—had signed over power of attorney to me so I could do whatever I wanted, which I considered confirmation of my suspicions that, rather than dying, she was merely retiring, and was unloading everything on me. I canceled the sale of stocks, reinvested dividends, raised wages, and upped benefits as an act of revenge, just as neoliberalism arrived in Mexico with the new president, Miguel de la Madrid; I washed my hands of any possibility of profit and figured things would crash when they needed to crash. Alice just shook her head. I had given her an update on the family businesses at a less-than-ideal moment.

  The night before, believing she was still away on a trip, I came home with one of the company secretaries directly after a little office party. That next morning, Alice showed up in the breakfast nook, dressed to play tennis. I was forced to introduce her, so I gave her name, and she added, “His wife.” The secretary almost spit out her coffee; immediately, she blurted, “What a big cat, and what huge fangs!” Wilson stopped rubbing himself against Alice’s thighs and moved toward his dish. The secretary asked “my wife” if that was her natural hair color. They started chatting as if they had studied fashion and makeup at the same school. As she left, the secretary said again, “What an enormous cat!” I told Alice about the party and the change of plans with the family businesses. She shook her head. I explained that the partnership would benefit from the privatization policy with which Miguel de la Madrid was ridding the nation of its excessive goods, handing them over to the domestic and foreign bourgeoisie; that the profit from the divorce would be even larger. None of it went over well with her.

  “If you’re going to continue bringing your viejas …”

  They aren’t actually very “old,” I explained to her.

  Did I always like café-colored women?

  “Alice, we say morenas—brown, if you like.”

  “Well, if you’re going to keep sleeping with them, at least be sure I’m not at home.”

  Later, just as I was sliding my car out of the garage, a young man started attacking the gringo. I jumped out of the car and shoved the guy before he began to kick the old man. The gringo got up and, after spitting and wiping some blood off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, growled at me to stay out of it, that it was none of my business, and then he called me an idiot. What?

  A couple days later, I found Alice and the gringo having coffee and chatting amiably in our living room. I greeted her with a kiss and she said, in Spanish, “You remember him, he lives next door?”(“We say neighbor,” I whispered.) I remembered him, of course. I made eye contact with the old man for a passing second. Then I locked myself in the study. Alice soon appeared with a drink for me, took a seat on the rug next to the armchair where I was reading, and hugged my legs.

  “You know,” she began, “I think that cabrón killed somebody, perhaps many people, and I don’t mean in a war. He’s like a serial killer.”

  “He’s gotten away with the murder. In Spanish we say, he got away with it, Alice.” Of course, there was no need to ask why she thought this: it was female intuition. “They almost killed him the other day,” I said, and I told her what had happened.

  “Ah, yes,” she responded, apparently aware of the incident,“that’s how it is with his kids.” Alfonso, the handyman on our street, had told her about worse incidents, even shootings; he’d never been hurt badly, but imagine the shock. “Did you know that Wilson fascinates him? He likes cats. He has a kitten now, he doesn’t know what kind, but she’s spotted. He actually named her Spots.” How imaginative, I thought. “He says she has a face like a whore, a made-up whore,” Alice laughed, “like in Cats. And she wears a flea collar. But when the gringo tried to pet Wilson, he clawed the guy.”

  “We say scratched, Alice.”

  Things changed, or went to hell, after that day. When I think of it now, it’s as if I woke up and the new situation was already there, just waiting for me to open my eyes.

  I grew anxious as I headed out to the garden. There was a short ladder up against the garden wall, which I would have to climb in order to leave food and water for Spots.

  A few days before, I’d woken up in the middle of the night and met her. I’d seen some branches move through the bedroom window—a rustling of leaves on the garden wall—and thought it was Wilson coming back from a night of mischief. But what emerged from the weeds instead was a spotted kitten, with a flea collar and the face of a whore; she took a few steps around the cornice when—suddenly—Wilson appeared behin
d her. Frightened by the sheer size of the “sabertoothed tiger,” Spots fell on her back. Wilson simply watched and smiled.

  That same morning, Alfonso, the handyman, had knocked on my door and asked, on the gringo’s behalf, if I’d seen a spotted kitten in heat. It was impossible to know for sure (of course, that same dawn, I’d suspected, by virtue of the meows and shrieks outside my window), but the possibility of more than one spotted kitten wandering the neighborhood was remote: she had to be his cat. What was the plan? Alfonso shrugged his shoulders. Just imagine, I said, how difficult it will be to catch a female in that state. “If she were human, at least I’d have a chance.”

  How many weeks had it been since Spots deserted her house and began subsisting on the water and croquettes I was leaving for her on top of the garden wall? Time had lost its coordinates since Alice made her final trip back to Texas, and marks on calendars and clocks meant nothing. I suppose I could calculate the months since I’d come home with company and Alice was still there, her flight canceled. This time it wasn’t a coffee-colored woman but a European, as blond and tall as Alice. They had looked each other over as I introduced them, and I’d considered it a good sign that Alice didn’t feel the need to clarify our relationship. I’d already decided to sleep with the European. “Will you excuse us?” I was on my way up the stairs when I heard about the canceled flight; she’d try to book another in the morning.

  Alice went away and didn’t come back. On the phone, in Spanish and with Mexican irony, she recommended I do whatever I wanted; it was my life, after all, and she was no longer interested in my well being or whatever earthly goods she might be entitled to in the divorce.

  I put the ladder up against the garden wall and took another drink for courage. I began to climb, holding a bowl of croquettes; I was stretching to place it on top of the wall when I was knocked back by a sudden weight collapsing on my neck; I scratched at the air, my back slammed down against the turf. It was better not to move for a bit. I breathed. Wilson climbed on my chest, cuddled up, and quickly fell asleep in spite of the drizzle. How many more kilos had he gained in the past week?

  A court decision forced me to deal with business matters and discover that my partners had cheated me out of my share. Lazy in the comfort of her pension, my mother, in a tone of retroactive warning, said, “The idea was to sell over time, hijo.” According to her, I had my father’s tendency to think I was clever, like most gringos in Latin America. Then she issued another warning, this time in a more severe tone: “And don’t sell the house!” Although it was already mine and I had power of attorney, it would be best to claim it as an inheritance when she died.

  The truth is, I’d already sold it. Twenty days before turning in the keys, I went looking for a carrier to take Wilson back to Dallas with me. (The only suitable one I could find was actually designed for rottweilers.) I boxed things up, dealt with the furniture, and packed my luggage.

  One wretched Saturday afternoon, it grew cold outside and looked like it was going to rain. I wanted another drink but couldn’t find a single drop in any of my bottles. To top things off, not even the cat was home. Then I heard him when he dropped onto the roof of the shed, and by the time I got to the garden he was already coming down the trunk of the palm tree, his second stop before touching ground. I grabbed him by an eyetooth and carried him up to my room, where I let him loose and closed the door. “Stop trying to crawl under the bed, you already know you don’t fit,” I advised. So he jumped on the blankets, curled up, and pretended he was asleep. Very well. I looked for his brush and began to comb his head. I remembered that the sonic frequency of a cat’s purr is capable of destroying cancer cells.

  A few nights later, much worse—after another bad calculation regarding the content of my bottles—the screams coming from Spots no longer sounded like she was in heat. She was hungry and cold. After my fall, I was no longer enthused about climbing to leave her food. She’d been on her own for the last week. When I could, I’d leave croquettes for her on the roof of the shed, but it wasn’t easy for her to get up there. Wilson invariably finished her rations.

  That night, however, I heard Spots jump from the garden wall to the roof of the shed. It was a dull thud, weak in comparison to the thunder from Wilson’s heavier impact. Wilson began dozing while I went out to investigate. I ascended the ladder, and there was Spots, eating what was left of the croquettes. She saw me and immediately began flirting. She meowed and purred and rubbed her body on the roof. I went back down for a slice of ham, returned, and tossed her a small piece. She ate it quickly, so I tossed her another. Each time, I dropped the pieces of ham a little closer to me. I talked to her about the weather, I told her it was cold and that it would rain again soon, and that it’d be better to go home or allow herself to be caught. The stepladder started shaking and I could hardly maintain control as Spots munched away. I suddenly lunged and caught her by the flea collar and was able to grab the scruff of her neck; I don’t know how I managed to avoid falling with that cat. There were kicks, scratches, howls; looks that said, I will never trust a human being ever again. I wanted to snatch the phone and the neighborhood directory at the same time, without letting go of her. I ended up using Wilson’s rottweiler carrier. That’s how I should have begun.

  There was a gun collection on the wall. A huge rifle with a scope. No hunting trophies. The gringo seemed proud of his little mahogany bar lined with bottles. He fixed cocktails for both of us. Instead of toasting, he merely said, “Boozing time.”

  Drinking hour, I said to myself, and then, like him, I nearly downed the full cocktail in one swig.

  He asked about Alice. Her? Fine. I would be going back to the United States soon. I pointed to the carrier in which I’d brought back his cat. That’s for transporting my Wilson. The gringo finished another drink. I did the same.

  “I’ve never seen a bigger cat,” he said. I agreed: if he were any bigger, he’d be in some museum as the live part of a Paleolithic diorama.

  Not a muscle moved on the man’s face. His gaze was intimidating. There were moments when I wanted to leave, but another drink—or perhaps my fear of simply excusing myself, grabbing Wilson’s carrier, and taking off—kept me in my seat. I had a feeling that the old man was using my visit as an excuse to start some kind of party. From the moment I arrived with Spots, I noticed an eagerness that I first thought was relief at his pet’s rescue. His offer of a drink seemed natural under the circumstances, and fortunate, given the alcohol deficiency at home.

  The gringo left his place by the little bar and moved over to his turntable. He put on a record by an American band. “You like Miller?” he asked without smiling, and then took a couple of dance steps, also without smiling.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  He turned up the volume and pressed some buttons, concentrating on equalizing the sound. I looked with greater focus at the wall with the gun collection. One could almost imagine the sudden appearance of a red deer or buffalo head. In their place, I noticed photographs; the light from the little bar barely reached them.

  I frequently think back to what happened during those three years in Mexico, and especially that night. Imprisonment in a Texas jail provokes obsessions that wouldn’t develop in other places, I suppose, including other jails. Here, the looming presence of death row and its dead men walking make for a different atmosphere. The proximity of the execution room and the condemned bring the past to life, the one that ends here.

  Up close, I could see that the photos were of the gringo when he was young: as a soldier in the Second World War; dressed in civilian clothes, next to armed companions; receiving a trophy and, below, a sign that said The Perfect Marksman; finally, standing next to a freshly shot animal. There were also photos of John F. Kennedy: with Marilyn Monroe, with Sinatra, with his brother Robert, when he was in the military. Even one in which Kennedy looks like a cadaver, he’s so thin. And one more, a picture of Kennedy next to his wife in a convertible; below it, in an arduous scribble
and barely legible in the weak light: Dallas, Texas, and the date, November 1963. The gringo appeared behind me and asked if it would bother me if he repeated “American Patrol.” No, I replied, then returned to my seat. I was talking carelessly, fueled by alcohol and my host’s silence; the fact that he wasn’t saying anything made me anxious. He was one of those people who hide their emptiness in silence. I spoke about Kennedy, alluding to the photos on the wall; I noted that not even the government’s commission investigating his death had been able to prove in any credible way that there was only a lone gunman. I talked about Alice, how we’d stayed friends even after we married; about Wilson and his ability to smile. I had my hypothesis: this would be the next ability that cats developed in human society; smiling, let’s say, as an extension of purring. An evolutionary leap to become even more desired and nurtured by humans. A resource, a new survival strategy. The gringo looked on, shrugging his shoulders. When I talked to him about Kennedy, I thought he’d at least explain the photos, but he barely blinked. He seemed to get more interested when I first mentioned Alice, but faded again once it became evident I wasn’t offering any intimate details. I only remember him saying one complete sentence: “So you’re Texan, from Dallas, right?” I thought it would lead to something, but he simply kept drinking.

  I went back to Dallas, our divorce was finalized, and Alice and I went back to being just friends. Once more, back to classes and routine, until Wilson disappeared for a couple of days and then somebody left his wet corpse on the porch. I was told he’d been drowned by one of the neighbors: taking that delicate delight, so American, in abusing the weak, the neighbor had allegedly submerged Wilson in his pool and amused himself by not letting him back to the surface. I wondered if Wilson had tried to smile at him along the way.