The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  “You got it all figured out, then,” Juan Pablo said grudgingly.

  “We’ll manage, sunshine,” Luz said with more confidence than she felt. Taking a bus to and from Veracruz meant a 14 hour day.

  Juan Pablo kissed her on the cheek then turned on the television. Luz watched him out of the corner of her eye. He had neither mother nor father, now, just her to keep him from ending up waving cars into parking spaces with a red rag.

  They sipped their tea while the advertisements urged them to buy La Costeña beans and Jumex juice and brush their teeth with Colgate because Cleanliness is Healthy.

  The main news story was about the increasing violence on the border with Texas, centering on Nuevo Laredo. The drug war between competing cartels was heated and bloody, with the battle lines blurred by cartel rivalries and police and military involvement. The camera panned across two bodies which had recently been uncovered in the desert south of the city. The dead men had both been shot in the head and buried, making identification difficult. The only clue was a Highway Patrol badge. The camera zoomed in on a sand-scoured badge and then swept across the dirty bodies. The heads were covered but one body wore light colored pants.

  Luz dropped her cup.

  This was why Eddo never called. Tomás had taken her pictures but they hadn’t helped and somehow, out in the desert, both Eddo and Tomás had been killed.

  In her mind’s eye, Luz saw the gun jerk and Eddo’s eyes glaze and his jaw slacken as his brains sprayed out of the side of his head. Those men had found him because of her. Everything Eddo had worked for was all gone; lost in a puddle of blood that had dried up and blown away across the desert.

  “Are you okay?” Juan Pablo went to get a rag.

  Luz walked over to the shrine. The Virgin looked as serene as if She hadn’t abandoned Eddo in the desert like Raul’s son.

  Juan Pablo said something but a roaring sound drowned him out and Luz threw the votive candles across the room. The glass cups shattered against the concrete wall.

  “You let this happen!” Luz screamed at the Virgin in Her dark green robe with the stars and the cherubs at Her feet. “You let it!”

  She hurled away the ribbon and the rosaries. The beads made little rattling sounds as they hit the floor. Luz grabbed the heavy picture and hauled it out of the iron tabletop easel her father had forged long ago.

  “That’s enough,” she yelled, not knowing why or what she was saying. “I’ve had enough!” The pain in her side flared and burned. Luz gasped and the room swam but the Virgin no longer deserved any prayers.

  Luz swung the heavy picture and belted the wooden cabinet and the concrete wall and the coffee table, staggering with the weight and the awkward movements. The frame shook and splintered in her hands.

  “Enough!” SLAM. SLAM. She raised the picture over her head and smashed it against the wall, then blasted it into the edge of the cabinet again. Momentum carried her across the room, the picture scything everything around it. Chips of wood and bits of canvas flew around her head.

  “Luz! Luz!” Juan Pablo shouted.

  There was a roaring and it was deafening, louder even than Juan Pablo or Lupe’s screams or the shrieks of the girls from the stairs. All of them were shouting and crying because Tía Luz, the calm one, the strong one, had suddenly gone mad.

  “Stop it, Luz. Stop it.”

  “Tía Luz! Tía Luz!!”

  “Enough! Enough!” SLAM. SLAM. Splinters and shreds filled the air as the picture smashed into the sharp corner of the doorframe.

  Luz swung the picture again but suddenly Juan Pablo’s arms were around her from behind, bending her over and pinning her down.

  “Luz, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Juan Pablo’s arms were like iron. His voice sounded like a grown man’s.

  Her pain in her side was blinding.

  “Luz,” Lupe cried from the stair landing. “Please.”

  Luz dropped the smashed picture and hauled in air.

  “Talk to me, Luz,” Juan Pablo said insistently.

  She wanted to tell him to let go, that she wasn’t done, but she couldn’t speak. The pain was rich and dark and hot and Eddo was dead.

  Juan Pablo continued to hold her, her back against his chest, doubling her over so she wouldn’t pass out. Eventually the pain subsided and Luz pushed him away.

  “What’s going on, Luz?” He hung onto her arm.

  “Get it out,” she panted. “Of the house.”

  Lupe crept down the stairs. “Luz, please tell me.”

  “I don’t want to see this picture ever again,” Luz shouted. The pain rose up and darkened her vision. She had to bend over again to find some air.

  “The picture of the Virgin?” Lupe asked.

  “You don’t mean that,” Juan Pablo said at the same time.

  “Tía Luz, what’s the matter?”

  Sophia and Martina came down the stairs. Both of them were still crying. Martina picked up the rosary beads from the floor but Sophia just clung to Lupe’s leg and sobbed.

  Luz looked around the room. The picture of the Virgin was in ribbons. Pieces of the frame and bits of glass from the votive candles were scattered all over the living room.

  “Madre de Dios,” she murmured and slumped against Juan Pablo.

  He pulled her over to the sofa and made her sit. Lupe got Luz a glass of water then squeezed onto the other end of the sofa with the girls.

  “I’m sorry.” Luz drank the water and felt her heart slow. She’d told herself for weeks that Eddo might be dead but the truth was too much to bear. “It was the news. The two men who were killed in Nuevo Laredo. I knew them.”

  “How did you know them?” Juan Pablo was astonished.

  “One was an attorney. The other was police.”

  “You knew them?”

  “The attorney.” Luz felt strange and disembodied talking about Eddo being dead. “His name was Eduardo Martín Bernardo Cortez Castillo. I met him last October. He was . . . he was a friend.”

  “Tía Luz,” Martina piped up. “Maybe your friends are in heaven talking to Abuela and Abuelo and Father Santiago.”

  Luz blinked at her niece. The little girls had coped well with the loss of their grandmother and Father Santiago, due in part to what she’d told them. The thought steadied her. “Maybe.”

  Eventually they went into the kitchen and made hot chocolate as Juan Pablo put the remains of the picture into a trash bag. Luz promised Martina and Sophia she’d paint them a new picture of the Madonna.

  '

  That night Luz dreamed that she was in the car with her attackers. Eddo was in the car, too, and the noose was around his neck instead of hers. The leather bit into his throat and Luz knew he was wracked with pain.

  She was on the verge of saying his name, it was on her lips, and he stared at her in mute appeal, willing her to be silent. Luz woke up just before she said his name, drenched and freezing, her heart pounding and painful.

  Chapter 53

  Luz pushed open the door and found herself in a small grimy room. A mestizo man with wobbly jowls and a cigarette glued to the corner of his mouth looked up from a magazine balanced on his paunch.

  “Buen’ dia,” he grunted and looked at her appraisingly.

  Luz looked around. There wasn’t much else in the room besides the man’s scratched and dirty Formica desk, a filing cabinet in a corner, and a wooden chair in front of the desk. Dark blue aluminum blinds covered the single window. Several of the blinds were bent in the middle, giving the window a perpetual smile. The walls were white and bare except for a calendar with a picture of a dolphin on it.

  “I was told this was a domestic placement agency,” Luz said.

  The man pointed to the wooden chair and Luz sat down gingerly.

  “Planta or day?” he asked.

  “Planta,” Luz said. The word muchacha was obviously stamped on her forehead. “I was in Mexico City but I need something in Veracruz now.”

  “How long you worked?�
�� he asked.

  “Nearly 14 years,” Luz said.

  “Whatcha got?” He held out a pudgy hand. Luz took her letters of recommendation out of her backpack and handed them over.

  As the man read the cigarette in the corner of his mouth turned into a thin cylinder of ash. When he finished reading he dropped the letters on his desk, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and lit a new one from the glowing end of the old.

  “Your name’s Luz de Maria Alba Mora?”

  “Yes.”

  “High class sounding name.” It wasn’t a compliment.

  Luz said nothing.

  He looked through the letters again, turned them over, shuffled them a bit. “So where’s the rest?”

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Not 14 years worth here, chica.”

  “I worked in Mexico City until late last year but I don’t have a letter from them,” Luz said.

  “Fired?”

  “I left,” Luz said loftily.

  “Caught stealing?” The man grinned nastily around the cigarette.

  “No.”

  The man snorted. “Maybe I got something for you. Good pay. Variety.”

  “Variety?” Luz had never heard a maid’s job described that way. He probably meant a family with ten children and only one toilet.

  “You look like a smart girl.” He lit a third cigarette. “I got some people that need a planta. They pay me a finder’s fee and I supply a girl. You stay 31 days. Then you quit and come back here and get a little bonus. Next house you do another 31 days.”

  “These people only want a maid for 31 days?” Luz asked warily.

  He sucked hard on the cigarette. Luz watched the ash travel up the paper toward his mouth. “No,” he said. “But you leave after 31 days.”

  “Right,” Luz said softly.

  The man was pimping muchachas. His contract with the people seeking a maid no doubt said that the finder’s fee was nonrefundable after 30 days. The maid stayed an extra day to make sure he kept the fee. He shared a bit of it with the girl, but probably pocketed 5000 pesos each time he pulled the scam. Maybe he did some legitimate placements, too, so his reputation wouldn’t put him out of business, but the scamming made the real money. For the muchacha, the advantages of working the scam instead of maintaining a real job were obvious; why bother to work hard and impress an employer if the job only lasted 31 days?

  A world of passion and righteousness.

  Luz grabbed her letters and walked out.

  '

  Semana Santa, the holy week before Easter, was full of comforting rituals. Luz joined the solemn walk around the church intoning the Stations of the Cross. Then there was the narrative of the Holy Thursday service and the solemn Good Friday clearing of the altar.

  Easter Sunday was clear and bright. Father Patricio was young and had progressive ideas so after Mass there was a norteamericano-style egg hunt as well as a piñata. In the afternoon they ate a special comida at the Rosales’ house. The talk was about the children and school and jobs for Juan Pablo when he graduated but Carmelita’s father-in-law mentioned the resignation of Hugo de la Madrid Acosta and speculation that Lorena Lopez de Betancourt would become Minister of Public Security. Luz had read the news, too, but couldn’t bring herself to comment.

  Painting helped, especially at night when the nightmare threatened. Luz painted one Madonna wearing a cloak of stars and another with the Virgin in the regional clothes of Veracruz like the painting she’d done long ago for Father Santiago. Neither was any good. She started a third.

  It was done in late March, a few days before her birthday. It was long past midnight when she laid all three canvases on the coffee table and curled onto the sofa to look at them. The first two were faceless, the features hidden in shadow. One she named La Señora de los Angeles. The other was La Señora de Sangre because of Her red cloak.

  Luz had sketched the third Madonna furiously one night after having the dream about Eddo again. The colors were cool grays and blues. El Greco colors, she thought and closed her eyes tiredly. That one was easy to name. La Virgen de las Lágrimas. Madonna of the Tears.

  The house was quiet. Lupe and the girls were asleep. Juan Pablo would be home soon from a friend’s house. Luz fell asleep on the sofa, her head pillowed on her arm.

  A pressure against her lips made her smile. It was him, his mouth on hers. She watched him kiss her, hair cropped short, hazel eyes full of promise of the night to come.

  “Eddo?” Luz murmured.

  “I’m going to fuck you proper,” Tío slurred.

  Luz’s eyes flew open. Tío was practically lying on top of her.

  “Get off!” Luz shouted, squirming beneath his weight.

  “Come here, bitch.” Tío fumbled at the fly of her jeans, too drunk to find the button. Body odor and cheap tequila curdled the air.

  Luz shoved and screamed at the same time. Tío was surprisingly strong and his fumbling turned into a wrestling match.

  There was a chunky, ringing sound. Tío looked surprised, and then rolled off Luz and onto the floor.

  Juan Pablo stood over the sofa with a cast iron skillet in his hand, looking like an enraged Montezuma. He pulled her up. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Luz gasped. Tío was unconscious, a line of drool tracing down his chin. “I fell asleep and then suddenly he was on top of me.”

  “He left the gate and the front door open,” Juan Pablo said furiously. “Anyone could have waltzed in.”

  “What happened?” Lupe asked from the stairs.

  “Tío came in, drunk as a pig,” Juan Pablo said without turning around. “Thought he’d help himself to Luz.”

  Lupe’s eyes widened as she came down, hand on her pregnant belly. “Is he dead?”

  “No.” Juan Pablo found the door key in Tío’s pocket. “But he’s out of here. I’ll haul his stuff out of the shed in the morning.”

  Luz and Lupe watched as Juan Pablo grabbed Tío’s ankles and dragged him out of the living room, the unconscious man’s head thumping against the floor. The sad parade went out the front door, across the yard, and through the gate. Lupe started to cry.

  “I’m all right. Really I am,” Luz said. She put her arms around her sister but Lupe pulled away and went upstairs.

  Luz made some tea to quiet her jangling nerves. When she came back into the living room Juan Pablo was on the sofa staring at the three paintings.

  “Your pictures are amazing, Luz,” Juan Pablo said. “This one is . . .” He trailed off, pointing at the last painting and shaking his head.

  “I shouldn’t have tried to do a portrait,” Luz said, handing him a mug. “I haven’t done a face since . . .”

  “It’s your face,” Juan Pablo said.

  “I know it’s a face,” she said then realized what he meant. “My face?”

  In the painting, Mary wore a sheer rebozo shawl over straight dark hair. Her head was tilted to one side. Under the rebozo, Luz’s face gazed at the child in her arms, looking as if there was no happiness left in the world.

  “Take two to that art place in Mexico City on Sunday,” Juan Pablo urged. “Give one to the girls and take the others.”

  “I can’t go back there.” Luz sat next to him.

  “Why not?” Juan Pablo jostled her. “It’s open on Sundays, right? Go.”

  “Sunday’s my birthday,” Luz reminded him, loath to tell him about her last experience at Jardin del Arte. “The girls will expect us to do something.”

  “We can celebrate next weekend,” Juan Pablo said. “I can’t give you much, Luz, but I can handle things for a day.”

  The tiny house in Soledad de Doblado felt like a coffin. The thought of being away for a whole day, surrounded by artists and clever people, was sorely tempting.

  She just wouldn’t take any checks.

  Chapter 54

  Hh23051955: Site 1 shipments not being received.

  Hh23051955: Sites 2 and 3 not operational. Advise altern
ates.

  This was the third time Hugo had posted the same messages. Neither 44Gg449M11 nor CH5299xyz9 had posted a reply.

  Hugo poured himself a healthy dose of brandy. Gomez Mazzo had set up a fortune-making machine, using Hugo’s plan and real estate investment, and now was apparently keeping it all for himself. Or maybe he and Max Arias had made some sort of separate deal. But if they had, why hadn’t they taken the money out of Banco Limitado first? Why leave it for Fonseca to grab?

  And why would Gomez Mazzo have willingly forfeited having the future president on his side? Lorena was a serious contender. Gomez Mazzo knew she’d clean up the Zetas for him and leave El Toro a free hand in the north. The deal had been clear: campaign money in exchange for territory as soon as she took the oath of office.

  Moreover, if Arias had made a deal with Gomez Mazzo, Lorena would have had to be in on it. Arias would have little to bargain with unless he could hold out the promise of what Lorena could do as president. But that didn’t make sense either, because Hugo would know if Lorena was double crossing him.

  Fonseca had closed down Site 2 and taken the money, but why hadn’t Gomez Mazzo gotten in touch, figured out another way to get the money from Site 1 back to the campaign?

  Hugo gulped down the brandy and poured himself another. Graciela hadn’t wanted to go to Canada and the trip was delayed. In the meantime, he was trying to work out just how to divert funds from his businesses into Lorena’s campaign but had run up against some of his own company accountants who were a bit too smart for their own good. He’d fire them all, for one reason or another, but couldn’t make it too obvious.

  Time was not his friend. Romero was still holding strong in the polls and more PAN stalwarts were throwing their support to him as Lorena’s momentum ebbed. She was nearly hysterical every time Hugo spoke to her. Fernando was shoving the ministry job at her, pressuring her to serve her country like a maldita recruiting poster. Someone was stoking the news pundits into speculating that she would become Minister of Public Security, further damaging the campaign.