Jesusa came back into the kitchen tossing her long braids to the side and flicking the wet off her shoulders. “It looks like the rains are finally here.”
13.
No matter how hard we tried, Mosca and I couldn’t find any evidence that there had been a shooting. There were no signs at La Gloria. No bullet holes or marks on the walls, inside or out. No blood. Not even a sign of fear in the eyes of the men drinking there—or the cantinero. No one was talking about it. It was as if it had all been a dream: the tall man with yellow eyes, the gun, the truck, the gunshots. It was too weird. And no one was talking about my parents anymore. It was as if everything was back to normal in good old Izayoc. But it wasn’t. It was getting worse. A bunch of stores and businesses had closed. People were leaving town. There were fewer students at school. And at night, people stayed home. A strange, eerie silence had descended on us like a steady rain. No one was talking about that either.
I had been marking a calendar with the days my parents had been gone. I had this vague idea that I should have a deadline of some kind, that at some point I would come to a number and somehow finally accept that they were gone forever. But every morning when I drew a line across the little square of the day, I felt the same fear I’d felt the day they failed to return from Toluca. I wondered if they’d be enough days in my life to get over their disappearance.
The arrival of the feria changed everything. It was huge. Tents and tarps and vendors and mechanical rides were set up all over the Flats. The dusty, stinky field was now a colorful, magical city. Suddenly, our sad fearful town turned into a giant party.
The entrance to the feria was crowded with stalls selling food and drinks and novelties. Vendors stepped out from under the blue tarps and called out their products and waved for people to come closer. The smell of corn, perfume, baked sweets, anisette and vanilla was all over the feria. A man with a dark face marked with lines from years in the sun held a snake in each hand at arm’s length, away from his body. “I have been bitten hundreds of times,” he declared in a strong voice that carried over the small crowd surrounding him. “But their venom cures me. It cures me from every malady that can attack the human immune system. Snake venom cures anything and everything.”
Mosca nudged me. “Yeah, but does it give you a hard on?”
“What I tell you is not a lie,” the man continued. “This ancient cure was born deep in the forests of Chiapas. It is the secret of the Lacandon people and was passed on to me by my great grandfather, Chilam Balam. People,” he cried, “I am a hundred and two years old.”
The crowd gasped.
He squeezed the head of the vipers. They opened their mouths revealing a pair of thin white fangs and curled their bodies around the man’s arms all the way to his armpits. “I personally milk the venom from my snakes to make available to you vials of this miracle cure at the reasonable price of seventy pesos. But today being opening day, I am willing to sell the first hundred vials for the low price of fifty pesos. Fifty pesos will buy you a vial that might save your life. I ask you, good people of Izayoc, is your life worth fifty pesos?”
People shuffled toward the table where a woman in a white muslin dress with colorful embroidery handled the sale of the vials of venom from a small wooden box at her side.
We walked on, past a man who sold plastic fish that sharpened scissors and knives of all types. Past a fat woman who peddled a cream made from the crushed pearls of oysters from the bay of Campeche. It could erase spots, warts, moles and imperfections of the skin caused by age.
“This cream is a miracle of nature,” she said from behind a table full of opened oysters shells and brown jars of cream. “It will lighten your skin. It will make you beautiful. It will change your life. I guarantee it. Beware of imitations.”
Then I saw Ximena. She was with Joaquín and Regina and some of the men who always hung out with them. They were decked out like cowboys, with shiny shirts, tight jeans, long pointy boots and hats. They strutted around as if they owned the feria. The men led the way, Ximena and Regina following a few paces behind, their heads bowed, eyes combing the dirt.
Joaquín paused by one of the games where you throw darts and pop balloons. He missed two of three. He kicked the dirt. Then he pulled out a silver pistol from the back of his belt and aimed at the boy behind the stand. The boy covered his head with his hands and ran. Joaquín and his friends laughed. Then he raised the weapon over his head and popped off two shots in the air. But it was so noisy in the feria, no one even noticed.
“Did you see that?”
Mosca shrugged and followed my gaze to Joaquín and his men.
Ximena took Joaquín’s hand and leaned against him, the side of her face against his arm. He turned and their lips met for eternity.
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want Joaquín’s shit. I didn’t want to see Ximena with him, with anyone. Why did he get to have everything?
“Check it out.” Mosca was all wound up. “Did you see her? She kissed that güey, tongue and all.”
“And?” I was about to vomit. “What about it?”
“Nothing.” He stared at me as if there was a big red neon sign on my face announcing my broken heart.
We watched the fireworks, but the vibe had changed. The grotesque image of Ximena moving under the embrace of that reptile, their tongues in each other’s mouth, kept reeling in my mind like a merry-go-round. I hated my life.
We left the feria and walked in silence until we came to the crossroads of Avenida de los Recuerdos and Calle Martirio where we heard someone call my name.
It was Junior Espinoza, Pedro Casas and Eduardo Zúñiga, friends from school. Junior’s father was a mechanic who sometimes worked on my father’s car.
“Boli!” Junior caught up with us at the corner. They were breathing fast, sweating. “You’re not going to believe what we saw.”
“My parents!”
“No, güey, your sister.”
My hope crumbled. But then a wave of panic shook me. I envisioned Gaby as Rocío Morales.
“She was with one of those men. They were getting real cozy, güey.”
“One of the guys from Michoacán.” Pedro shoved Junior to the side. “They were going at it real heavy, cabrón.”
Junior nodded.
“And she was into it,” Pedro said sarcastically.
“I’ll break your fucking face—”
“But it’s true,” Junior said. “I swear.”
“Liar.”
“We saw them. They were up by your house, on the corner of Calle Corta and Avenida de los Recuerdos. They were pressed against each other. He had his hands all over her back.” And in case that weren’t enough, Junior mimicked the maneuver, his hands caressing the air to give me a visual.
Pedro said, “Kissing real heavy.”
“Then they got into his troca and drove off,” Junior said.
“And how do you know he was one of them?” I wanted to defend my sister, her integrity, her purity.
“Well, because—” Junior said.
“He had one of those big silver buckles,” Pedro said. “And the troca. No one drives a big Chevy truck like that around here. And besides, I’ve seen him hanging out with the same guys that hang out with Ximena and Regina.”
“It’s true, Boli. I swear. Eduardo said he saw you at the feria so we were coming to tell you.”
Mosca put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay, Boli. I—”
“She’s old enough, no?” I shrugged Mosca’s arm off. “What she does is her business.”
Mosca stared at me like I was crazy.
But I couldn’t fight this. It was too much. I just nodded and walked quickly away.
At home, Jesusa was in the living room watching one of the novelas. “How was it, pues?”
My eyes caught the photograph of Gaby in her elaborate quince dress, the bouquet of flowers on her lap, her hair up in curls and waves and an elaborate silver tiara. She looked like a beauty queen. But her eyes wer
e dark and shiny like when she was a little girl.
“Liberio,” Jesusa said, “what’s the matter?”
I marched into my room and slammed the door. I couldn’t hold it anymore. It wasn’t just about my parents and Gaby, it was everything. It was Pineda and Joaquín, Zopilote and the green Golf and how he smirked at all of us as if he owned the town. It was Izayoc because it wasn’t Izayoc anymore. It was the man with the caiman boots and all the others. Yes. Who didn’t want to be like them, with money and power and guns? They could do whatever they wanted. I could do nothing.
14.
After we closed the panadería on Saturday afternoon, Gaby slung her purse over her shoulder and dropped a bomb. “I’m going out tonight. I need you to stay at home and take care of Abuela.”
“Tonight? You can’t. It’s the wrestling—”
“Too bad. I have plans and Jesusa’s going to Coyuca del Río. Someone has to take care of Abuela.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Listen, fool. I work all week. I open and close the panadería, do the shopping for the house and pay all the bills. I deserve a night off.”
“Gaby, please. I can’t miss the lucha. El Hijo del Santo’s going to be there. Please. I’ve been waiting for this all year.”
“Grow up, Liberio.”
“I beg you.”
“I already made plans with Regina.”
I grabbed her arm. “Can’t Abuela stay home alone just this once?”
“Seriously? What if she burns the house down or something? Someone has to stay with her.”
“Gaby!”
“Please, Liberio, spare me the drama, okay?” She tore her arm away. “You went out last night. It’s my turn to have a night off.” She stomped on the ground the way my mother used to do whenever she lost her patience.
“Oh, so just because you wanna get all cozy with some guy—”
“What?”
“You think I don’t know? Everyone knows. Junior and Pedro saw you last night with one of those pendejos from Michoacán.”
She slapped me on the back of the head. “Don’t be vulgar. What I do is my business. Francisco and his friends are businessmen. They’re going to bring jobs to this Godforsaken pueblo. Open your mind, you dope.”
“Are you blind? Can’t you see their cars? Their guns? Those guys are bullies. They—”
“¡Ya! I don’t want to hear it. And you better do as I tell you.” She waved dismissively and marched off toward the plaza.
I ran home. Jesusa. She was my only chance.
“I can’t,” she said flatly. “My comadre is giving birth. She needs me. Her cousin is on his way to pick me up.” She set her vinyl overnight bag—a hand-me-down from my parents—beside the front door.
“Please, Jesusa. I beg you. I’ll do anything you want. I swear. I’ll clean all of Chapo’s turds and make my bed. I’ll wash the dishes every day.”
“If I could I would, Liberio, but Magdalena needs me. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
We heard a horn outside.
She took her bag. “There’s chilaquiles in the oven and a container of pork stew in the refrigerator.”
I grabbed her arm. “Please, Jesusa. Please. I’m begging you. Please.”
The driver honked again. She stared at me, her dark eyes unyielding. I released her and she was gone.
“I wonder—” my abuela said when I walked into the kitchen. She was wearing makeup, rouge on her cheeks and pink lipstick. She had her hands cusped around a large cup of café con leche. “If the weather holds, we might go on the boat to the Isla de los Sacrificios like Dorian wanted.”
“What’s the matter with your lips?”
Her smile twisted and she brought the tip of her fingers to the side of her mouth. “Jesusa did it for me.”
But none of this was her fault. It wasn’t fair. I reached across the table and touched her hand. “It looks good, Abuela. Really.”
She smiled and turned to the window. Maybe she thought it was a mirror. “Gracias. I thought it would look nice for the picnic. You think Dorian will like it?”
“Of course he will.” But honestly, I was just hoping there would be a Santo movie at midnight because this was going to be the worst night of my life.
After dinner Abuela settled back into her room. Then Mosca arrived.
“What do you mean?” he said. “We’ve been planning this for months.”
“I know, but Gaby went out with her stupid boyfriend.”
“So?”
“I can’t leave my abuela alone.”
“Puta madre. Of all the nights. And with one of those pendejos too. I can’t believe it.” Mosca paced across the living room. “Can’t you take off for just—”
“She’s not well.”
“Just for a little while.”
“I can’t, Mosca.”
“It’s only a couple hours, güey. You said she was getting better.”
I looked at her bedroom. She was getting better, in a way.
“Gaby won’t even find out.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “What if something happens?”
“What’s going to happen, güey? You told me all she ever does is sit in her room and dream of Veracruz.”
It was true. It wasn’t as if she ever needed anything. We were the ones who were always pulling her out of her room to eat or go to church or watch television. If it weren’t for us, she would probably never leave her room.
“Why do you let Gaby push you around like that, cabrón? It’s El Hijo del Santo, Ruddy Calderón, El Zorrillo de León, Subministro Fox. Güey, you’re gonna miss it.”
Mosca was right. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see the best in lucha libre, and Gaby was spoiling it for me because of some stupid date. Besides, Abuela had been having good days lately. Sometimes she almost seemed normal.
“Hold on a sec,” I said and knocked lightly on the door to her room. “Abuelita, it’s me, Liberio.”
“Come in, hijo. Come in. Dorian went to Xalapa on business. I’m just here sewing.”
She was sitting in her rocking chair like she always did, the old Superman blanket on her lap and staring out the window like there was something in the darkness of the little patio. Her face had the same expression of longing I had seen so many times before, only a little brighter because of the makeup.
“Abuelita?”
“Is that you, Camilo?”
“No, it’s me, Liberio. Your grandson.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything you need?”
“No, muchas gracias, mijo.”
“Abuelita,” I said. “I’m going to go out to the fair for an hour, okay?”
She stared out the dark window where our reflection was distorted, our faces melting with the raindrops.
“Jesusa and Gaby are out. You think you’ll be okay by yourself for a little while?”
“Of course, mijo. I will just sit here and watch the sunset.”
I squeezed her shoulder and gave her a kiss on the forehead. I caught our reflection again and she smiled.
Chapopote walked in the rain with us for a couple of blocks and then sauntered off in the darkness. We crossed the feria bypassing all the vendors and rides and went straight to the big canvas tent they’d set up for the lucha.
The makeshift arena was just like the one from last year’s feria. Inside the tent, folding metal chairs with the Corona logo on the backrests had been set in rows. A string of lights on the ceiling illuminated the ring. It wasn’t the Arena Coliseo, but it was better than a couple of years ago when they had a rickety ring made of plywood and vinyl and not a single chair. Halfway through the lucha schedule, the whole thing collapsed.
We found seats on the third row, close enough that we could smell the stink of sweat and blood from the canvas. The place filled up quickly. Pretty soon people began to clap and whistle, trying to get the event started. Finally, a short man in a black suit stepped into the ring to announce the first match:
El Zorrillo de León against Ruddy Calderón.
Zorrillo wore his trademark black mask with white trim around the mouth and eyes. He had a black fur cape. He looked just like the skunk from the cartoons.
Ruddy had on a yellow and red mask with fake yellow hair and a black cape. When he climbed into the ring, only a handful of people cheered. He was a nobody.
Zorrillo was a técnico. Técnicos were all about method and style. Rudos were brutes. All they cared about was winning. I liked técnicos. I was sure Zorrillo would win and take Ruddy down with style.
But the match was dull. From the start Zorrillo was way too predictable. His moves were robotic. He set himself up every time. Ruddy beat the hell out of him.
Zorrillo won, but it was disappointing, like a bad movie. The crowd booed as the two wrestlers paraded around the ring, waving, flexing their muscles and showing off. I ran outside and got more popcorn and a couple of sodas. When I came back Mosca was freaking out. “I shook hands with Zorrillo!”
“For real?”
“I swear. It was all sweaty and everything.”
The announcer stepped back into the ring and raised his hands to silence the crowd. But we didn’t let up. We were a rowdy bunch. People whistled and mocked him. Eventually everyone mellowed. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said in a steady tone. “Due to an unfortunate cancellation on the part of his manager, El Hijo del Santo could not make it to tonight’s event.”
“What?” I yelled.
The crowd jeered. I booed. Mosca threw popcorn. The announcer waved his hands, but it was too much. Popcorn and trash flew into the ring like a storm.
“Please. Please.” The announcer covered his face with his arm. “We have an excellent substitute. One of the rising stars in the world of lucha.”
But we would have none of it. It was a fraud. We booed and whistled and threw so much popcorn, it was a blizzard.
“Tonight’s main event pairs two colossus of the ring,” the announcer yelled over our ruckus. “Two of the most powerful and aggressive fighters in lucha today. These two gentlemen, these two warriors, these two fierce soldiers, promise a fine exhibition for all you good people.”
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 9