Before you leave, he invites you to buy some of their stock. This is a really good time for them, he says.
Later on, Baum tells you that Andy’s never invested a cent in his life, he just loves to watch, the ultimate investment voyeur. “And you can expect to get every article that even mentions your company from now on. He’ll probably forward you their S&P daily, too.
“You’re into something here?” he asks, as if that’s the last thing that concerned him. The real question he’s asking is “How long is this going to take?”
All you can do is shrug and say, “I really don’t know. This woman—this photographer—she has a notion he’s a ringer, someone the company threw in to manipulate the workers, keep them docile. I want to interview him, take his picture, get inside the factory and get some pictures there, too. You know, get what I can before they know that I’m looking at him specifically.”
“Is it a Catholic thing—I mean, your interest?”
“It’s not about me.”
Whether or not he believes you, he doesn’t say.
As you’re leaving he adds, “You’ve seen enough to know that weird and bizarre are the norms over there, right?” Again, he’s not saying it outright. Beneath his camaraderie lies the real edginess: He’s worried about you and this story—how you fit together.
“I won’t forget. Hecho in Mexico is Hecho in Hell.”
Baum laughs. It’s his saying, after all.
* * * *
Perea speaks so quietly and so fast that you can’t catch half of it. He sits in the corner away from the lantern, on the ground. He bows his head when he speaks as if he’s ashamed to admit what’s happening to him. This is not, to your thinking, the behavior of a man who is playing a role. Still, how could anyone be certain? You take pictures of him bathed in lantern light, looking like a medieval pilgrim who has made his journey, found his God.
Margarita kneels beside you, leaning forward to hear clearly, translating his murmured Spanish. “‘I don’t know why the Virgin picked me. I’m just a Chamula.’ That’s an Indian from Chiapas, Deputy,” she explains. ‘I believe that things need to change. People need their dignity as much as their income. I thought I could do this on my own—change things in this factory, I mean. The other workers would trust me and together we would break the cycle in which the neoliberals keep us.’”
“What does she look like?”
“‘She has blue robes, a cloth over her head. I can sort of see through her, too. And her voice, it fills my head like a bell ringing. But it’s soft, like she’s whispering to me. No one else sees her. No one else hears her.’” He looks up at you, his eyes pleading for understanding. “‘She stopped me from doing a terrible thing. If we had protested as I planned, many people would have been killed. They would bring in the federales and the federales would beat us. There would be people waiting for us when we got home—people the federales won’t see. Some of us would have been tortured and killed. It might have been me. But I was willing to take that risk, to make this change.’”
“She stopped you.”
He nods. “‘Someone said my very first day that the factory is built on a sacred place. In the San Cristóbals we have these places. Maybe she heard our fear. There is a shrine nearby there where a picture of Jesus weeps. And another with tears of blood.’” Margarita glances sharply at you as she repeats this. You nod.
“‘She tells us to live. To endure what life gives us, no matter how hard. She knew what was in my heart. She said that the greatest dignity could be found in the grace of god. To us finally the kingdom will be opened for all we suffer. It will be closed to those who oppress us.’” He is seeing her again as he speaks, his eyes looking at a memory instead of at you.
Afterwards, you ride in your car alone—Margarita insists on driving her own, an old Chevy Impala that rumbles without a muffler. She won’t ride with anyone; it’s one of those things about her that makes it clear she’s crazy. Your tape recorder plays, Margarita’s translation fills the night.
Perea’s telling the truth so far as he knows it. In a moment of extreme danger, the Virgin appeared. That’s happened before—in fact, she usually manifests where the climate’s explosive, people are strained, fragmented, minds desperate for escape. It’s religion to some, mental meltdown to you. So why do you resist even that explanation now? “A Catholic thing?” Baum asked. That’s not it, though. You recollect something you once heard Carl Sagan say in an interview: Extraordinary events require extraordinary proof. “So, Carl,” you ask the dark interior, “how do you pull proof out of a funhouse mirror?”
* * * *
By the time Margarita returns, you know what you’re going to do. You tell her to see what she thinks. She sits back on the mattress. You can hear her pulling off her boots. “You might get away with it,” she answers, and there’s anger in her voice. “If they don’t pay too much attention to your very Castilian Español. You still talk like a gringo. And you still think like one, too. You listen to what he says, and you see it all in black and white, Norte Americano versus us. La Bamba’s the same way. You guys see what most of your people won’t, but you see it with old eyes.”
“How are we—I don’t understand. The Zapatistas you mean? What— ?”
She makes a noise to dismiss you, and there’s the sound of the bottle being opened. Not sharing. Then suddenly she’s talking, close enough now you can almost feel the heat of her breath.
“It’s not north against south anymore, rich whites against poor Mexicans. That’s only a thing, a speck. It’s the whole world, Deputy. The maquiladora is the whole world now. Japan is here, Korea is here, anyone who wants to make things without being watched, without having to answer to anyone, without having to pay fairly. They’re here and everywhere else, too. Ya, basta! You understand? Enough! It’s not about NAFTA, about whose treaty promises what. Whoever’s treaty, it will be just the same. Here right now in Mexico the drug dealers invest, buy factories, take their money and grind their own people to make more money, clean money. Clean! And it’s no different here than anywhere else, it’s even, dios mio, better here than some places. It’s a new century and the countries bleed together, and the only borders, the only fences, are all made of bodies. All the pictures you’ve seen, but if you don’t see this in all of them, then you’re seeing nothing!”
Clearly it’s time to leave. “I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say, and you turn to go. And suddenly she’s blocking your way. Her hands close on your arms. For all your fantasies you didn’t see this coming. Here in a shack with a cardboard door is not where you’d have chosen. Only this isn’t your choice, it’s entirely hers. Anybody could come by, but no one does. She works your clothes off, at the same time tugging at her own in hasty, angry, near-violent action. Sex out of anger. You keep thinking, she’s as crazy as they said she was, she’s furious with you for your stupidity, how can she possibly want to fuck you, too? For all of which, you don’t fight, of course you don’t, it’s your fantasy however unexpected and inexplicable
You fall asleep with your arms around her, her breasts warm against you, almost unsure that any of it happened.
* * * *
The Virgin only visits Perea in the factory. That’s where you get a job. Driving a fork lift. It’s something you used to do, so at least you don’t look like an idiot even if they’re suspicious of your accent. If they are, they say nothing. They’re hiring—from what Baum said, they’re always hiring.
You get assigned a small locker. In it are your work things—coveralls and safety glasses. There are signs up in every room in bright red Spanish: “Protective Gear Must Be Worn At All Times!” and “Wear Your Goggle. Protect Your Eyes.” Your guide points to one of these and says, “Don’t think they’re kidding. They’ll fire you on the spot if they catch you not wearing the correct apparel.”
The lift is articulated. It can take you almost to the ceiling with a full pallet. It has control buttons for your left hand like those found
on computer game devices. Working it is actually a pleasure at first.
The day is long and dull. Breaks are almost non-existent. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, both about as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette. The other workers ask where you’re from, how you got here. Margarita helped you work out a semi-plausible story about being fired from dock work in Veracruz when you got caught drunk. At least you’ve been to Veracruz. A few people laugh at the story and commiserate. Drunk, yeah. Nobody pries—there’s hardly time for questions, even over lunch, which is the only place you get to take off the safety glasses and relax—but you see suspicion in a few eyes. You can tell any story you want, but you can’t hide the way you tell it. Your voice isn’t from Veracruz. Nevertheless, no one challenges you. Maybe they think you’re a company ringer, a spy. That would give them good reason to steer clear of you. Whatever you are, they don’t want trouble—that’s what Baum said. This job is all they’ve got. And at week’s end, just like them, you’ll collect your $22.50, too.
* * * *
The second day you’re there, the Virgin appears to Gabriel Perea.
You’re unloading a shipment of circuit boards and components off the back of a semi, when suddenly you find yourself all alone. It’s too strange. You climb down and wander out of the loading bay and into the warehouse itself. Everyone’s gathered there. A circle of hundreds. Right in the middle Perea stands at that crazy angle like a man with displaced hips. His hands are out, palms wide, and he’s repeating her words for everyone: “She loves us all. We are all her children. We are all of us saved and our children are saved. Our blood is His blood!” The atmosphere practically crackles. Every eye is riveted to him. You move around the outside perimeter, looking for the masters. There are two up on a catwalk. One looks at you as if you’re a bigger spectacle than Perea. You turn away quickly and stare like the others are doing, trying to make like you were looking for a better view of the event. From somewhere in the crowd comes the clicking of a shutter. Someone is taking shots. You could take out your tiny Minox now and shoot a couple yourself, but there’s nothing to see that Margarita didn’t capture already. Nothing worth drawing any more attention to yourself. Nada que ver, the words echo in your head.
For a long time you stare at him. “The niño loves us all. His is the pure love of a child. Care for Him, for it’s all He asks of you.” People murmur, “Amen,” and “Yes.”
Eventually you chance another look at the two on the catwalk. One of them seems to be talking, but not to the other. You think: He’s either schizophrenic or he’s got a microphone.
In a matter of minutes the spectacle is over. She had nothing remarkable to say; she was just dropping in to remind everyone of her love for them and theirs for her. Now she won’t come again for days, another week.
Except for the first two nights you eat alone in the shack. Margarita is somewhere else, living out of her car, photographing things, capturing moments. How does she do this? How does she live forever on the edge, capturing death, surrounded, drenched in it? How can anybody live this way? It’s hopeless. The end of the world.
You lay alone in the shack, as cold at night as you are scalding in the afternoon when you walk down the dirt path from the bus drop. You’d like to fall into a swimming pool and just float. The closest you can come is communal rain barrels outside—which were once chemical barrels and God knows whether there’s benzene or something worse floating in them, death in the water. Little kids are splashing it over themselves, drinking from it. Watching makes you yearn for a cold drink but you wouldn’t dare. Margarita’s friends there cook you dinner on their makeshift stoves, for which you gladly pay. By week’s end, they’ve made more from the dinners than you’ll take home from the factory.
Friday you drive home for the weekend, exhausted.
You flop down on your bed, so tired that your eyes ache. All you can think about is Margarita. Gabriel Perea’s Virgin has melted into a mad photographer who is using you for sex. That’s how it feels, that’s how it is, too. A part of her clings to you, drowns with you in that dark and dirty shack, at the same time as she dismisses your simplistic comprehension of the complexities of life where she lives. A week now and you’ve begun maybe to understand it better—at least, you’ve begun taking pictures around the colonia—it’s as though she’s given you permission to participate. It would be hard not to find strange images: the dead ground outside a shack where someone has stuck one little, pathetic plant in a coffee can; another plywood shack with a sign dangling beside the door proclaiming “Siempre Coke!” The factory, too. A couple of rolls of film so far, as surreptitiously as possible. The machinery is too interesting not to photograph, even though you feel somehow complicitous in making it seem beautiful and exotic. Even in ugliness and cruelty, there is beauty. Even in the words of an apparition there are lies and deceit. You finally drift off on the thought that the reason you despise the Virgin is that she sells accommodation. It’s always been her message and it’s the message of the elite, the rich, a recommendation that no one who actually endures the misery would make.
The phone wakes you at noon. Baum has an invitation to a reception for a Republican Senator on the stump. “All our best people will be there. I could use a good photographer and you can use the contacts.”
“Sure,” you say.
“You’ll need a tux.”
“Got one.”
“You’ll need a shower, too.”
How he figured that out over the phone, you can’t imagine; but he’s right, you do smell bad, and it’s only been a week. When you get up, your whole body seems to be knitted of broken joints. It’s a test of will to stand up to the spray. Being pummeled by water feels like the Rapture, pleasure meeting pain.
* * * *
It’s an outdoor patio party with three Weber Platinum grills big enough to feed the Dallas Cowboys, half a dozen chefs and one waiter for every three people. Everybody wants to have their picture taken with the Senator, who is wearing tan makeup to cover the fact that he looks like he’s been stumping for two weeks without sleep, much less sunlight, and you’re glad it’s not your job to make him look good.
As it is, you end up taking dozens of pictures anyway. Baum calls most of the shots, who he wants with the Senator, whose faces will grace the paper in the morning. He introduces you to too many people for you to keep track of them—all the corporate executives and spouses have turned out for this gala event. When he introduces you to the head of the Texas Republican Party, just the way he says it makes it sound as if you are beholding a specifically Texan variety of Republican. For a week you’ve been living in a shack with dirt floors among people who cook their food on stoves made from bricks and flat hunks of iron, and here you are in a bow tie and cummerbund, hobnobbing with the richest stratum of society in El Paso and munching on shrimp bigger than your thumb, a spread that would feed an entire colonia for days. It’s not just the disparity, it’s the displacement, the fragmentation of reality into razor-edged jigsaw puzzle pieces.
And then Baum hauls you before a thin, balding man wearing glasses too small for his face, the kind that have no frames, just pins to hold the earpieces on. “This is Stuart Coopersmith.” He beams at you—a knowing smile if ever there was one. To Coopersmith, he says, “He’s the guy I told you about who’s into image manipulation.” He withdraws before he has to explain anything to either of you.
“So, you’re Joe’s new photo essayist,” he says.
A smile to hide your panic. “I like that title better than the one they gave me at the paper. Mind if I use it?”
“Be my guest.” If he recognizes you, he shows no indication.
“So, what do you do that I should consider taking your picture, Mr. Coopersmith?”
He touches his tie as he names his company. It seems to be a habit. “Across the river?”
“La maquiladora. You guys make what—”
“Control devices. We’re all about control.” There’s a nice, harml
ess word for someone in the big black budget of government bureaucracy, flying under the public radar.
“It’s more than that, though, right? Someone told me, your devices actually learn.”
“Pattern recognition is not quite learning, not like most people think of it. Something occurs, our circuit notices, and predicts the likelihood of it recurring, and then if it does as predicted, the circuit loops, and the more often the event occurs when it’s supposed to, the more certain the circuit becomes, the more reliable the information and, ah, the more it seems like there’s an intelligence at work. What we know to be feedback looks like behavior, which is where people start saying that the things are alive and thinking.”
“I’m not sure I—“
“Well, it’s no matter, is it? You can still take pictures without understanding something this complex.” Coopersmith says this so offhandedly, you can’t be certain whether you’ve been put down. He flutters his hand through the air as if brushing the subject away. “We just manufacture parts down here. We do employ lots of people—we’re very popular in the maquiladora. Like to help out the folks over there.”
You nod. “So, what’s on deck now?”
He looks at his champagne glass, then glances sidelong, like Cassius conspiring to kill Caesar. “Oh, some work for NASA. For a Mars flight they’re talking about. Using GAs to predict stress, breakdown—things they can’t afford in the middle of the solar system. The software will actually measure the individual’s stress from moment to moment, and weigh in with a protective environment if that stress jumps at all. It’s still pattern recognition, you know, but not the same as on an assembly line. I suppose it’s really very exciting.”
“Amazing.” It’s probably even important work.
Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction Page 428