Here was the strange mix of incompatible symbols, the forced intercourse of contradictions that defined my father’s country. It was the child of carnivorous convergence. It felt foreign and familiar—like Papi himself. The most exotic parts of Mexico struck the most personal chord. They invoked the wildness of my father in my most native memories, when he dangled me over the edge of an ocean cliff with all the confidence in the world and asked: ¿Qué miras?
I looked around at this landscape that embodied his mystery. Half-naked shamans danced and chanted in náhuatl; skinny children sold Chiclets; tourists bumped into beggars, who blinked their eyes against thirsty flies. So many people stomped, sauntered and skipped over the site of the ancient slaughter that all of the skeletons beneath us, with their pulverized pelvises and crushed clavicles, were probably shaking as if alive, as if dancing. Rodrigo crinkled his face with disgust. God, I hate the Centro, he said. But I was in awe. Reality was punctured through in this place. I saw meaningful patterns in all of it. What I had sensed from the plane I could perceive here with clarity: The city was alive. It was alive with death.
* * *
•
Food poisoning is a rite of passage for expats in Mexico City. Bacteria and parasites lurk in the ice cubes, the tap water, the lettuce irrigated with aguas negras. The delicate intestines of sanitary Americans are especially vulnerable. The torture for me began during my first visit to Goyo’s, where I was going to have dinner with Papi. My intestines were wringing themselves like dirty rags. The cramps were unbearable. My father guessed I didn’t want to be there. Chewing loudly, pointing with his fork, he asked, What’s wrong with you? Before I could answer, he said: Oh I know, you think you’re so amazing now ’cause you have this fancy job. You think you’re better than everyone. I knew this would happen. I knew you’d get this superiority complex. You think you’re the shit. It’s ’cause I never used to hang out with you. Now I want to hang out with you, and you’re having revenge. He persisted without pausing for protest, the same anger he had directed at me when he was driving me to my riding lessons as a teenager. I stared at the table, steeling myself. The numbness came naturally—a habit of my adolescence.
* * *
•
Two days later, Papi brought me herbal-tea remedies he had purchased at a local market. I was writhing against waves of nausea, exploding over the toilet every few hours. I had called in sick at work. Papi said the remedies would soothe my stomach and serve as antibiotics. While brewing me a pot, he told me about a recurring dream of his: We climb a tall mountain. When we reach the summit, a dark energy—an evil spirit or something—tells us to turn back. He says we can’t be up so high.
What does the evil spirit look like? I asked.
I don’t know, I can’t see it; I can only sense it and hear its voice.
In the recurring dream, Papi said, we ignore the evil spirit. We exchange defiant smiles. We spread our arms and leap from the summit. We soar over the clouds.
That’s a nice dream, Pa; what do you think it means? I asked.
I don’t know, my father said, scratching his head.
Every time I have a lucid dream, I go flying. There’s nothing else I’d rather do.
What’s a lucid dream? he asked.
It’s when you’re in a dream and you become aware that you’re dreaming. It’s cool ’cause then you can do whatever you want—like flying.
Nice, he said.
I taught myself to do it in college, after reading some stuff online about it, I said, swerving my tone suddenly, because I realized I sounded excited and potentially boastful. I strove to speak without emotion, so as not to upset him. Just write a letter or a symbol on your hand in pen—like the letter S, for sleep—and every time you look at it, ask yourself, Am I dreaming? You can do reality tests. Look at a clock to check what time it is. Turn away and look again. If the time stays the same, it’s probably reality. If the hour has changed a lot, you’re dreaming.
Huh, Papi said.
Eventually, you’ll see the S on your hand in a dream and become lucid. At that point you can do anything. If you start to wake up, spin in a circle or run your fingers on the palm of your hand. That way you ground yourself in the world of the dream.
It was probably the most I’d ever spoken to my father. Normally I just listened to him talk and I asked questions. I hoped what I was saying would increase his curiosity about me—that it would make him realize we were more similar than he acknowledged. He nodded slowly, eyebrows raised.
Sounds pretty neat, he said.
My father rummaged through my cabinets for a mug, then poured his tea. He told me about relatives I had yet to meet: a brilliant teenager, Eddie, who knew the entire history of the ancient Aztec and Maya civilizations; his parents, Chucho and Diana; and his two sisters, Valeria and Vivian. The family had taken Papi to a gargantuan hill overlooking the city. He had collapsed because of the altitude. They had carried him down. He said they were his favorite people in the world, and that he was planning to move in with them to give Goyo some space. He brought me the mug of tea. I took a sip.
Do you like it? he asked.
Yes, it’s good, thanks.
He stood there in silence for a while, staring at me awkwardly, then said he had things to do. He left abruptly.
* * *
•
Back at the bureau, I called my father and thanked him again for the tea. It had cured me almost immediately. Come over tonight, I said. You can make dinner at my place. I knew that cooking always gave my father satisfaction. He agreed with enthusiasm, and offered to pick me up from the bureau in his rental vehicle. When I jumped into the passenger’s seat, he launched into an angry monologue. I was surprised. We had exchanged such pleasantries over the phone. Had the traffic ruined his mood? Had I entered his vehicle with a rude air of entitlement? My father criticized me almost without stopping to breathe: I was spoiled, self-centered, shallow, stuck-up and seemingly endless synonyms for those words. I felt a static in my chest, a ticking in my head. I wanted, desperately, to defuse the situation. But his words were cannonballs, obliterating me, like my mother’s accusations of Schizophrenia. I sought words in my brain with which to battle his. They exploded from my chest: You’re acting insane! I cried, full of poison. Never before had I told him he was “insane.” His voice wavered. He continued at a lower volume.
I kept my distance when we arrived at the grocery store Superama, which was next door to my building. Guilt thrashed in my guts, but I couldn’t find the words to convey it. My father picked out halibut, vegetables and a loaf of French bread. We rode the elevator into the penthouse. When we saw the kitchen, we froze.
Shards of broken plates were scattered across the floor. My roommate, a British freelance journalist who had moved in that day, had stacked them on the edge of the sink, and they had fallen when the flimsy building shook with passing traffic. But I didn’t know that at the time. My first thought was that my new roommate was mentally unstable. It was my father’s first thought, too. As we stood in mutual fright, my father broke the silence. He began to laugh maniacally. In a high-pitched voice, he spoke as if possessed by my spirit:
I think I’m so smart! I think I can judge people just by looking at them! I am going to study neuroscience so I can screen my roommates better and understand everything! Ha ha, he he. I hate you, you piece of shit father! I am way better than you because I have a real job and a real life! I wish you would get out of mine! You’re a nobody!
I realized, with his last line, that he was quoting something I had said eight years before. I felt my insides go cold. Slowly, I responded: Yes, actually, you’re right. I want you to leave.
He poked the button for the elevator, cradling three heavy bags of groceries. The doors opened. The doors closed. The elevator descended. He was gone.
I fell to my knees and cried, overwhelmed with
contradictory emotions. I contacted my roommate, who explained what had probably happened with the dishes. I descended the elevator and walked to Parque México. I sat on a bench and smoked a cigarette under the trees, staring at the darkness in front of me. My father and I were supposed to be bonding. But every time we were together, one of us ruined everything. I returned to my place and dialed his number.
What, he said.
Are you calmed down now?
I calmed down the second I left your apartment.
Good, I said, casually. I considered apologizing, but thought better of it. Presuming out loud that Papi was capable of hurt feelings might further infuriate him. So when are you gonna come cook for me?
He grunted. When you clean your kitchen. I can’t cook in a dirty kitchen. I hate women with dirty kitchens.
But my father never did come. Our disastrous first interactions in Mexico City had set the tone of our new relationship. We avoided each other for weeks. In November, Papi felt so exhausted he could barely get out of bed. His left foot was mysteriously paralyzed. It dragged behind him as he walked. He had been feeling sick since climbing that mountain with Eddie and the other relatives—the one where he had collapsed because of the altitude. He said he was going back home at the end of the month. But you haven’t found your father yet, I protested. He claimed he didn’t care. The prospect of his departure filled me with despair. It occurred to me that perhaps Papi was essential to my safety in this country; I feared I would be naked without him. I begged him to stay. But it was too late—he had made up his mind.
* * *
•
Rodrigo drove me to Papi’s despedida. The farewell party was on a steep hill in the slums outside the capital. Inside a shared patio, my father was dancing to electronic music with a little girl. I had never seen Papi dance with anyone. He had certainly never danced with me. He spun her around, laughing with genuine, carefree enjoyment. His paralyzed foot dragged awkwardly. The little girl giggled with delight.
I felt a mortifying wave of jealousy. I tried to smile like a normal person as more than a dozen unknown relatives rushed to greet me. Plates of steaming, delicious food appeared in front of me: chicken bathed in mole sauce, arroz blanco, cheesy beans, spicy shredded beef, crunchy chicharones, soft maíz tortillas. My father’s dance partner skipped over and introduced herself as Vivian, Goyo’s great-granddaughter, among the relatives my father had moved in with in Ecatepec. She was ten. She fired off questions more quickly than I could answer. I told her she would make a great journalist.
She’s my little doll, my father said, pinching her face.
Vivian’s brother, Eddie, approached me. He was a lanky fifteen-year-old with brown skin, thick black hair and crow’s-feather eyebrows that looked villainous and wild. He was the cousin my father had described as a “brilliant teenager” who knew everything about the Aztec and Maya civilizations. Eddie was writing a book about parallel worlds and extraterrestrials. The world doesn’t have three dimensions, he explained, but four—the fourth, he said, is not yet visible to most people.
Do you know why the ancient Maya calendar ends in 2012? he asked.
I guessed: The apocalypse?
He grinned with his teeth and his eyes, so dark they looked obsidian. Everyone is going to become aware of the fourth dimension, and the world is going to acquire a fifth dimension. Some people are going to be able to fly into it.
Suddenly, Eddie leaned in close and asked, in a low voice: Jean, do you think your father is a shaman?
I laughed. What?
I think he is a shaman. He has seen the fourth dimension, Eddie said.
I squinted at my father on the other side of the room.
I guess he does look like a shaman, with that beard, I said.
Eddie’s father, Chucho, stumbled to my side. Chucho wore a hat and a fur coat similar to mine. He had the same crow’s-feather eyebrows as Eddie. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders and lifted his cerveza with the other.
You know, I have to say, your father is one tipazo. He may not be a perfect person, maybe not even a good one, but he’s a tipazo, he said.
Chucho took a swig of his beer.
Do you know what tipazo means? he asked.
I nodded. It means “big type” or “true character.”
Juanita, we’re fucking crazy, he said, calling me Juanita because Jean was too difficult to pronounce (Cheen? Yeen? Yahn?). We never plan anything. Fuck planning. I’m going to call you at some point—maybe next week or the following one—and I’m going to say, “Juanita. Three hours. The jungle.”
Papi approached us with a Marlboro in his mouth. Chucho’s wife, Diana, called Eddie and Chucho into the kitchen.
So, my father said, what do you think?
About what? I asked.
He exhaled a ring of smoke. About the family. I told you they were amazing, but you wouldn’t listen—you were always busy.
I felt guilty. I had spent my first several weeks in Mexico City prioritizing my job and social life and had neglected my family, with the exception of Rodrigo, who was always nearby in his taxi. You were right. They are amazing. I paused, then added: I wish you weren’t leaving. When I looked at my father’s face, tears were welling up in his eyes. My lungs stopped mid-inhale. I had never seen my father cry.
I’m just so glad— His voice broke. He took a deep breath. I’m just so glad that even though I’m leaving, you have them here. To show you what a real family is like. So you can experience what I was never able to give you.
He grasped my shoulder, hard, as if his life depended on it. The water in his eyes made his amber irises appear to glow. I hope you know, he said. Papi stopped to gather his voice. I hope you know I love you. I felt warm water on my face before I realized I was crying. I wiped it away. Perhaps my father had told me he loved me when I was a baby, but I couldn’t remember him ever saying it until that moment. I told him I loved him, too. I pulled him onto the dance floor, afraid he would resist. But he was pliant. Standing in front of the speakers, I clasped Papi’s hands in mine and jumped. He jumped, too. Neither of us could salsa or merengue. But it didn’t matter. My cousins were playing an electronic remix of a song by the Doors. We leaped up and down in sloppy synchrony. Let’s fly, my father cried, his eyes holding on to his tears. Let’s fly.
BLOOD EDEN
I moved into a moldy two-bedroom in a Colonia Roma complex where Che Guevara was rumored to have lived while plotting the Cuban revolution. Termites crunched on the walls; the ceilings crumbled. Cockroaches crawled in and out of my clothes. I thought: This is where I should be living, not that fancy penthouse. This is the real Mexico.
An exchange student from Bolivia became my roommate. Rodrigo spent all day reading Russian literature and smoking cigarettes. He was a tortured soul, grasping his forehead in misery, but somehow also cheerful, whistling and humming in our apartment. He had striking emerald eyes and walnut skin. Although he was very handsome, we were too alike for romance, we understood each other like twins. We developed an idyllic platonic rapport. I cooked and washed the dishes; he took out the trash. He killed the cockroaches, which darted like enormous black bullets with antlers even after he stepped on them. “It’s not dead yet,” I told Rodrigo, watching the roaches drag their entrails. He stomped again. “It’s dead now.” I wiped up the guts with paper towels.
My cousin Eddie came over regularly. Like his father, Chucho, he called me Juanita. He was the most spiritual person I had ever met. He was not interested in videogames or sports or girls, like other teenagers. He spoke about energies and magic and the nonlinearity of time. Eddie was a riveting storyteller and as proficient as an old professor on various subjects. We went horseback riding in La Marquesa, a national park in Estado de México, an hour’s bus ride from Mexico City. I gave him a crash course on riding—heels down, shoulders back—and we galloped through the trees, plungi
ng into canopies of flowers so low and thick we had to hug our horses’ necks. Afterward, we ate blue maíz quesadillas that old campesinas cooked on stone comales.
One day, Eddie told me the story of his grandmother, Goyo’s daughter, the niece of Abuela Carolina. Maria Antonieta was the kindest, most positive person in the universe, a beautiful, benevolent octopus holding together disparate strings of sinners and drifters, with patience and understanding, before she fell into a depression and possibly committed suicide. Her body was found in a sewage canal, drowned in the aguas negras of Ecatepec, months before my father and I arrived in Mexico City. She died the day she was supposed to start a residency at a mental health clinic. I can’t digest the thought that she killed herself, Eddie said. I tell myself she was heavily medicated, that she was walking past the canal, that the thought crossed her head and she was falling before she knew what was happening. She hated water; she was terrified of it.
Eddie told me her death cast a gloom over the whole family, over the world. He began to doubt the existence of things like magic and the afterlife. Then my father came to Mexico City, a beacon of spiritual light, inspiring ecstasy and hope in everyone he touched or beheld. I knew he was different from the moment I saw him, he said. It was his eyes. Just by looking at me, he took away my sorrow about my grandmother’s death. Eddie told my father about his fears and troubles, and my father spoke sage words about spirits and parallel worlds that bestowed on Eddie a renewed faith in the meaning of life. He loved my father, and didn’t mind that Papi showed no interest in staying in touch after leaving Mexico, ignoring Eddie’s emails. Mystics always have that in common: solitude, my cousin said. Any bonds they have to this world—people, material belongings—separate them from their spirituality. Mystics have to eradicate all of their terrestrial links because what ties you to this world keeps you from achieving a maximum spiritual state. And it’s sad, it shouldn’t be that way, and it’s not that you want it or even understand it, but your body, your very flesh and soul demand it. Solitude. No one will understand you. But I understand your father. I know that he would have been an incredible dad, loving, stupendous. But his nature…goes beyond common sense and desires.
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