The Uncomfortable Dead

by Paco Ignacio Taibo II

  Best regards from the mountains of Southeast Mexico, Insurgent Subcomandante Marcos

  Of all the possible times and places to study the materials, he had chosen his office in the middle of the night, perhaps because if he was going to spread them all out, he would need his own desk, the one belonging to the Rooster Villarreal, Gómez Letras’s plumbing table, and the broken chairs awaiting plastic surgery from Carlos Vargas. He tried to place them in some kind of order and complement them with his own findings, to see if he could get the whole hodgepodge into perspective; perspective, that grand lady whose favor it would seem he had lost.

  Toward the end of 1968, a former guerrilla fighter of about twenty-five years of age betrayed his comrades and his wife and became an ally? informant? agent? for the Mexican government’s Secret Service (according to the talking corpse). This man shared a cell with Jesús María Alvarado and Fuang Chu Martínez (according to the Chinese man).

  He went by the name of Morales, but there was no trace of him in the prison records, just a picture of a very skinny young man with a pointy nose and the glasses of the terminally nearsighted. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  This individual murdered Jesús María Alvarado when he, Alvarado, was freed from prison in 1971 (according to the Chinese man.)

  In later years, he joined (may have joined) the White Brigade (according to the Vázquez Montalbán papers) in the period known as the Dirty War. The notebook entitled The Black Book of the White Brigade contained eight pages of an anonymous text run off an ancient mimeograph machine and bound with a pale blue cover. It was an overwhelming catalogue of horrors connected to that police-military organization that arose in 1974 during the presidency of Luis Echeverría. A cross-ministerial organization involving the Army and the Ministry of the Interior and dedicated to the eradication of the incipient urban guerrilla, whatever the means, whatever the cost. They did everything, above and beyond all legality: kidnapping, murder, torture. It was headed by a certain Nazar Haro. A tiny account in the booklet, telling of some of the operations of the White Brigade, seemed to attest to the presence of Morales in it. It was underlined in red pencil and said, Among the torturers were Morales, agent Urteaga, and a “minder” by the name of Canseco, and that was all.

  Deep Throat’s papers made another mention: When the brigade tortured someone,

  that Morales was one of those taking notes (…) When Nazar fell from the grace of his bosses, Morales disappeared, but he took with him an uncensored copy of the records of the Federal Department of Security—the real records, not the ones they released publicly.

  Belascoarán jotted down 1983 as the probable date when Morales dropped out of sight. That date was more or less clear. Then came a brief gap. After that, you could insert the data from the mimeographed sheet, which appeared to be a fragment of the transcript of a recording, which read:

  —what Gustavo Arce told me, who was a member of one of the brigades organized by the anthropology students to stop the pricks, because after the earthquake they were trying to take advantage of the cracked walls and sinkholes, particularly in the center, to pull down the homes and evict the people so they could build whatever they fucking well pleased. Then the grenadiers would come with eviction notices, supposedly for the people’s protection, right? And the brigades of students from the school of anthropology would mark the buildings with notices saying, Building catalogued as a national monument, right? Then nobody could tear it down without the authorization of the Anthropology Institute. So, together with the community, they would stop them. It was a real bitch … a few pricks speculating with the misfortune of the people, and the one coordinating the operation with the police and the building owners was a certain Morales, Señor Morales. Gustavo, who had a few altercations with him, a few shouting matches actually, says he was a toad, a freaking cynic about fifty years old who had a limp and wore rings with red stones on his pinky and ring finger of his left hand. Later, I got curious about that Morales person, because he didn’t work for the Mexico City government. When everything had quieted down, he was no longer seen in the historic city center. I asked about him and no one could tell me anything, but he ran squads for the Ministry of Public Works of the Mexico City government, and bossed around officers of the grenadiers like he was their damn father. When I tried to write about this, he was no longer around, but Laura, the one from the Union of Earthquake Victims, remembered him and told me he had a mustache and white hair on his temples. Not a lot, but…

  So Morales could be placed in Mexico City in 1985 at the time of the earthquake that registered 8.1 on the Richter scale … except that this Morales was “about fifty years old” and the White Brigade Morales mentioned by Alvarado would not be more than thirty-five to thirty-eight. Could it be the same time-worn Morales? Maybe. People were usually rotten at guessing ages. Just ask María Félix: She celebrated her fiftieth birthday three times and people either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to notice.

  Then there was a quantum leap.

  Another piece of paper with a note: Beginning of the Zapatista uprising in Chiapas. January 1994. Belascoarán picked up the phone and dialed Luis Hernández, an anthropologist and journalist who wrote about the Zapatista movement, had the only knapsack that kept beers cold, and answered the telephone at the paper any time of night.

  “This is Belascoarán. What does the name Morales tell you?”

  “At this time of night, it tells me everything and nothing. Can’t you give me something more to go on?”

  “The Zapatistas, for example?”

  “Right on! There’s the Morales that betrayed them. A guy called Daniel, if memory serves me, but there’s an article on the web by Gilberto López Rivas. Morales was the one who gave Tello all the information about the Zapatista movement for the book he wrote called Las Ca÷adas. “

  “I owe you one, buddy.”

  “What are you onto? Something I can write about?”

  Belascoarán’s grunts and groans were open to a number of interpretations.

  “Yeah! Okay! Right!”

  Belascoarán dialed again, this time it was his web surfer, Cristina Adler He knew he wasn’t running any risk of waking her up because she did her best work at night, translating mystery novels.

  “Listen, sweetheart, there’s an article in who knows what newspaper published who knows when by one López Rivas about a certain Daniel. Can you find out what the hell is up with this Daniel guy? I’m still at the office.”

  “You thank God I’m such a genius. Back to you in a flash, Belascoroni.”

  Héctor took the opportunity to step out into the hallway and use the shared facilities for a perfunctory leak. He had to cut down on sodas, though the first thing he did when he got back in the office was make a beeline for the safe, where he found a Coke that was miraculously still cold. And just then the phone rang.

  “Yes, there is a Morales, Salvador Morales Garibay, a.k.a., Daniel. That’s why there was so much confusion with the names. Comandante Daniel. He was one of the military leaders of the Zapatista Army, but right before the insurrection, in October of ’93, he left the forest under the pretext of hooking up with a contact for a load of weapons coming from Central America, and he never returned. He resurfaced at the entrance to the Presidential Staff Headquarters, right there in Molino del Rey, offering his services as an informant to the Mexican Army. He gave them information about the leadership of the Zapatista Army and their first clear picture of what was going on—according to this article.”

  “Any idea why he deserted?”

  “It seems he was officer-in-charge at a camp that was discovered by the Army and he really screwed things up, almost squelching the Zapatista uprising. So he got punished or something. Yet he wound up as a mole ‘with the rank of Captain, Second-in-Command in Quartermaster Administration, with specific functions in the second section of National Defense General Headquarters,’” Cristina concluded.

  “Does it say what he looked
like?”

  “Not in this article, but it does in a different one. I’m way ahead of you, Belascoreeno, and I quote: ‘five-foot-eight, forty-two years old’—forty-five now. Go figure when exactly they’re talking about, but it can’t be more than a couple of years ago—‘black hair with advanced baldness, dark brown eyes, thin lips, white skin, and slim. He was christened The Finger by the lower ranks; others called him Chava.’”

  “You got anything else, genius?”

  “There’s an interview with him by Maité Rico and La Grange in Letras Libres.”

  “I don’t read Letras Libres.”

  “So you’re screwed, cause I don’t read it either. I used to run the Angela Davis cell of the Communist Youth in the ’80s, and something must have rubbed off.”

  Héctor returned to the Zapatista papers. The noise in the street was waning; only the low roar of traffic remained. He lit a cigarette, only to discover that he already had two lit ones sitting in the ashtray.

  According to the notes by Manolo Vázquez Montalbán, between 1994 and 2000, Morales had access to the diplomatic pouch of the Mexican embassy in Madrid. What would he use that for? Who would he contact? What business did he have in Spain? Who was he negotiating for?

  But his day job was as snitch for the Army, and he also had access to the archives of the Federal Department of Security, plus he was involved in the greatest real estate fraud in the history of Mexico following the earthquake. And he had … Hold on, Héctor, first organize, then ask. He returned to the second timeline and pulled out a piece of paper that read in capital letters: ACTEAL.

  11:20 a.m., December 22, 1997. The Acteal slaughter. The Vázquez Montalbán papers linked Morales with the massacre and asked, How does this tie in with General Renán Castillo? According to an EZLN communiqué, a paramilitary group organized by the PRI and financed and equipped by the Army had murdered forty-five Tzotzils while they were praying in a church. The Tzotzils belonged to a neutral faction that had no ties with the Zapatistas. The communiqué was very precise: The paramilitary was

  supported, trained, and financed by official agencies and elements of the Mexican Army. Among the military personnel who participated were: Brigadier General (Ret.) César Santiago Díaz; Private Mariano Arias Pérez of the 38th Infantry Battalion; Pablo Hernández Pérez, a former member of the Army who led the massacre; and Sergeant Mariano Pérez Ruiz.

  The name Morales did not appear in the report. Had he been there? Was the organization of paramilitary groups part of the strategy?

  Then another quantum leap to 2002. Vázquez Montalbán’s notes go into an urban geography: Hotel Princesa Sofía, Plaza Pio XII, Financial Center (in the hotel?).

  “Me again, little one. What can you tell me about a hotel called the Princesa Sofía in Barcelona?”

  “Then what? Market quotes? The price of corn on the open market? Wait a second; don’t even think of hanging up the Belascophone. You should have a flying machine and someday get lost in the magical mystery land of the web. Bingo! Three hundred and ninety euros a night, one hundred and thirty four with the special rate, hair dryer in every room, located on Diagonal Avenue, close to the Museum of Decorative Arts. A big old barn of a grand old hotel with good old-fashioned luxury on Pius XII Plaza …”

  “I owe you,” Héctor said.

  What was going on over there? Quoth Manolo:

  Morales lived alone in a suite at the Reina Sofía. He used to visit the Financial Center. He entered at 21:00 hours and left at 22:00. He would go into the María Cristina metro at 22:30 and emerge at 23:00, and from there to the hotel.

  According to Montalbán’s notes, the briefcase he carried into the María Cristina metro was stuffed with bills, euros. Another call.

  “When was it that the euro began to circulate in Spain, kid?”

  “Don’t even need the web, sir. What is it you’re doing? Crossword puzzles for retards? January 2002.”

  He had other materials in his briefcase as well. (How did Manolo know that? What materials?) About Montes Azules. (What the fuck was Montes Azules?)

  Another call to Adler.

  “You’re lucky I’m translating a rather crappy horror novel and these surfing missions are keeping me alert. A hotel in Barcelona, a mysterious traitor called Daniel, circulation of the euro, an ecological preserve. Are you becoming a tree-hugger, Belascoboy?”

  “Nah, screw the dolphins!”

  Ten minutes later his phone rang.

  “Here you go, Belascus Belascorum, but the truth is, your interests are getting hairier and hairier. You sound like a detective out of The Century of Lights. Between 16 degrees 4 minutes and 16 degrees 57 minutes North Latitude, and from 90 degrees 45 minutes to 91 degrees 30 minutes West Longitude, in Chiapas, to the east of the state. Ocosingo and Las Margaritas municipalities … Sonovabitch, that’s Zapatista territory … They’re calling it a Reserve of the Biosphere, and it comprises 331,200 hectares. On December 8, 1977, it was declared a Reserve of the Biosphere; the decree was not published until January 12, 1978, in the Diario Oficial of the Federation. And this next one is solid gold. Just look at their substantiation, my dear Belascus: ‘On the other hand, given the natural beauties of the region, the Reserve had a considerable tourist potential complemented by the presence of archeological remains in and around the area.’ A whole lot of eco-deals were pulled off in the late ’90s in the Reserve. Then it goes on about butterflies and bacterial samples and birds, and what do I know? I don’t really understand this stuff. Will that be all, your Belasconess?”

  Héctor hung up and continued running all this through his brain. So the federal government promotes interest in an ecological reserve during the Zedillo administration, right in the middle of the conflict area, years after the Zapatista uprising and amidst high military tension. An ecological reserve to protect the buzzards and make sure the natives don’t piss in the water and the tourists don’t leave Coke cans on a Mayan pyramid.

  Someone in the Federales had been smoking low-grade weed.

  There was a photograph in one of the Zapatista files and on the back, in pencil, a cryptic reference:

  Morales, President, Legazpi, Ramos de Miguel

  Hotel Reina Sofía, Barcelona, 2002

  The one identified as Morales appeared to be just over fifty, prematurely bald, mustache, penetrating eyes; the one identified as President had his back turned. (President or ex-president? Ernesto Zedillo? Had he been in Spain?) Héctor could not recognize the other two characters in the picture.

  What came after that?

  October 13, 2004. One of the documents sent by the Zapatistas was a communiqué from Marcos on the Montes Azules communities:

  Due to the harassment of paramilitary groups and the intolerance stirred up in some communities by the PRI, dozens of indigenous Zapatista families were forced to leave and form small settlements in the region known as “Montes Azules Biosphere.” The whole time they have been in that terrible situation, estranged from their original lands, the displaced Zapatistas have complied with our laws providing for the protection of the forests. The federal government, however, in collusion with the transnationals that have been trying to sieze the wealth of the Lacandona rain forest, have repeatedly threatened to forcibly evict all the settlers in the region, including the Zapatistas. The comrades in a number of threatened communities decided to resist as long as the government failed to fulfill the so-called “San Andres Agreements.” Their decision is respected and supported by the Zapatista National Liberation Army. We announced this at the time and we reiterate it now: If any one of our communities is evicted forcibly, we will, all of us, respond in kind.

  Zedillo, Carabias, and Tello. Morales, Manolo’s notes read. There’s a reference to a dinner Okay. Montes Azules, the ex-president, the ex-Secretary of Ecology, the author of the book on the Zapatistas, written by order of Zedillo himself and with the collaboration of Captain Morales. Business? Big business? Eco-business?

  And that brought Héctor to t
he end of 2004. And to this character in the riddle sent by the Corpse Who Talks: has quills (a writer?); faster than Speedy González; returns from the dead; kills and bites. And to the present.

  In the present there are relations with El Yunque, the ultrarightwing secret society that metastasized throughout the Vicente Fox administration. And also in the present, according to the phone calls from the Talking Corpse: Morales kidnapped a taco vendor called Juancho from Juárez, a man the CIA was using as a double for Osama bin Laden.

  Héctor leaned out the window to let the air wash over his face.

  If Morales was all of these Moraleses, he’d had a very lively existence—but there was something that didn’t fit, aside from the age differences and the contradictions between the two photos, which weren’t all that significant because people change a lot over thirty years. No, it wasn’t that. But this murderer-cum-spy turned into a torturer, then became a traitor captain a second time, then a transnational financier, then a paramilitary commander, made strange deals in Barcelona, then became a super transnational financier, a liaison with the ultraright, and finally the kidnapper of a taco vendor. Could there be three Moraleses? A single shape-shifting mutant Morales? Five of them? Fifty? A trio? The Moraleses? No, those were some other guys. A father and son? What was the deal with the Montes Azules? Had they closed it? Who had taken over Alvarado’s voice to rake this all up again? Was it the script for a novel set in Mexico by Vázquez Montalbán and Carvalho? Could it be just that … and a stack of coincidences?

  He wrote up a summary of the Talking Corpse’s recordings and a note for Contreras. He caught himself yawning and closed the window to keep the night breeze from blowing the papers that covered pretty much the whole room. Then, suddenly, he remembered something important.