by Carmen Amato
“El Cantar de Mio Cid.”
“Really?” Luz was both surprised and impressed. El Cantar de Mio Cid was like Don Quixote; everyone knew the story but no one actually read it. But unlike Don Quixote, which was a book, El Cantar de Mio Cid was a difficult three-part poem written in medieval Spanish. “Why?”
Eddo told her how he’d found a copy of the poem after reading a contemporary biography of the Spanish general, whose real name was Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar and who’d lived nearly 1000 years ago. He was called El Cid Campeador, a title that reflected the esteem in which he was held by both the Moors and the Spanish. El cid was derived from the Moorish al-sidi, meaning sir or lord, while campeador meant champion in Spanish.
Eddo’s voice pulled her into the story. El Cid had already made a name for himself fighting the Moors for King Ferdinand I of Castile when Ferdinand died and the lands he’d ruled were divided among his five children. They immediately started fighting each other. Sancho, the son who’d inherited Castile, named El Cid commander of his armies. When Sancho was assassinated his brother Alfonso was the chief suspect. El Cid made Alfonso publicly proclaim his innocence. Angered, Alfonso forced El Cid into exile without his daughters and beloved wife Jimena. On his warhorse Babieca and brandishing his sword Tizona, El Cid became a mercenary. Eventually he was recognized by Alfonso, reunited with his family, and conquered Valencia where he and Jimena ruled in Alfonso’s name until El Cid died in 1099.
“He sounds like an incredible leader,” Luz said over her sangria glass, feeling like she’d just seen a great movie. “Someone who inspired others. Otherwise how could he have survived and won all those battles?”
“He was ahead of his time, really,” Eddo said, picking up his fork again. “He used to study military history and ask his men for suggestions. They fought for him because he listened to them.”
His beautiful jaw flexed as he swallowed and Luz realized she wasn’t the only one in the restaurant engrossed in Eddo Cortez Castillo’s discourse on Spanish history.
Two women were sitting at a nearby table, piles of Liverpool bags at their feet. They were both staring at Eddo as if he was the grand prize at La Feria, the big amusement park, and they were waiting for their turn at the games. But he was completely oblivious to their blatant interest. Luz wondered if he ever looked in a mirror.
“El Greco and El Cid weren’t contemporaries,” Eddo said. “But I think they lived in a world of passion and righteousness that has passed our generation by. Honor and loyalty meant something then.”
“A world of passion and righteousness,” Luz repeated slowly. It was amazing to think she was sitting here with a man like this, talking about art and history and abstract concepts of life and living. “Maybe hard sometimes, but a place where life was lived to the fullest.”
“Yes,” Eddo said. “They did what was right, not what was easy. Life probably felt very precious. Now we take so much for granted.”
The conversation moved on again, to movies about El Cid, and Mexican movies and norteamericano movies, and life in Mexico City. As the charcoal in the brazier crumbled into white ash, they started talking about the upcoming presidential elections and the candidates that were jockeying into position for their respective party nominations.
“I’d like to hear the perspective of a woman on something,” Eddo said. He sliced the end off the last piece of beef, a tender lomo, and dropped it on her plate. “Lorena Lopez de Betancourt says every woman in the country is her sister and will vote for her. It was in Friday’s Reforma.”
“‘My sister?’” Luz exclaimed. “She actually said that?”
“Sure.” Eddo drank some beer. “Lorena’s going for something simple that people who can’t read will hear and repeat: ‘Lorena’s your sister’”
“Lorena’s going for the uneducated vote?”
“Well, there’s plenty of it, unfortunately,” Eddo said wryly. “We only require six years of primary school. Probably 25 percent of adults are functionally illiterate.”
“Illiterate doesn’t have to mean gullible,” Luz said.
“Maybe the next election will prove you right,” Eddo said. “We’ve got a real multi-party system now. The PAN attracts intellectuals and strong Catholics. PRD is way out on the left. The PRI means union affiliations and the revolution.”
“How about a new revolution,” Luz hazarded. “An education revolution.”
“You’re an idealist?”
“That would be better for Lorena than running a campaign built around that sister thing. PAN could be the party that brings real education to Mexico.”
“You vote PAN?” Eddo asked. “Did you vote for Betancourt?”
“Yes, but the PAN could be more than it is,” Luz said.
Eddo seemed amused. “It needs an identity?”
“Yes. Like how the PRI is the party of the revolution.”
“Which did so much for all the folks who still can’t read.”
“There you go.” Luz waved a finger at him. “Revolution should mean looking forward, not being dragged down by the past. PAN could mobilize an education revolution with a symbol that energizes people. Even if they can’t read now they’ll join because they know their lives will change when they can. That’s better than catchy words because Lorena wants to keep living in Los Pinos.”
The waiter brought Eddo a fourth beer and Luz a fourth sangria. She stirred and smiled as the colors swirled together. Eddo’s mind was quick and agile and she was keeping up.
“The only problem with your ideas, Kagemusha, is that they’re too dangerous,” Eddo said. “This country’s entire social system is predicated on the majority of the people being tolerant. Educated people find things out and aren’t quite so tolerant after that.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Luz said, the straw frozen in her hand, momentarily taken aback.
Eddo picked up his beer bottle. “So we let illegal immigration be the pressure valve.”
“But that’s where the jobs are,” Luz said.
Eddo took a long pull from his beer bottle. “The ilegales, and the coyotes who get them out, are a kind of system. They siphon off the smart ones who might get restless and cause trouble because they’re sick of being cheated all the time. The remittances they send back from El Norte are a quarter of this country’s income. Drug money is another quarter. Think of it. Half of our national income comes from negative activity that drains our human resources but which we don’t control or regulate.”
Luz blinked at him, struck by the intellect behind his words. “So how do we change that? Make the country . . . healthy.”
“Reform is hard.” He seemed about to say something else, but stopped.
“But if nothing changes,” Luz said, thinking about the dwindling opportunities for Juan Pablo. There would be even less for Martina and Sophia. “What will happen?”
Eddo shrugged. “The leftovers will remember Lorena’s catchphrases. That’s all she wants them to do.”
He was saying such hard things. Luz leaned forward. “Do you mean to tell me Lorena is happy to cry for the pain of the people if it means they’ll stay uneducated enough to vote for her?”
“‘Cry for the pain of the people?’” Eddo leaned forward, too. “What are you talking about?”
“That interview in HOLA!,” Luz said. “There was this one question. ‘What makes Lorena laugh and what makes Lorena cry?’ She was in all these pictures, dripping with diamonds, and she answered the question with ‘Every day I cry for the pain of the people.’” Luz stabbed a bite of beef as Eddo’s mouth started to twitch. “Please, I could cry myself. All she has to do is sell one bracelet and she could feed the people for a year.”
“So you probably won’t vote for her,” Eddo chuckled.
“I’m voting for El Cid.” Luz grinned. “What would he do?”
“Hmmm. Maybe gather everyone round for a brainstorming session.”
“Study his history to get some perspective,” Luz offered.<
br />
“Sharpen Tizona.”
“Give Babieca a carrot and cinch the saddle a little tighter.”
They smiled at each other, both savoring the humor and the imagery and the sense that they were the only two people in the world who knew what they were talking about. The waiter came and replaced the brazier with a candle in a clear glass holder.
“So,” Eddo said. His smile faded into seriousness. “I guess I know what makes Luz de Maria cry. Now I’d like to know what makes Luz de Maria laugh.”
“Well.” Luz’s heart raced, fueled by too much sangria and the look on his face. “Nadia Porov exhibits, of course. Old episodes of El Chavo del 8. Cantinflas movies. My nieces.”
“Nieces? How many?”
“Two. My sister’s girls.”
“So you have a sister. Older or younger?”
“Younger. I’m the oldest.”
“Any brothers?”
“One. Juan Pablo’s much younger.” Enough about me. “What about you?”
The waiter finished clearing the table, leaving their half-finished drinks.
“I was the baby brother,” Eddo said. “One sister, much older.”
“Let me guess. A naughty little brother.” Luz had an image of him at five or six, getting away with murder because his parents were wrapped around his finger.
“Spoiled rotten,” Eddo said. “I made up stuff about her to scare away her boyfriends. Trooped my friends through her parties, even shot her in the head with an arrow. My archery phase. She had to go to the hospital.”
“How old were you?”
“I was seven and she was 16.”
“Has she forgiven you yet?”
“I think so.” He laughed. “She lives in Atlanta now. Married a gringo. I have a niece, too.”
“That’s nice,” Luz said and put down her sangria glass.
The line of Eddo’s shoulders shifted. His face tensed and Luz realized that their hands were inadvertently touching. The humming filled her ears again. This time Luz knew he heard it, too.
Eddo reached out with a forefinger and slid it between her first and second fingers. Another finger followed until he had laced their hands together.
“What’s your favorite flower? A gentleman should always know what his lady likes best.”
“Violets,” Luz said on a breath.
“I’ll have to look for those.”
“So what are your favorite things?”
“Hmm.” He gently rocked their clasped hands. “Favorite day: Sunday. Favorite museum: Tamayo. Favorite restaurant: El Rincon. Favorite--.”
The waiter appeared. Luz pulled her hands back into her lap.
“Do you want coffee? Or dessert?” Eddo asked.
“No, thank you.” Coffee was probably 1000 pesos a cup here.
“Maybe later?” Eddo asked and Luz said yes, maybe later, and gave back his wallet.
The waiter laid the little tray with the bill on the table. It was outrageous, over 3000 pesos. Eddo paid in cash. Luz couldn’t believe she’d been walking around with that much money.
“Thank you for a wonderful dinner,” Luz said.
“It was my pleasure.”
He helped her on with her sweater and got his jacket. They walked out of the elegant restaurant, past the two thoroughly ignored women.
Chapter 17
Some idiot had left shopping bags in the aisle of the restaurant and Eddo put out a protective hand to make sure Luz didn’t trip. He was acutely aware of her next to him as they strolled into the mall. The top of her head came up to his mouth and he found himself staring at her hair and her cheekbone and the sweet curve of her neck.
Eddo guided her toward the sound of live music, looking for any excuse to prolong the evening. A jazz band was playing on a stage on the ground floor. An enormous coffered skylight high above reflected the energy of the music and the crowds. The second and third floors of the mall were fronted by mezzanines that circled like great glass and chrome ribbons. People stood along the railings and watched the band. Eddo found a place for them along the second floor railing.
“Pretty good, aren’t they?” Eddo asked after they’d listened for a while.
“Yes.” Luz beamed at him then turned back to the scene below.
Everything about her was damn attractive--from her sense of humor to her bright clothes to the athletic way her body looked and moved. And she had a talent and a creativity that amazed him. But the thing he liked best was her sense of serenity. There was nothing shrill or noisy or needy about Luz; her company was more relaxing than that of any woman he’d ever met. He’d said nothing about his government job or being part of the Marca Cortez business empire. And she hadn’t asked about things like that, as if she was only interested in him, not power or position or money.
Eddo stole another look at her, happier than he’d been in a very long time. He certainly hadn’t laughed this much in years. Several times during the day she’d said something funny or a little risqué. Her eyes had widened in this priceless I shouldn’t have said that expression and he’d found himself laughing again.
As Luz watched the band, her mouth curved into a smile and her body swayed a little to the music. If Eddo was any judge of people, she was completely unaware of how sexy she was.
“You should draw this,” he said.
“All right.” Her mouth was a little too big for her face and her smile was dazzling.
He found a bench and Luz sat and pulled out her sketchpad. As Eddo watched, she drew swiftly; first the dramatic setting with the skylight and the mezzanines, then the band.
People clustered around to watch her and Eddo stepped behind the bench so he could survey the crowd better. Luz stopped drawing, instinctively pulling in her elbows, and Eddo knew what she was thinking. Crowds in Mexico were often unruly and rarely safe. He reached out and stroked the back of her neck, letting her know he was watching out and that she was fine.
Luz looked up and caught his eye, then finished the drawing. The crowd applauded and she blushed and closed the sketchpad.
The crowd dispersed. Eddo sat down next to her and opened the sketchpad again. He could almost hear the music coming from the drawing. “This is terrific. But there are no faces?”
“I know.” Luz sighed. “I can draw everything except faces. They always come out blank. Like there’s no brain inside.”
“Sign it,” he reminded her.
Luz wrote her name then tore the drawing out of the sketchpad, along with the Tomato Tamayo drawing and handed both to him. “Here,” she said. “It’s not much but thank you for everything today.”
The gesture took Eddo by surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten such a personal gift. “Thank you,” he managed and took her hand.
They walked outside and crossed the parking lot, the signs for Liverpool and Palacio de Hierro huge against the building. The night sky was its usual milky white.
“You almost never see stars here,” Luz said, breaking their silence. “I’ll bet there’s nowhere else in the world like it.”
“Well, Los Angeles can get like this from time to time,” Eddo said.
They got in the car. Eddo laid the two drawings on the back seat and cleared his throat.
“I was wondering,” he said, as nervous as if it was his first time. “If you’d like that coffee now. At my place.”
She didn’t immediately reply and Eddo found himself holding his breath.
“Coffee,” Luz said finally. “Yes, I would.”
'
Eddo looked around the living room in dismay as they walked into his apartment. “Sorry about this,” he said and kicked the soccer cleats to one side. “I have help on Tuesdays and Fridays and the rest of the time I’m hopeless.”
Luz looked around the living room and he followed her gaze as it took in the rustic pine coffee table, the flat-screen television, and green suede sofa and chairs. The blank walls.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked.
>
“Couple of years. A little bare?”
“A little.”
“You see why I needed an art education,” he said.
Luz smiled but she was nervous, he could tell. She put her bag by the front door and twisted her fingers together.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Eddo said and mentally kicked himself. Fuck, he sounded like he was inviting her into his office for a business meeting. “I’ll get that coffee going.”
In the kitchen, Eddo filled the coffeemaker carafe with water from the garrafon dispenser, dumped ground coffee into the filter and turned on the machine. Luz came over to the granite-topped counter. As he placed two colorful talavera cups on a lacquer tray she rearranged the apples in the basket on the counter into a red pyramid.
“Sugar?” Eddo asked. “Milk?”
“No sugar, thank you. Just milk.”
“Milk. Great. I’ve got milk.” In another minute he’d be babbling like a teenager. Eddo gave himself a mental shake, poured milk into each mug and tossed two spoons on the tray. He nodded toward the living room. “Shall we sit in there?”
Luz went over to the sofa and took off the pink sweater. The definition in her upper body showed through the thin material of her tan blouse. Eddo swallowed back a surge of pure lust, poured coffee into the mugs and carried the tray into the living room.
“Here we go.” Eddo set the tray on the coffee table, sat on the edge of one of the armchairs and handed her a mug.
“Thank you,” Luz said.
Eddo picked up the other mug. The talavera was full of a viscous liquid that smelled burnt. He half expected the bowl of the spoon to dissolve when he stirred it. The coffee tasted as bad as it looked. “Madre de Dios, this is terrible,” he said.
“No, it’s fine,” Luz said.
“How you lie, Kagemusha.” Eddo brought both mugs into the kitchen and dumped their contents into the sink. She had him so wound up he couldn’t even make decent coffee. “I’ll make a new pot.”
Luz followed him into the kitchen. “Let me do it,” she said. She rinsed the coffee carafe under the faucet, dried it thoroughly with a paper towel, and then started to fill it with water.