The Crystal Frontier

by Carlos Fuentes

  “Malibú? Maquilú! Maquilá!” said the MC—in a blue tux with a ruffled shirt and fluorescent tie—to the wave of women filling the stands around the dance floor, over a thousand working women all crowded in together. It’s the lights, just the lights, said Dinorah, the wet blanket. Without the lights this is a miserable corral, but the lights make it all nice and pretty. But Marina felt as if she were on a beach, yes, a marvelous beach at night, where the beams of light—blue, orange, pink—caressed her, especially the white, silvery light, which was like the moon touching her and tanning her at the same time, turning all to silver, not a suntan for others to envy (when would she ever go to a beach?) but a moon tan.

  No one paid attention to sour Dinorah, and they all got up to dance with themselves, without men. Rock and roll lent itself to that—you didn’t have to put an arm around anyone’s waist or dance cheek-to-cheek. Rock was as pure as going to church: Sundays were for Mass, Fridays for the disco—the soul and the body were purified in the two temples. How well they all got along, what wild ideas they had, arms here, feet there, knees bent, hair flying, breasts bouncing, asses shaking freely, and most of all the faces, the expressions—ecstasy, mockery, seduction, shock, threat, jealousy, tenderness, passion, abandon, showing off, clowning around, imitating celebrities. All of it was allowed on the Malibú dance floor, all the lost emotions, the forbidden moves, the forgotten sensations, everything had its place here, justification, pleasure—pleasure above all—though the best thing was missing.

  Sweaty, they returned to their seats—Candelaria in her multiethnic outfit, Marina tricked out in her miniskirt, a sequined blouse, and her stilettos, Dinorah on display in an attractive low-cut dress of red satin, Rosa Lupe wearing her Carmelite robe, carrying out her vow. But here fantasy was allowed, and it was somehow soothing to see someone dressed like that, all coffee-colored and draped in a scapular.

  Then the Chippendales paraded onto the runway, gringos brought over from Texas. Bare-chested, they wore bow ties, ankle-high boots, and jocks whose straps slipped between their buttocks and whose pouches barely supported the weight of their sexes while revealing the forms and challenging the girls: Arouse me with your eyes. The boys were identical yet varied, each carrying his sack of gold, as Candelaria said laughing, but each different in certain details: this one with his pubis shaved, that one with a diamond in his navel, another with a tattoo of the two crossed flags—the stars and stripes, the eagle and the serpent—on his shoulder, one boy, if you looked lower down, with spurs on his boots. All of them moving to a delightful, manly, exciting beat while the girls stuck money in their jocks—Rosa Lupe, all of them—blond but tan, oiled so they’d shine more, their faces made up, all gringos, desirable little gringos, adorable, for me, for you. The girls elbow one another. In my bed, just imagine. In yours. If he’d only take me, I’m ready. If he’d only kidnap me, I’m kidnappable. A Chippendale squatted down and pulled the rope that bound Rosa Lupe’s penitential robe, and all the girls laughed. He began to play with the rope as Rosa Lupe said, This is my day, this makes the third time someone’s tried to strip me, but the boy, tanned, oiled, made up, with no hair in his armpits, played with the rope as if it were a snake and he a snake charmer, raising the rope, giving it an erection. The other girls elbowed Rosa Lupe, asking her if she’d rehearsed it all with this hunk, and she swore, laughing till the tears rolled down her face, that no, that was the good part, it was all a surprise. But the girls howled, begging the boy to toss them the rope, the rope, the rope, and he ran it between his legs and stuck it under the diamond in his navel as if it were an umbilical cord, driving the girls crazy, all of them shouting for him to give them the rope, to tie himself to them, to be a son by the rope, a lover by the rope, a slave, a master—they tied to him, he tied to them—until the Chippendale slid the end of the rope into Dinorah’s lap as she sat there next to the runway, and she yanked it so hard she almost pulled the boy down. Hey! he shouted, and she shouted wordlessly, howled, tugging on the rope, pulling herself forward, elbowing her way through the crowd, the astonishment, the comments …

  The girlfriends looked at one another, astounded but not wanting to show it, wanting instead to show they approved of Dinorah. To vast applause, their jocks stuffed with money, the Chippendales took a break, losing, one after another, their assembly-line smiles, each one returning, as he stepped off the runway, to his everyday face. A parade of difference: one bored, one contemptuous, this one satisfied, as if everything he did had been admirable and should have earned him an Oscar, that one shooting murderous looks around the corral full of Mexican cows, as if, perhaps, he wished it were another corral, full of Mexican bulls. Frustrated ambition, ruin, fatigue, indifference, cruelty. Evil faces, said Marina without meaning to. Those boys wouldn’t know how to love me, they’re not like my Rolando, whatever his faults may be.

  But now came the most beautiful part.

  They began to play Mendelssohn’s wedding march, and the first model appeared on the runway, her face covered by a veil of tulle, her hands clutching a bouquet of forget-me-nots, a crown of orange blossoms on her head, her skirt puffed out like that of a queen, like a cloud. The girls let out a collective exclamation, a sigh really, and none of them had any doubt about the person whose face was hidden by the veil: she was one of them, dark-skinned, a Mexican woman—they would have been offended if a gringa had come out in a bridal gown. The boys had to be gringos, but the brides had to be Mexican … Once they did bring out a little blond bride with blue eyes, but in the riot that ensued, the place almost burned down. Now they knew. The parade of bridal gowns featured Mexican girls, it was meant for Mexican girls: five brides in a row, modest and virginal, then one in a mock bridal outfit, a taffeta miniskirt, and at the end a naked bride, wearing only a veil, the flowers in her hands, and high heels, ready for the nuptial bed, ready to give herself. Everyone laughed and shouted, and at the end a little man dressed as a priest appeared and blessed them all, filling them with emotion, with gratitude, with the desire to come back the next Friday to see how many promises had been kept. But there at the exit were Villarreal—Don Leonardo Barroso’s man, the boss’s servant—and Beltrán Herrera—Candelaria’s lover, the union leader, a serene, dark-skinned, graying man with tender eyes, now more tender than ever behind his glasses. His moustache was wet, and he took Candelaria by the arm to whisper something in her ear. Candelaria covered her mouth to keep from screaming or weeping, but she was a solid woman, maternal to the core, intelligent, strong, and discreet. She only told Marina and Rosa Lupe, “Something terrible’s happened.”

  “To whom? Where?”

  “To Dinorah. Come on, she’s going home as fast as she can.”

  They hurried into Herrera’s car and Villarreal repeated the story he’d heard in Don Leonardo Barroso’s office, that they were going to tear down Colonia Bellavista to build factories, were going to buy the lots for nothing and sell them for millions. What were the workers going to do? They had enough weapons to prevent an outright looting, to get some notice, to demand that they, too, reap some benefits.

  “But the houses aren’t even our own,” said Candelaria.

  “We could organize like renters and throw a monkey wrench into the works,” Beltrán Herrera argued.

  “Not even the lots are ours, Beltrán.”

  “But we’ve got rights. We can refuse to move out until they pay us something comparable to what they’re going to make on this.”

  “What they’re going to do is fire all of us women from the plants…”

  “Enough is enough,” said Rosa Lupe, though she didn’t really understand what was going on and was speaking just so she wouldn’t seem completely passive and so someone would clarify the anxious question in Marina’s eyes: What happened to Dinorah?

  “We appreciate your loyalty,” Herrera said, squeezing Villarreal’s shoulder. Villarreal was at the wheel, his ponytail blowing behind him. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get you into big trouble.”

 
; “This isn’t the first time I’ve passed you information, Beltrán,” said the waiter.

  “No, but this is something big. We’re going to organize once and for all, spread the word.”

  “The girls hardly ever join up.” Villarreal shook his head. “Now, if they were men…”

  “What about me?” said Candelaria in a loud voice. “Don’t be so macho, Villarreal.”

  Herrera sighed and hugged Candelaria as he looked at the nighttime landscape, the brilliant lights on the American side, the absence of streetlights on the Mexican side. Forests, textiles, mines, he said, fruit, everything disappeared in favor of the factories, all the wealth of Chihuahua, forgotten.

  “Wealth that didn’t give us enough to eat or a fifth the number of jobs we have now,” declared Candelaria. “So thanks for your wealth but no thanks!”

  “You think the girls will join up?”

  Herrera laid his gray head next to Candelaria’s black, shiny one.

  “I do.” Candelaria hung her head. “This time they’ll join up as soon as they hear.”

  “The house is never clean,” Dinorah was saying from the hard bench in her adobe shack. “I don’t have the time. Just a few hours’ sleep.”

  The neighbors had gathered outside, but some went in to console Dinorah. The oldest women were talking about holding a beautiful wake for the child, his flowers, his little white box, the way they did in the old days back in the villages: Candelaria brought candles but could only find a couple of Coca-Cola bottles to use as candlesticks.

  The old men came too, the whole neighborhood gathered, and Candelaria’s father, standing in the doorway, wondered out loud if they were right in coming to work in Juárez, where a woman had to leave a child alone, tied like an animal to a table leg. The poor innocent kid, how could he not hurt himself? The old people pointed out that such a thing couldn’t happen in the country—families there always had someone to look after the kids, you didn’t have to tie them up, ropes were for dogs and hogs.

  “My father used to tell me,” answered Candelaria’s grandfather, “that we should stay peacefully in our homes, in one place. He would stand just the way I am now, half in and half out, and say, ‘Outside this door, the world ends.’”

  He said he was very old and didn’t want to see anything more.

  Marina had no idea how to comfort Dinorah. Crying, she listened to Candelaria’s grandfather and felt thankful that in her house there were no memories. She was on her own and it was better to be alone in this life than to put up with the grief suffered by those who had children, like poor Dinorah, her hair a mess, her makeup smeared, her red dress wrinkled and sliding up her thighs, her knees together, her legs splayed, she who was normally so fastidious and coquettish.

  Then Marina, seeing the terrible scene of death and weeping and memories, thought it wasn’t true, she wasn’t alone, she had Rolando, even if she shared him with other women. Rolando would do her the favor of taking her to the sea, somewhere, to San Diego in California or Corpus Christi in Texas or even Guaymas in Sonora, he owed it to her, she asked for nothing but to go with Rolando to see the ocean for the first time. After that he could leave her, tell her she was a pain, but he should do her that one small favor …

  She left Dinorah’s shack and heard the grandfather talking about a fiesta for the strangled child. To raise everyone’s spirits, he had some liquor brought in, saying, “The good thing about these big jugs is they look full until they’re empty.”

  Marina dug around in her handbag until she found the number of Rolando’s cellular phone. What did it matter to her if she got into trouble? This was a life-or-death matter. He had to know that she depended on him for one thing only, to take her to see the ocean, not to say, like Candelaria’s grandfather, that there was nothing more he wanted to see. She dialed the number, but it was busy at first, then went dead. That made her think he had heard her but hadn’t answered so he wouldn’t get her into trouble. Would he hear her when she said, Take me to the ocean, honey, I don’t want to die like Dinorah’s little kid without seeing the ocean—do me that little favor even if afterward we stop seeing each other and we break up.

  The silence of the telephone disappointed her but it got her stirred up too. Rolando had no business playing around with her. She was making a commitment—why couldn’t he commit himself a little too? She was giving him an out, telling him they could put all the love they felt for each other into one weekend at the beach and then never see each other again if he wanted. But what I won’t stand for anymore is a man’s picking me up like something he’s found thrown out on the street and takes in from pity. I’m never going to allow that again, Rolando. You taught me about life. I didn’t know how much you’d taught me until Dinorah’s little boy died and Candelaria’s grandfather was there, dry and old, uprooted, but as if he’d never die, and I only want to live, really live, this moment, when I’ve saved myself from dying young and don’t want to live to be old. I’m asking you to raise me up to where you are, Rolando; let’s go up together. I’m giving you this chance, sweetheart. I know deep inside that with me you’re rising and you’re going to take me where it’s high and beautiful if you want, Rolando, and if you don’t, we’re both going to be ruined, you’re going to bring us down so we won’t even matter to ourselves.

  But Rolando didn’t answer his phone. It was 11:00 p.m. and Marina made her decision.

  This time she didn’t stop for an ice-cream soda at the soda fountain; she crossed the bridge, took the bus, and walked the three blocks to the motel. The people at the desk recognized her but were surprised she was there on a Friday.

  “Aren’t we free to change our plans if we want?”

  “I guess so,” said the receptionist with mixed irony and resignation as he handed her a key.

  The place smelled of disinfectant: the halls, the stairs, even the ice and soda machines smelled of something that kills bugs, cleans bathrooms, fumigates cushions. She stopped outside the door of the room she shared with Rolando on Thursdays, wondering if she should knock or put the key in the lock. She was impatient. She inserted the key, opened the door, walked in, and heard the agonized voice of Rolando, the high voice of the gringa. She turned on the light and stood there staring at them naked in the bed.

  “You’ve had a good look, now get out,” said her Don Juan.

  “I’m sorry. I kept calling you on the cellular phone. Something happened that…”

  She saw the phone on the dresser and pointed at it. The gringa looked at both of them and burst out laughing.

  “Rolando, did you fool this poor girl?” she said through her giggles as she picked up the phone. “At least you could tell the truth to your sweethearts. It’s okay that you go into banks and office buildings with this thing in your ear or that you talk into it in restaurants and fool half the world, but why fool your girlfriends? Just look at the confusion you cause, honey,” said the gringa as she stood up and started getting dressed.

  “Baby, don’t leave now … Just when we were getting along so nicely … This kid isn’t anyone…”

  “You can’t let an opportunity go by, can you?” The gringa wiggled into her pantyhose. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back. It’s not so important that I’d break up with you.”

  Baby picked up the cellular phone, opened up the back, and showed Marina. “Look. No batteries. It’s never had batteries. It’s just to trick people, like that song: ‘Call me on my cell phone, I look so loose, it makes me look like someone, even with no juice…’”

  She tossed it onto the bed and walked out—laughing.

  Marina crossed the international bridge back to Ciudad Juárez. Her feet were tired, so she took off her high, pointy shoes. The pavement still held the cold tremor of the day. But the sensation in her feet wasn’t the same as when she’d danced freely over the forbidden grass of Don Leonardo Barroso’s assembly plant.

  “This city is a disaster built on chaos,” said Barroso to his daughter-in-law, Michelina, as they
passed Marina, she on her way back to Juárez, they on their way to a hotel in El Paso. Michelina laughed and kissed the businessman’s ear.

  6

  LAS AMIGAS

  For my sister Berta

  “Tell them I’m not here! Tell them I don’t want to see them! Tell them I don’t want to see anyone!”

  One day no one came to visit Miss Amy Dunbar. Even the servants, who never lasted long in the old lady’s service, stopped coming to work. Rumors circulated about Miss Dunbar’s difficult nature, her racism, her insults.

  “There’s always someone whose need for work is stronger than their pride.”

  It wasn’t so. The whole black race, according to Miss Amy, refused to work for her. The last maid, a fifteen-year-old girl named Bathsheba, spent her month in Miss Dunbar’s house weeping. Each time she answered the door, the rarer and rarer visitors first saw a girl bathed in tears, then invariably heard behind her the broken but still acid voice of the crone. “Tell them I’m not in! Tell them I’m not interested in seeing them!”

  Miss Amy Dunbar’s nephews knew the old lady would never leave her house in the Chicago suburbs. She said that one migration—leaving the family home in New Orleans and coming north to live with her husband—was enough for a lifetime. Dead was the only way she would leave her stone house facing Lake Michigan and surrounded by forest.

  “It won’t be long now,” she told the nephew responsible for paying bills, attending to legal matters, and looking after other things great and small that completely escaped the attention of the little old woman.

  What she did not fail to notice was her relative’s tiny sigh of relief as he imagined her dead.

  She took no offense. “The problem is that I’m used to living,” she invariably responded. “It’s become a habit,” she would say with a laugh, showing those horse teeth that with age protrude farther and farther in Anglo-Saxon women, although she was only half Anglo-Saxon, the daughter of a Yankee businessman who set himself up in Louisiana to show the languid Southerners how to do business, and a delicate lady of distantly French origin, Lucy Ney. Miss Amy said she was related to Bonaparte’s marshal Ney. Her full name was Amelia Ney Dunbar. Like all the other wellborn ladies of the Delta city, she was called Miss, Miss Amy, with the right to be addressed by both the title of matrimonial maturity and that of a double childhood; they were girls at fifteen and girls again at eighty.