City Without Stars

by Tim Baker

  Buses clog the roads, horns blaring, the radio humming into clarity, then veering back into static. Gomez is reaching to turn it off when the static fades and they hear snippets of a conversation. ‘… Near the airport?’

  The response wavers on the radio, but the distortion is not enough to block the dreaded response: ‘She was in a dumpster.’

  Fuentes lurches forwards, turning up the radio, but all he gets is the whine of interference. Direction signs loom through the windshield. Fuentes turns right with a squeal, following an arrow pointing to the airport.

  27

  Ventura

  They sit in silence, the bottle empty, Ventura’s story told. It was painful when she started, but as she went along, recounting what had happened with Carlos that night, and digressing constantly with references to their earlier life together, she felt a lifting; an unburdening, so that now, with the first intimation of daylight, she feels strangely transformed.

  ‘And what now?’ Mayor asks.

  Their conversation – her conversation – had reminded Ventura of her first confession: a monologue from her, answered by an occasional monosyllable. Mayor had been a famous early advocate of psychoanalysis in Mexico. Perhaps his brief comments – sometimes questions, sometimes prompts – were an echo of his own therapy. Perhaps Ventura had forgotten – or never knew – that all good writers are great listeners. ‘I have to leave Ciudad Real. But before I do, I want to finish my story.’

  He draws a pack of cigarettes out of one of the pockets of his robe. ‘Did you ever hear about that case in Belgium?’ Mayor asks, leaning forwards and touching the cigarette to the candle. There is a brief burst of flame. ‘A man who kept young girls locked up in his cellar for use as sexual slaves.’

  She draws back in her seat, alert. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘You’ll understand in a moment.’ The construction of that sentence alarms her. After feeling secure throughout the meal and her conversation, she suddenly feels vulnerable again. The way she felt when she first arrived and rang the bell. Trust is an odd thing. It’s like love. A big emotion that grows out of nothing, that you take for granted but which devastates you when it disappears. She focuses back on Mayor, on the hateful story he’s telling. ‘… He’d share these poor girls with friends. When he got tired of them, he’d simply kill them, and kidnap some more.’

  Ventura shivers. ‘A monster.’

  ‘Finally this monstruo was caught and the surviving girls freed. Then came the rumors. That the people who had been sharing the girls were policemen and judges and politicians; that the kidnapped girls had been an open secret in the highest circles. The public became enraged by these rumors.’

  Ventura’s voice is a dry whisper. ‘What happened?’

  ‘A social revolution. There were strikes, demonstrations; mass protests. The government collapsed.’ In the distance is the sound of a car backfiring. Or perhaps it was what it really sounded like: gunshots. Ventura looks around the vast, dimly lit dining room, unnerved. The hacienda feels threatening in an obscure and illogical way. As though she might vanish within its infinite shadows. She clears her throat, trying to recover her poise. ‘And then?’

  ‘And then … nothing. It just slowly faded from the minds of everyone. Except of course the families of the victims.’ Mayor strikes a match, making Ventura jump, and lights her cigarette. He looks at her bare arms. She has goose flesh. He blows out the match, Ventura feeling his breath against her arm. ‘No one imagined the Holocaust. No one foresaw Pol Pot or the Rwandan genocide. That’s the nature of true evil: you simply cannot imagine it … until it happens. These are crimes of history. And they are always crafted by powerful people. That’s a lesson we have yet to understand here in Ciudad Real. Think for one moment: hundreds and hundreds of women murdered and not one clue? Not one suspect? Not even an end in sight to the crimes – nothing. How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  Mayor gives a harsh laugh. ‘Worse than that. It’s preposterous. If you read about it in a novel, you’d reject the premise as outlandish. The reality we currently have in Ciudad Real is beyond fiction – and that is a very dangerous place to be.’

  He gets up and walks towards the louvre windows, opening them one at a time, bird song beginning to fill the room from the garden outside. He turns back to her, his body silhouetted against the lightening sky. ‘Ventura, this is the biggest cover-up in our country since the massacres of May ’68. There is nothing like it. Not in Mexico. Not even in the world. And no one – not one person – knows anything about who’s behind it.’ The house creaks from the chill of the early morning air that shifts about them, curious and alien. ‘You know what the police always say about a suspect? Silence equals guilt. If you want a credible suspect in these killings, look to those who have been silent the longest. The city authorities, the state authorities. The federal authorities.’

  Above them, far away, is the low shriek of an airplane, troubling the sky with its drone. Ventura rushes though the open windows to the courtyard outside, fighting a wave of panic with deep gulps of cool air, the last eight hours catching up with her. She turns to Mayor, who has joined her. ‘What kind of country allows so many women to be murdered and does nothing about it?’

  ‘The obvious answer is, of course, no country, but here we are, living in that country.’

  ‘I’m such a fool. I have no chance of getting any answers.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You have me, and I know people who can help you.’ He escorts Ventura back inside, where he copies some phone numbers from a Berluti agenda onto a sheet of embossed paper. He passes it to her.

  Ventura glances at the names on the paper. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The first is a CTON union organizer. He’s good. The second is a police detective. You can trust him. I’ll let them know you’ll be in touch.’ He looks up as a maid appears at the door. ‘Maya, can you prepare our guest a room please? She is tired and needs to rest.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I need to get to work straight away.’

  ‘Believe me, you should take this opportunity, because once you get started on this story, there’ll be no more time to rest.’

  28

  Pilar

  The cantina hits Pilar with the asymmetrical assault of shade and noise as she steps in from the sullen, sun-blinding street, leaving her dislocated and vulnerable, male eyes turning in unison, quickly appraising her.

  Fantasizing what they’d like to do to her.

  They are young men, old men, middle-aged men. Men with whiskers and pot bellies and bad breath. Men with faces scarred by the elements or teenage acne. Some have bad teeth, many are balding, but they never think of themselves when they evaluate a woman’s body, especially when she’s a total stranger. It isn’t just an idle dirty thought; it is their prerogative to judge, and they make sure they always assert it. The men are fast and crude in their assessments. Tits too small, ass too big. Or the other way around. It doesn’t really matter, as long as they find fault. Thick ankles. Skinny arms. Long nose. Thin lips. If the woman is wearing make-up, she’s a whore. If she isn’t, she’s a dyke. Either way the woman needs to be judged and found wanting.

  In their fantasy world, women are not allowed to win. Perhaps that’s why they play the game: because they are all losers too.

  Juan Antonio sits alone at the bar, talking into a phone with a tone that alternates between desperate pleading and aggressive threats as he waves Pilar over through the cigarette smoke. In other cities, it could have been a lovers’ argument on the phone, the tedium of saying sorry and not meaning it; doing whatever it takes to win the person back, at least for another night. But here, in Ciudad Real, a city too dangerous to ever think of romance, Pilar knows Juan Antonio is engrossed in work, not foreplay. He needs a shave; a change of clothes. His hair’s a mess. Juan Antonio doesn’t give a fuck about his appearance, but why should he? Men get away with lapses women are punished for. ‘Twenty buses?’ he says
fast into the phone, making the question sting like a slap across the face. ‘Only twenty fucking buses?’

  He puts a hand over the mouthpiece and orders some coffee for Pilar and another beer for himself, a male voice whining at him across circuits all the way from Mexico City. The voice tells Juan Antonio that he should be happy to have buses from Guadalajara and Tijuana and Monterrey and Ciudad-fucking-Juárez and if he doesn’t show some gratitude he can shove all the buses up his ass.

  They both start laughing but Pilar’s already stopped listening. This is the part she hates, the swagger of machismo banter in a world of women. Women working in sweatshops. Women abused at home. Women being assaulted; raped, murdered. Women fighting for other women. But everything controlled by men.

  Her coffee’s too strong. She used to drink it like this all the time, all day long. Now if she drinks more than one cup a day she can’t sleep at night. They say it has something to do with getting old, but she knows it isn’t physical. She doesn’t need a stimulant. Her life’s become one great adrenaline rush. Pilar feels exhausted not because she’s only slept two hours since the end of the night shift but because she’s slept, period. And she feels guilty. She should be with Maria and Lupita at the maquiladora, surrounded by women all working hard, not idling her time away in some lousy joint with a bunch of lazy men trying to wake themselves up with any number of stimulants.

  She drops a sugar cube into the coffee and stirs it, glancing up at the TV behind the bar, announcers speaking with urgency, a graph behind them showing a bank of arrows all pointing downwards. The scene cuts to Wall Street and shouting, flustered traders, their faces full of fear.

  They have no idea.

  Real fear is being a woman walking home alone from work just before dawn, not knowing who sits behind the headlights bursting over the horizon. She sips her coffee, appreciating the irony of the televised fiscal panic. American companies have rushed to shut down factories in their own country and shift production to Mexico. Wage bills and production costs have been slashed dramatically, so you’d expect the cost of the products to drop as well. Companies that were already making a fortune suddenly can’t afford not to make even more. Enormous profits become obscene profits, but still it’s not enough.

  It’s never enough.

  And now some opaque shift in the stock market instils the sudden terror that history has not ended, that profit is not limitless, that revenue may diminish. Pilar knows what such fears will trigger. Redundancies, factory closures, mergers and consolidations. Austerity. Downsizing. Global upheaval. The container ships are already in the harbors, waiting to set sail to China.

  On the television, an announcer speaks about the percentage drop in the Nasdaq Index with dismay, as though he were announcing vast casualties in a terrible war. The disbelief in his eyes says it all – he’s just another loser, gambling on a roulette wheel he only now realizes has been rigged all along.

  Juan Antonio hangs up at last. ‘I got a call from Felipe Mayor this morning.’ The casual way he says it can’t disguise his pride at dropping such a name.

  Pilar read two of his books at school. She wasn’t impressed. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He’s donating fifty thousand pesos to the strike fund.’

  She’s pleasantly surprised but doesn’t want to show it. ‘He could afford to give ten times that.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. It’s an exemplary act.’

  ‘Exemplary gesture, you mean. What does he want in return?’

  This is why he has such respect for Pilar, such belief in her future, not just in the union but one day in politics. Her instincts are superb. ‘You are such a cynic! Nothing,’ Juan Antonio lies. ‘He’s even arranged for a journalist to provide extra coverage.’

  ‘Let me guess. A female journalist?’

  Juan Antonio grimaces defensively. ‘I thought you’d be happy to have a periodista.’

  ‘Who we have to babysit just because she’s fucking Mayor?’

  ‘Can it, will you? We’re meeting both of them this evening.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  That’s the difference between workers and bosses. Between women and men. One says no and the other says yes. ‘He also told me we can trust that cop you spoke to yesterday.’

  ‘Fuentes? He’s not just any cop.’

  Juan Antonio considers for a moment, turning his cigarette slowly so that the ash doesn’t fall off. Then it dawns on him and he swears, the jerk in his hand making the tube of ash drop onto his jeans. He smears it into a blur. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘He recognized me from Tijuana.’

  What a colossal fuck-up, Juan Antonio thinks. ‘Really?’ he says, his voice almost under control. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’

  ‘I was going to tell you yesterday, but …’ But there was a car bombing, and she excluded everything from her mind to find the strength to start that night shift. She looks away from his red-rimmed eyes. ‘He told me he wasn’t here for the unions. He told me he was here for the murders.’

  ‘And you believe him? A motherfucking, union-bashing cop?’

  Pilar shrugs helplessly. She doesn’t want to believe Fuentes, and yet somehow she does. ‘How do I know? Mayor trusts him, you said that yourself.’ She watches Juan Antonio finish his beer. ‘You drink too much. Your eyes are always red.’

  ‘Because you make me cry tears of frustration.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be drinking this early in the day.’

  ‘It’s only beer, and if you had to do what I have to do …’

  There is a pause as they both think about what has just been said. ‘Which you think is more important than what I have to do? Why is that – because you’re a man?’

  ‘Jesus, Pilar, when will you learn?’

  ‘Learn what?’

  ‘I’m on your side.’

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘And sometimes the feeling’s mutual.’ He sings a phrase of a ranchero tune as he thinks about what to do next. ‘We need to find out if he’s really here for them …’ The dead women, Pilar thinks to herself, are always them. ‘Or if he’s here for us.’ Juan Antonio picks his car keys up off the bar counter. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To see the mother of Isabel Torres.’

  29

  Fuentes

  Fuentes pulls up behind an ambulance, Gomez already out of the car, shaking hands and joking with the uniformed police. Fuentes watches him through the windshield, then gets out of the car, glancing around. ‘Where’s the body?’

  A cop indicates the ambulance. Fuentes swears. He suddenly has everyone’s attention. ‘You had strict orders not to touch the body until we arrived. Who’s in charge here?’

  There’s an embarrassed silence. A man steps forwards. ‘Sorry, sir, but we couldn’t just leave her lying there in the trash.’

  Fuentes gives a harsh, scoffing laugh.

  Gomez goes up to him quickly, speaking in an undertone. ‘Come on, boss, they’re just trying to do right by the girl.’

  Fuentes ignores him, talking to the assembled cops. ‘This is a crime scene, not a fucking dancehall. I want the dumpster and all the trash in it and the truck impounded as evidence and dusted for fingerprints. I want this area sealed off and checked for footprints and tire treads, the way it should have been done the moment you got here.’

  The police all nod but stand there doing nothing. Fuentes goes over to the ambulance and pulls open the doors.

  Inside is a zipped-up body bag. ‘Totally compromised. Fuck!’ He turns to a cop. ‘Get her over to the morgue. Now.’

  The cop shouts at the ambulance driver. The red light comes on, and the siren starts up, wailing in protest at the futility of its mission as it speeds away.

  Fuentes walks slowly across the terrain, gazing at the ground. He crouches low beside the perimeter fence, examining something: rust-colored stains scabbing the dirt. Gomez c
rouches beside him, staring at them. ‘Blood?’

  Fuentes uses a wooden spatula to scrape the sample into a plastic evidence bag. ‘Probably hers, but … it’s about time we got lucky.’

  Fuentes scans the area for other clues. Over by the terminal entrance, cars glint in the morning sun. A prop plane taxies slowly past them, sending trash whirling. Fuentes turns to Gomez, shaking his head. ‘It’s always the same. They’re killed somewhere else and then they’re dumped. Why do they do that? Why not just leave them where they kill them, or kill them where they dump them?’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘What fucking witnesses? No one sees them being killed, but no one sees them being dumped either. The answer’s simple.’ Gomez stares at him with patient eyes. Not simple enough for Gomez. ‘It’s because they’re killing them under controlled circumstances. Even though they know that by killing them somewhere else and then transporting the bodies, they risk accumulating evidence in their vehicles. Blood stains, hair; a lost earring – you name it. Why run those kinds of risks?’

  Gomez looks at the police standing around the trash truck, still doing nothing. ‘Because they think we’re fuck-ups?’

  Fuentes gives a deep, savage smile. ‘Because they know we’re fuck-ups. Because they know it’s never going to occur to us to even think of looking for that kind of evidence in the cars they drive.’

  Gomez says it as though it’s never occurred to him before. ‘Untouchables?’

  ‘Claro,’ Fuentes says, scanning the car park outside the terminal. ‘And who’s untouchable in Ciudad Real?’

  ‘Cops?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Narcos.’

  Fuentes smiles, pleased with his student. ‘Cops and narcos … And let’s not forget gringos. One or all of them is doing this and they know we’re too stupid or too afraid or too greedy to go looking in their cars for evidence.’