JANUARY 12
So if you travel with a bullfighter, in the long run you end up liking that world? said Lupe. I guess so, said Belano. And if you're with a policeman, do you end up liking the policeman's world? I guess so, said Belano. And if you're with a pimp, do you end up liking the pimp's world? Belano didn't answer. Strange, because he always tries to answer every question, even when no answer is needed or the question is beside the point. Lima, on the other hand, talks less and less, just driving the Impala with an absent look on his face. Blind as we are, I think we haven't noticed how Lupe is beginning to change.
JANUARY 13
Today we called Mexico City for the first time. Belano talked to Quim Font. Quim said Lupe's pimp knew where we were and was coming after us. Belano said that was impossible. Alberto had followed us to the edge of the city and we'd managed to lose him there. Yes, said Quim, but then he came back here and threatened to kill me if I didn't tell him where you were going. I took the phone and told him I wanted to talk to María. I heard Quim's voice. He was crying. Hello? I said. I want to talk to María. Is that you, García Madero? sobbed Quim. I thought you'd have gone home. I'm here, I said. I thought I heard Quim sniff. Belano and Lima were talking in low voices. They had moved away from the phone and looked worried. Lupe stayed close to me, close to the phone, as if she were cold, even though it wasn't cold. She had her back turned to me, and she was looking toward the gas station where we'd parked. Take the first bus and come back to Mexico City, I heard Quim say. If you don't have money I'll send it to you. We have more than enough money, I said. Is María there? No one's here, I'm alone, sobbed Quim. For a while we were both silent. How is my car? that voice from another world said suddenly. Fine, I said, everything's fine. We're getting closer to finding Cesárea Tinajero, I lied. Who's Cesárea Tinajero? said Quim.
JANUARY 14
We bought clothes in Hermosillo and a bathing suit for each of us. Then we went to pick up Belano at the library (where he'd spent the morning, in the firm belief that a poet always leaves a written trail, a belief borne out by none of the evidence so far) and went to the beach. We paid for two rooms at a boardinghouse in Bahía Kino. The sea is dark blue. It was the first time Lupe had seen it.
JANUARY 15
An excursion: our Impala set off down the road that dangles along one side of the Gulf of California, to Punta Chueca, across from the island of Tiburón. Then we went on to El Dólar, across from the island of Patos. Lying on a deserted beach, we spent hours smoking weed. Punta Chueca-Tiburón, Dólar-Patos: they're only names, of course, but they fill my soul with dread, as one of Amado Nervo's contemporaries might say. What is it about those names that makes me feel so upset, sad, fatalistic, that makes me look at Lupe as if she were the last woman on earth? A little before nightfall we headed farther north, to where Desemboque rises. Darkness in my soul. I think I actually shuddered. And then we turned around and went back to Bahía Kino along a dark road. Every so often we'd pass a pickup full of Seri fishermen singing one of their songs.
JANUARY 16
Belano has bought a knife.
JANUARY 17
Back in Agua Prieta. We left Bahía Kino at eight in the morning. The route we took was from Bahía Kino to Punta Chueca, Punta Chueca to El Dólar, El Dólar to Desemboque, Desemboque to Las Estrellas, and Las Estrellas to Trincheras. About one hundred and fifty miles along terrible roads. If we had taken the Bahía Kino-El Triunfo-Hermosillo route, the highway from Hermosillo to San Ignacio, and then the road to Cananea and Agua Prieta, we would almost certainly have had a more comfortable trip and gotten there sooner. And yet we all decided that it was better to travel along roads without much traffic, or with no traffic at all, and we liked the idea of stopping at La Buena Vida again. But we got lost in the triangle between El Cuatro, Trincheras, and La Ciénaga and finally we decided to drive all the way to Trincheras and visit the old bullfighter another time.
When we parked the Impala at the gates of the Agua Prieta cemetery, it was starting to get dark. Belano and Lima rang the bell for the watchman. After a while, a man with a face so sun-beaten that it looked black came to the door. He was wearing glasses and had a big scar on the left side of his face. He asked us what we wanted. Belano said that we were looking for the gravedigger Andrés González Ahumada. The man looked at us and asked who we were and what we wanted him for. Belano said it was about the bullfighter Pepe Avellaneda's grave. We want to see it, we said. I'm Andrés González Ahumada, said the gravedigger, and this is hardly the time of day to visit a cemetery. Please? said Lupe. And why are you so interested, if you don't mind my asking? said the gravedigger. Belano went up to the bars and spent a few minutes conferring with the man in a low voice. The gravedigger nodded several times and then he went into his little hut and came out again with an enormous key he used to let us in. We followed him along the cemetery's main path, a walk lined with cypresses and old oaks. When we turned down the side paths, however, we saw some cactuses native to the region: choyas and sahuesos and a nopal or two, as if to remind the dead that they were in Sonora and not some other place.
This is the bullfighter Pepe Avellaneda's grave, said the gravedigger, gesturing toward a niche in a neglected corner. Belano and Lima went over and tried to read the inscription, but the niche was four levels up and night was already falling over the cemetery paths. There were no flowers at any of the graves, except one where four plastic carnations hung, and most of the inscriptions were covered in dust. Then Belano interlaced his fingers, making a little seat or stirrup, and Lima stepped up, pressing his face to the glass over Avellaneda's photograph. What he did next was wipe the plaque with his hand and read the inscription aloud: "José Avellaneda Tinajero, matador, Nogales 1903-Agua Prieta 1930." Is that all? I heard Belano say. That's all, replied Lima's voice, hoarser than ever. Then he jumped down and did as Belano had done, making a step with his hands so that Belano could climb up. Give me the lighter, Lupe, I heard Belano say. Lupe went up to the pathetic figure composed of my two friends and without saying anything handed him a box of matches. What about my lighter? said Belano. I don't have it, mano, said Lupe, in a sweet voice that I still wasn't used to. Belano lit a match and held it up to the niche. When it went out he lit another, and then another. Lupe was leaning against the wall across from him, her long legs crossed. She was staring at the ground, looking pensive. Lima was staring at the ground too, but his face only expressed the effort of supporting Belano's weight. After using up seven matches and burning the tips of his fingers a few times, Belano gave up and got down. We walked back out toward the gate of the Agua Prieta cemetery without speaking. There, by the door, Belano gave the gravedigger a few bills and we left.
JANUARY 18
In Santa Teresa, when we went into a café with a big mirror behind the bar, I realized how much we had changed. Belano hasn't shaved for days. Lima doesn't need to shave, but he probably hasn't combed his hair since around the time Belano stopped shaving. I'm all skin and bones (I've been screwing three times a night, on average). Only Lupe looks good, or anyway better than she did when we left Mexico City.
JANUARY 19
Was Cesárea Tinajero the dead bullfighter's cousin? Was she a distant relative? Did she ask them to put her own last name on the plaque, give Avellaneda her own name, as a way of saying this man is mine? Did she add her name to the bullfighter's name as a joke? A way of saying Cesárea Tinajero was here? It hardly matters. Today we called Mexico City again. All quiet at Quim's. Belano talked to Quim, Lima talked to Quim. When I tried to talk the phone went dead, although we had plenty of coins. I got the impression that Quim didn't want to talk to me and that he hung up. Then Belano called his father and Lima called his mother and then Belano called Laura Jáuregui. The first two conversations were relatively long, formal, and the last was very short. Only Lupe and I didn't call anyone in Mexico City, as if we didn't feel like it or didn't have anyone to talk to.
JANUARY 20
This morning, while we were
eating breakfast at a café in Nogales, we saw Alberto behind the wheel of his Camaro. He was wearing a shirt the same color as the car, bright yellow, and next to him was a guy in a leather jacket who looked like a cop. Lupe recognized him right away: she turned pale and said Alberto's here. She didn't let her fear show, but I knew she was afraid. Lima followed Lupe's gaze and said yes, it was Alberto and one of his buddies. Belano watched the car go by through the big café windows and told us we were hallucinating. I saw Alberto perfectly clearly. Let's get out of here now, I said. Belano looked at us and said no way. First we would go to the Nogales library and then head back to Hermosillo to continue our search, as we had planned. Lima agreed. I like your stubbornness, man, he said. So they finished their breakfasts (neither Lupe nor I could eat anything else) and then we left the café, got in the Impala, and dropped Belano off at the door to the library. Be brave, for fuck's sake, don't go imagining things, he said before disappearing. Lima watched the library door for a while, as if trying to come up with a reply, and then he started the car. You saw him, Ulises, said Lupe, it was him. I think so, said Lima. What will we do if he finds me? said Lupe. Lima didn't answer. We parked the car on a deserted street, in a middle-class neighborhood, with no bars or stores in sight except for a fruit stand, and Lupe started to tell us stories from her childhood and then I started to tell stories about when I was a boy too, just to kill time, and although Ulises didn't open his mouth once and started to read a book, still sitting behind the wheel, you could tell he was listening because every so often he would raise his eyes and look at us and smile. At noon we went to pick up Belano. Lima parked close to a nearby plaza and said that I should go to the library. He would stay with Lupe and the Impala in case Alberto showed up and they had to get out of there fast. I walked the four blocks to the library quickly, looking straight ahead the whole way. I found Belano sitting at a long wooden table, stained dark by the passage of time, with several bound volumes of the Nogales local paper. He was the only person in the library, and when I got there he raised his head and motioned for me to come and sit next to him.
JANUARY 21
The only image I took away from the Nogales newspaper's obituary of Pepín Avellaneda is of Cesárea Tinajero walking along a dreary desert road hand in hand with her little bullfighter, a little bullfighter who's struggling not to keep shrinking, who's struggling to grow, and who in fact begins to grow little by little, say until he reaches five and a half feet, then disappears.
JANUARY 22
In El Cubo. To get from Nogales to El Cubo you have to take the highway to Santa Ana and head west, from Santa Ana to Pueblo Nuevo, Pueblo Nuevo to Altar, Altar to Caborca, Caborca to San Isidro, then take the road to Sonoyta, on the Arizona border, but turn off onto a dirt road before you get there and go about fifteen or twenty miles. The Nogales newspaper talked about "his faithful companion, a devoted teacher in El Cubo." In the town we went to the school, and one glance was enough to tell us that it had been built after 1940. Cesárea Tinajero couldn't have taught here. Though if we dug around under it, we might be able to find the old school.
We talked to the teacher. She teaches the children Spanish and Pápago. The Pápagos live in Arizona and Sonora. We asked the teacher whether she was Pápago. No, she isn't. I'm from Guaymas, she tells us, and my grandfather was a Mayo. We ask her why she teaches Pápago. So the language won't be lost, she tells us. There are only two hundred Pápagos left in Mexico. You're right, that's not many, we admit. In Arizona there are almost sixteen thousand, but only two hundred in Mexico. And how many Pápagos are left in El Cubo? About twenty, says the teacher, but it doesn't matter, I'll keep teaching. Then she explains that the Pápagos don't call themselves that. They call themselves O'Odham and the Pimas call themselves Óob and the Seris call themselves Konkáak. We tell her that we were in Bahía Kino, in Punta Chueca, and El Dólar and we heard the fishermen singing Seri songs. The teacher is surprised. There are seven hundred Konkáak, she says, if that, and they don't fish. Well, these fishermen had learned a Seri song, we say. Maybe, says the teacher, but more likely they fooled you. Later she invited us to her house for dinner. She lives alone. We asked her whether she wouldn't like to live in Hermosillo or Mexico City. She said no. She likes this place. Then we went to see an old Pápago woman who lived half a mile from El Cubo. The old woman's house was adobe. It consisted of three rooms, two empty and one in which she lived with her animals. And yet the smell was hardly noticeable, swept away by the desert wind that came in through the glassless windows.
The teacher explained to the old woman in her language that we wanted news of Cesárea Tinajero. The old woman listened to the teacher and looked at us and said: huh. Belano and Lima looked at each other for a second and I knew they were wondering whether the old woman's huh meant something different in Pápago or whether it meant what we thought it did. A good person, said the old woman. She lived with a good man. Both of them good. The teacher looked at us and smiled. What was the man like? said Belano, gesturing to indicate different heights. Medium tall, said the old woman, skinny, medium tall, light-colored eyes. Light like this? said Belano, picking an almond-colored branch from the wall. Light like that, said the old woman. Medium tall like this? said Belano, holding up his index finger to a level suggesting someone on the short side. Medium tall, that's right, said the old woman. And what about Cesárea Tinajero? said Belano. Alone, said the old woman, she left with her man and came back alone. How long was she here? As long as the school, good teacher, said the old woman. A year? said Belano. The old woman looked through Belano and Lima, as if she didn't see them. She looked sympathetically at Lupe, asking her something in Pápago. The teacher translated: which of these men is yours? Lupe smiled. She was behind me and I couldn't see her, but I knew she was smiling. She said: none of them. She didn't have a man either, said the old woman. One day she went away with him and later she came back alone. Was she still teaching? said Belano. The old woman said something in Pápago. She lived in the school, translated the teacher, but she didn't teach anymore. Things are better now, said the old woman. Don't be so sure, said the teacher. And then what happened? The old woman spoke in Pápago, stringing together words that only the teacher understood, but she looked at us and at last she smiled. She lived in the school for a while and then she left, said the teacher. It seems she lost weight, was very thin, but I'm not sure, the old woman gets things mixed up sometimes, said the teacher. Though considering that she wasn't working, that she didn't have a salary, it seems only natural that she would lose weight, said the teacher. She must not have had much money for food. She ate, said the old woman suddenly, and we all jumped. I gave her food, my mother gave her food. She was skin and bones. Her eyes sunken. She looked like a coral snake. A coral snake? said Belano. Micruroides euryxanthus, said the teacher. Poisonous. So clearly you were good friends, said Belano. And when did she leave? After a while, said the old woman, without specifying how much time she meant. For the Pápagos, said the teacher, measuring time is as meaningless as measuring eternity. And how was she when she left? said Belano. Thin as a coral snake, said the old woman.
Later, a little before dusk, the old woman came with us to El Cubo to show us the house where Cesárea Tinajero had lived. It was near some corrals that were so old they were falling apart, the wood of the cross-pieces rotten, next to what must have been a toolshed, although it was empty now. The house was small, with a dried-up yard to one side, and when we got there we could see light through its only front window. Should we knock? said Belano. There's no point, said Lima. So we went walking back again, through the hills, to the old Pápago woman's house, and thanked her for everything, and then we said good night and headed back alone to El Cubo, although really she was the one who was left alone.
That night we slept at the teacher's house. After we ate, Lima settled down to read William Blake, Belano and the teacher took a walk in the desert and went into her room when they got back, and after Lupe and I washed the dishes, we went out
to smoke a cigarette while we watched the stars, and made love in the Impala. When we came back into the house we found Lima asleep on the floor with the book in his hands and a familiar murmur coming from the teacher's room, indicating that neither she nor Belano would appear again for the rest of the night. So we covered Lima with a blanket, made a bed for ourselves on the floor, and turned out the light. At eight in the morning the teacher went into her room and woke up Belano. The bathroom was an outhouse in the backyard. When I returned, the windows were open and there was café de olla on the table.
We said goodbye outside. The teacher didn't want us to give her a ride to the school. When we got back to Hermosillo, I had the feeling that not only had I already been over every inch of this fucking land, but that I'd been born here.
JANUARY 23
We've been to the Sonora Cultural Institute, the National Indian Institute, the Bureau of Folk Culture (Sonora Regional Branch), the National Education Counsel, the Records Office of the Ministry of Education (Sonora Region), and the Peña Taurina Pilo Yáñez for the second time. Only at the last was anybody friendly.
The Savage Detectives Page 68