Mexico City Noir

BANG! BY JUAN HERNÁNDEZ LUNA

Roma

I’m standing in front of the dark barrel of a gun, which is held by a guy who is watching me very carefully and gesturing unsympathetically. I try to move but the guy makes a sign indicating not to or he’ll have to shoot. I obey without taking my eyes from the barrel.

I’m on the edge of the roof. Down on the street, there’s a parked car with its motor running and lights on. I can’t tell if anybody’s in the car. I stay quiet, waiting for the guy to tell me what to do. My hands aren’t raised, and that worries me, though not too much, because I know that hands in the air don’t correspond to the usual script when there’s a gun involved.

A shot. If the bullet pierces me, I’ll have to try to stop the hemorrhaging, to stabilize my blood pressure. The stupid projectile will probably be dirty, which means it will cause an infection. Wounded, on my back on the roof of this building, it will be difficult to protect my nerves from possible damage; it will be impossible for me to excise the injured parts and save the rest.

Arrrggghhh! Mexico City, such a beautiful, dark sky! About to die, I greet you and watch each elusive red cloud as it floats on the south wind.

Dialogue. Right now there should be dialogue. Threatening phrases that indicate who has the power, and although there’s a gun aimed at me, every word suggests I’m the one with the ace up his sleeve.

I contemplate that “ace up his sleeve” and immediately regret it. You shouldn’t use clichés, even in real life.

The guy is still in front of me. I have no idea how long it’s been. I decide to pull another file from my memory and search for the moment that brought us to this point.

Running. I take quick steps through the street, up some stairs. The neighborhood is totally deserted at this hour, the lights dulled. There are children’s toys scattered on the patio. As I ascend the stairs, I feel somebody after me. The rattle of my feet is echoed by even heavier steps that keep me alert.

There are shouts. An old woman peeks out her window and sees my sweaty face. I want to try to make a joke, to say something like booooooooo, but the noise of the approaching steps forces me to reconsider, and I keep climbing higher.

When we get to the roof, I try to run but there’s nowhere else to go. I turn around and find the guy with the gun who tells me to stop, that it’s best to end this once and for all.

I suppose it is better to end it, but I keep looking at the gun’s barrel and then I see him, and I notice his face, which is scarred by smallpox or acne or one of those damn skin diseases. And then my gaze moves from his damaged face back to the gun barrel.

I reconsider. So it is not a cliff, it is not a ravine, it is not a planet of martyrdom; it is emptiness that fills this four- or five-story building.

From the roof, the smoke of a refinery can be seen to the west of the city. At this hour, it’s possible to discern guardian angels leaving to go to sleep; the lights of the city center fusing with the glow of the airport; to hear all the noises from the cars mixing with the tick tock of the hearts of little boys and girls; there’s a mariachi song; coughing and kissing. The moon rises behind the high tower; the west is bloodred, the south only fog, and I’m left to remember poems…

Friend of mine, whom I love, do not age…

Running. Running as hard as possible, with everything from childhood in tow.

This is a heavy burden. Childhood’s too great a burden to carry while fleeing from a gun.

A smile. Women have twisted smiles. Women are not sincere when they laugh. This is a woman I’m sure I know from years ago, when my hands were trees and planets, and I suppose I knew her and slept with her, but I can’t be sure because her hair, which has been done up in a beauty shop, depresses me, and I can see that she’s insulting me.

Behind her, there’s the guy whose face is scarred by acne or smallpox or some other damn skin disease.

I leave the room and the woman follows me. I think she wants to ask me something.

It takes approximately three days for a corpse’s skin to decompose. It fills up with toxic gases that cause sores on the outside, then the skin succumbs, cracks, and the gases are freed. If the corpse is exposed to the sun, it takes less than ten days for everything to collapse, for the flesh to rot and the scent to spread among the living. In the end, only the skeleton remains, and perhaps remnants of the liver, the toughest organ in the human body, the one that most resists decomposition. An irony if the death has been brought on by cirrhosis.

I don’t have cirrhosis, nor do I have a body. I am matter floating here on this rooftop where I continue to stare at the barrel of a gun that some guy is pointing at me. To the west, there’s the vast, dark stain that is Chapultepec Forest, to the south there’s the eternal track of my doubts, to the north the shadow of a blonde who’s moving away, to the other north another blonde and another goodbye, until I bring my gaze back to the stain on the west, and again I find the barrel of the gun.

A few days ago: Tell me that you will not leave me, a voice whispers in my ear, and I hear the whisper as if it were a siren beckoning Ulysses’ ship. And Ulysses-me-I stay firm at the rudder, tied with cords, trying to cross the sea without paying attention to her song. The siren approaches, embraces me, tries to take the rudder and direct me toward an island, but I maintain control and the ship continues its course. Suddenly I notice the ship has ceased to be, it’s not even a simple plank sailing in the blue of the ocean; the boat is a bed, the sea is a room, and at my side there is a woman who whispers in my ear, and where the horizon should be, a door appears instead, and it’s kicked to pieces by a guy who bursts in with a gun in his hand which he aims right at my forehead.

The siren disappears.

There is no sea in this life.

A flight scene must have its limits. It’s impossible to just keep running around the world, there must be boundaries so that certain characters can admit exhaustion.

I am the guy who holds the weapon in his right hand. There’s a man in front of me looking to escape, but I stop him and tell him that if he makes any strange movements, I’ll have to shoot. My finger touches the gun’s trigger and then, totally, completely, I absolutely forget the reason for my aggression.

I don’t want to shoot anymore. I don’t want this gun in my hand.

A bullet traverses three hundred and twenty meters per second, the equivalent of the speed of a lie, the speed of a bloodthirsty and clumsy and cruel love.

A.45 caliber bullet destroys approximately twenty centimeters of my heart’s flesh and leaves an exit wound equivalent to three absences, four goodbyes.

If the emptiness is not empty, if there is no ravine or precipice, if it is only the damn distance of four stories down to the ground, is there any possibility of survival?

Movement.

Stop!

There’s a blonde who looked up my name and info and asked to meet me here. The signs are clear: this is an affair. And I, who am not at all stupid, had been certain that a blonde could only be bedded every two centuries.

This was my century.

The guy with the gun shows up midcentury.

The blonde disappears as the century comes to an end.

Anachrony.

When fleeing, it’s important not to leave behind the people you love.

A dark tunnel. The same way you come into life, the same way you leave.

Can a tomb be considered a dark tunnel? Is a vagina a dark tunnel?

Is a penis a dark tunnel?

Jean Valjean carrying Mario through the barreling darkness…

The Count of Monte Cristo fleeing through the dark…

A stethoscope bringing a sign of life is a dark conduit…

Big bang, the damn dark barrel, the fucking quarks are all black holes…

Blondes are not good companions for adventures.

Guns are better companions for adventures.

Brunettes are not good companions for adventures either.

The day has not been good.

More than seventy years old, the lady paces the apartment and a cat follows; she watches it with distrust. Perhaps the cat is just anxious, it almost always gets this way when it rains, maybe because of that thing about how cats don’t like water, but this is a strange cat, it almost never goes outside so it shouldn’t be afraid of the rain; in fact, the lady has never seen the cat outside the house. What’s the cat’s name? The cat has a peculiar name, her husband says it and the cat jumps into his lap, but for a while now she’s been forgetting things, because of that damn disease whose name she would say but it’s obvious she’s also forgotten that, like with so many other things in this world, and she thinks that at this point in her life it may be better to forget things, to loosen the ballast, like a balloon that needs to stay light to withstand-what do they call that?-yes, the last reverses of life. God, if only she knew what a reverse meant, a reverse was a stitch she once learned in her youth which she used when sewing and embroidering and all those things that make a woman more of a woman, manual tasks such as ironing and cooking in order to keep a man happy enough so he’ll maintain the household; so now what can a reverse in life possibly mean? How it is possible that life has a reverse, and if it has a reverse then it must have a forward, but she has never experienced a forward. Life has only been difficult, as she certainly knows. They came to that room in the neighborhood forty years before, just for a while, but the years piled up and a while became always and they’ve lived there ever since, and they had children, of course, three of them, two boys and a girl, all stillborn. That’s why they didn’t want to try a fourth time-why bring the dead into this world when supposedly this is the world of life? No, no children, it was imperative to accept the loneliness and the cats her husband brought to the house, many of which left, tired of the lack of food and the smell of poverty and grease all over the place. Only that one cat stayed with them and lived there, hiding under the furniture, but that night the cat seemed nervous, perhaps because of the rain. She could smell the scent of humidity, her muscles sensed it would rain that night, she was positive. The best thing to do would be to close the window to make sure the armchair in the living room didn’t get wet. She took a step, watched the cat arch its back, and pushed the curtains to close the shutters-and that’s when she saw a man hurrying up the stairs. That struck her as odd; perhaps it was somebody on the way to the roof to collect his laundry before it got wet on the line, but no-in that neighborhood, the men never went up on the roof, much less to gather laundry. She knew she was right when she saw another guy go up after the first one, with the same haste and a pistol in his hand. There was a scream but she does not remember, doesn’t remember the words, knows that there were words but she can’t differentiate between a scream and an insult; if someone says tree, she thinks mud; if they say scissors, she relates it to a day of rest, so she’d rather close the window and wait for the rain to end and for her husband to come home and for the loneliness to settle and the cat-that animal called silence or therapy-to stop meowing so maybe she can hear herself better, to see if she can recall a better memory…

The barrel of a gun is not just a simple hole, it moves in an undulating way; perhaps the guy who’s holding the weapon is trembling. Just the same, it could be something other than a pistol, perhaps a knife of some sort, but if it’s a knife then it ought to be shinier; maybe a knife is easier to avoid. I cling to this possibility, that at least the sharp edge doesn’t have the speed of a bullet. Or does it? Has anybody ever measured the speed of a blade? In any case, what’s more dangerous, a blade or a bullet? Obviously, it all depends on the placement of the wound. If the knife damages the femoral vein… Do blades shine? I look for the sparkle in the dark but there’s nothing there, then everything is a penumbra, and there is no knife, only a gun.

Bang!

Here it comes.

I feel it. My body bends and shakes from the impact. Instantly, I feel the fervor of blood running under my shirt. I am an open vein, a dark channel, a tunnel.

And then Jean Valjean arrives in my tunnel carrying Mario. And the Count of Montecristo smiles at me as stoically as a rock.

And a cascade of blood slips through my hands.

And I’m here staring at the emptiness of this enormous city.

With its towers and streets.

And those little lights.

And I do not fall.

I hold on to the eaves because I have an ace up my sleeve: the blonde’s panties in my coat pocket. My great fetish, a souvenir from a glorious night in bed. I also have the words to tell this guy he can go fuck his bitch of a mother, because motherfuckers like me don’t die every day, and then there’s a pause that lets me hear the suusssss of another bullet grazing my chest.

And soon…

My life has been both great and fucked.

Bountiful and idiotic.

Wonderful and absurd.

Why not let it be the same way at the end?

Four or five stories.

A beautiful fall.

This fool will not see fear in my face.

He won’t see anything.

I am great.

Is there anything more beautiful than flying toward death?

That’s what I do.

JUDAS BURNING BY EUGENIO AGUIRRE

Calle Tacuba

Holy Week 1954 was especially bloody. Thursday morning, agents from the judicial police discovered the mutilated bodies of four women in debris left at a construction site near Peñón de los Baños. There were bite marks on their breasts and genitals, which had been carved up with exceptional viciousness. The presumed killer, later identified as Goyo Cárdenas, had not only raped and profaned their corpses, he had used a handsaw to chop off their heads and dismember the arms and legs.

The evening headline, which appeared in the Universal Gráfico’s crime bulletin, was accompanied by horrific photos which provoked terror among working-class women in the areas surrounding Mexico City, especially the prostitutes who trafficked around Dolores alley and Dos de Abril Street, who tried to intimidate the authorities with obscene threats: “Either they double the number of security guards on these sinful streets or we’ll go on strike and our clients will have no choice but to fuck their wives.”

“Things are getting tense,” said my father, Don Domitilo Chimal, with dismay, as soon as he finished reading us the unfortunate news. He threw the newspaper on the kitchen table where we were gathered for an evening meal.

My siblings and I didn’t fully understand what he was getting at, nor the full meaning of his words. But our mamacita covered her face with her hands and began to tremble like a puppet with Huntington’s disease; she ran and locked herself in her bedroom.

On Good Friday the news was no less bloody. Every year from time immemorial, the Ixtapalapa neighborhood commemorates the Seven Mysteries of the Crucifixion of Jesus with a festival that draws thousands of people from places like Azcapotzalco and Xochimilco, so they can experience “live and in person”-as my Grandmother Eufrásica used to say-“the passion of Christ and all the chingaderas those damned Jews did to him.” So this festival began like every other, except that the compadritos from the Brotherhood of the Redeemer from over in Milpa Alta, wearing the appropriate attire to represent centurions and Roman soldiers, got drunk early and, with the pretext that Pontius Pilate was “a degenerate puto who was constantly sticking his hand between people’s legs,” decided to give him a good thrashing, beating him with fists, swords, and spears, which caught the Pharisees, the Mary Magdalenes who accompanied Christ, and the multitude of gentile onlookers on Calvary off guard and made it impossible for them to get away.

“The Romans are being total jerks,” we heard Tomás Perrín, the newsreader, announce on station XEW, the one our mother used to turn to every night to hear the radionovelas and her favorite program, the Crazy Monk. “They’re throwing punches left and right. They already beat Pontius Pilate to a pulp and now-what monsters!-they’re striking Barabbas with their wooden swords…”

Later, the newsreader had to yell so that he could be heard over the noise of the firecrackers and the howls of the mob, but he continued narrating how the Romans of Milpa Alta made mincemeat out of Dimas and Gestas, the thieves, and how they tore the cheeks of the poor man playing Christ with the thorns of his own crown, and how this had caused everyone who could to flee and take refuge in the cellar over at Samsom’s Cures.

Then the newsreader screamed: “Oh, they’ve broken my nose and beat the crap outta me!” It seemed they’d snatched the microphone from him; all we could hear was chaos-whistles and sirens indicating the presence of the cops who’d arrived to calm the rabble and send the pranksters to jail.

We were all excited by what we’d heard. But my brothers couldn’t disguise their disgust at the Romans’ transgression. My sisters, contrite and weepy, questioned the heresy and crossed themselves, sure of the punishment waiting for them in the flames of hell. Only our father smiled, with a manic, macabre look, his eyes bright, his brows furrowed, and he announced a decision that had been long in coming and that, to our shame and pain, he would act out the following day.

“It smells of the blessed blood of revenge!” he said with an expression that made my mother shiver. He ignored her, turning to his sons. “Come with me, boys. We still have much work to do.”

So, without a word, we followed him to a small shed located in a corner of the yard. There, Don Domitilo Chimal had installed a workshop to make huge dummies, which we called Judases, and which, according to our traditions, are exhibited and burned on the streets of Tacuba every year on Saturday during Holy Week.

The workshop was a mess. There were twigs and reeds all over the place, buckets of glue, old newspapers, pieces of cardboard, scraps of paper, coils, tins filled with brilliant colors of paint, and, leaning against a stone wall to avoid an explosion or devastating fire, firecrackers and rockets in many sizes whose wicks were covered with pieces of foil that came from the gum that the kids in our neighborhood used to chew.

My father had already hung some of the enormous Judases from wires and cords that stretched across the shed, including ones representing Miguel Alemán, president of Mexico, and several of his henchmen, such as Ernesto Uruchurto and the hated police chief, some general named Mondragón that, to the delight of the locals, would be burned the following day. Dad still needed to finish the Judases for Herod; for the execrable Potiphar; for Lucifer, with his horns and trident; and for the popular Samaritana, who, according to local lore, was even more of a whore than Doña María Conesa, the “White Kitten,” who’d disrobe in any dive near the Capitol, from the Tívoli to the Catacombs.

We went in and I headed straight to the table where he did the carpentry. Don Domitilo had made the twig frame that corresponded to the Samaritana and which now needed to be covered with newspaper and glue to give it body. But my father shoved me out of the way and, contrary to his usual demeanor, screamed: “Don’t touch it, boy! I’m going to do that Judas from head to toe. Help Chema and Jacinto finish the other dummies.”

Though his attitude surprised me, I didn’t want to argue with him so I immediately got to painting Lucifer’s huge body in a rabid red and polishing him with a little rag soaked in turpentine and cola.

We worked all night; by dawn we had finished with the accesories and placed the firecrackers in all the Judases, except the Samaritana, which still needed to have its belly closed, its seams sewn, and a little color added.

“Go and sleep, boys,” whispered my father, stuck in his task. “I’ll finish this dummy and catch up with you.”

I fell asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow. The only thing I remember dreaming about was a scene from a vampire film I had just had seen at the Chinese Palace and the moans of a woman begging for mercy.

I was awoken by my father’s voice ordering me to come with him to bring the Judases downtown. I quickly got dressed and went out where my brothers were lifting the dummies into a covered peddler’s cart that we always used to transport them.

We got to Tacuba Street at 10 in the morning. There, Don Domitilo Chimal made the delivery of the Judases to someone at the Central Department who paid him with sticky bills that barely added up to a hundred pesos.

We had started on our way home when my father suggested we get some lunch at the Sidralí on the corner of Madero Avenue and Palm Street, then come back and see the burning of the Judases.

“I want to be sure we did a good job!” he said, with such pride we couldn’t have imagined his true intentions.

The lunch was delicious, not just because of the medianoche sandwiches, but because my brother Chema managed to get us some potato pambazos and chorizo in garlic sauce from a vendor outside the Sidralí which we-especially my father-devoured with delight.

“Well, boys,” said Don Domitilo at about 1 in the afternoon, “let’s go see the burning. They must have hung the Judases by now and I wouldn’t want to miss the show for anything in the world.”

Tacuba Street was crowded with folks who, entranced with expectation, gazed at the hanging dummies that would be burst on Saturday. Our father elbowed his way through to a place from where we could see, unobstructed, what was going to happen.

The first one they burned was the Judas with President Alemán’s smiling face. The rockets attached to the sides of its body exploded with a luminous and cheery sputtering that excited the crowd, which immediately shouted and hurled insults, letting loose the resentments that had accumulated as a result of the abuses against the people during his term.

“Stop acting like a beggar, Alemán, you damn thief!” yelled a worker next to us, and everyone around cheered. “Yes, burn, you presidential thief, so you know what it feels like to be fucked over!”

Then the firecrackers inside exploded, the stomach burst, and the dummy was gutted. The applause was deafening.

One by one, the Judases were burned. The people were overjoyed. Although he seemed a bit taciturn, Don Domitilo couldn’t hide the pride he felt when he saw how the dummies he’d made with such care were appreciated. Finally, it was the Samaritana’s turn and I noticed my father turning pale. The Judas began to burn on the outside, just like the others, until it was fully singed. Then it exploded into thousands of bits of newspaper and confetti that floated down on the crowd. But this time the paper was drenched in a sticky red substance, with pieces of raw flesh and bone shards mixed in.

The crowd was horrfied. They shook the bloody bits from their heads and shoulders. Some, mostly women and children, screamed as they ran. Only my father, Don Domitilo Chimal, laughed, then spat: “I told you, puta Matilde!” He was screaming at our mother. “I warned you when I found out you were sleeping with my compadre Melitón that a day would come when I’d tear your heart out! Old cabrona, daughter of the rechingada!”

VIOLETA ISN’T HERE ANYMORE BY MYRIAM LAURINI

Hipódromo

Neighbors Cassette. Side A.

July 16, 2007

[Older people die alone, either from natural causes or because they are killed. The latter happens with such frequency in Mexico City that it is no longer surprising. What does surprise me are these neighbors’ voices in unison, as if they can’t wait for whoever’s talking to finish so they can each tell his or her own story, which made this tape’s transcription that much harder. The following are excerpts of what they said.]

Violeta didn’t like to talk about her past or her origins. She would insinuate certain things to create different stories. Hers was just one of many stories; there wasn’t anything weird about it, nothing particularly moving or vitriolic.

All the neighbors knew her: she was born in that same house. Violeta was part of the neighborhood’s Security Commission. As a member of the commission, she was constantly on alert, so that when she saw strangers or odd movements, she’d call the district police. She got along very well with them; in the summer she gave them lemonade, and coffee in the winter.

When you’re on the commission, you have to reach out to the district to make sure they’ll treat us well. If there was anything scandalous going on in Mexico Park, she’d call the police. If the local representatives allowed music in the park-the kind that rattles your brain-after 10 o’clock at night, she’d call the police.

Violeta watched out for all of us. It wasn’t just about the petty thieves or the lowlifes who could impact our lives materially but also the psychological damage that could be brought on by such loud noise in the park.

What does noise from the park have to do with Violeta’s death?

It’s related to the fact that she had constant contact with the police. They detained Mikel and asked us tons of questions. If she has or had family, it must be distant.

From what I know, her grandmother was very young when they brought her here from a town in Oaxaca during the time of the revolution. She got pregnant by who knows who and had Jovita, and Jovita repeated the cycle and had Violeta; both of them were born in Mexico City. They never went anywhere to see relatives and no relative ever visited them.

They came to live here in 1928. Señorita Micaela already had the grandmother on her staff and the girl, Jovita. The gossips said Violeta was really Micaela’s daughter and that’s why she inherited the house.

If it’s true that she was Micaela’s daughter, then perhaps Violeta might have some first cousins, because Micaela had siblings. According to what my mother told me, the family had money, but for whatever reason, they disowned Micaela and left her with just the house and some rental income. It wasn’t just any house either, but art deco.

Violeta inherited the house but not the money, so she didn’t have any for food or much else. As soon as Micaela died, they cut off the rental income. It was all very dramatic.

But Micaela had paid for Violeta’s schooling as if she were part of the family. She went all the way through high school. Later she took embroidery classes, cooking classes.

Nonetheless, Micaela had never stopped reminding Violeta that she was her servants’ daughter and granddaughter, and that Violeta had an obligation to take care of her until her last day.

Nobody ever went in that house. I think the last time was when Micaela died, and there were four neighbors there; that wake was pitiful.

We’d see each other on the park benches, at the Security Commission meetings, at the door, and we’d talk then, but Violeta never asked anybody in, not for coffee or soda or anything. Her relationships all existed outside the front door. The only people who went in were those who lived there.

At first, she got by with money from a savings account. Later, she pawned some jewels she’d inherited. When she had no other choice, she began to rent rooms. That’s how she made a living. It was always short term, a few months and then adiós.

The one who lasted the longest was Mikel; he’s been there a year, maybe a little more. Perhaps it’s the house itself that scares them off. It’s totally dark, no light ever goes in, or air for that matter; it stinks of humidity, of old age-and the smell of old age scares young people. The only one who ever went in and out of the house was Mikel.

Lalo Cohen came to visit. He demanded that I hold his beloved tape player while he smoked nonstop. He made his demand in that way of his-as if he doesn’t have any friends, even though he is, in fact, a friend in the end. He asked that I tell him the same story I told the police and the Public Ministry. Words upon words, minus some of this, that’s what I told the Public Ministry-because the police had already given my statement to the PM. Even though it’s illegal, I don’t plan to protest, I just want this to be over with.

Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side A.

July 17, 2007

I got up at 6 in the morning, like I do every day Monday to Friday, and on Saturdays when I have to work. Then I do ten minutes on the treadmill and ten minutes on the stationary bike. Then I bathe, shave, and dress. With my tie still undone I made my way to the dining room for breakfast. Pretty much on automatic pilot, because routines become automatic… or life on automatic pilot creates routines. What do I know? I didn’t smell coffee, or huevos rancheros, or even freshsqueezed orange juice. I thought Violeta was still asleep and I was going to have to make do without breakfast.

When I got to the dining room, the light was off. Violeta’s asleep, I said to myself, and cursed. I was in a hurry and it was dark; it was 6:30 and, though the bank is only four blocks away, I had to check in by 7 on the dot, otherwise I’d lose my eligibility for the annual punctuality award.

On my way out, I inadvertently stumbled on a chair and whatever was on it. I hit it with my knee and cried out. I can’t explain it. In an instant everything rushed to my head like a crazy hurricane and I somehow knew it was Violeta. I ran to turn on the light. I saw her and the gasp from hitting my knee was quickly replaced by screams of horror. She was tied to the chair with a cable. I couldn’t bear to look at her and I ran out to the street, scared out of my mind. I paused at the door and my screams turned into a professional mourner’s lament. I don’t know how much time passed, maybe a minute or two… it’s just that in situations like that, minutes become an eternity.

That’s when Lalo Cohen showed up; he’s a neighbor who goes running in the park every morning at the same time. He’s like Kant-according to legend, people would set their watches when Kant went out for a walk.

“What’s the matter, Mikel?” Lalo asked. I tried to answer. But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, choking on my sobs and shaking all over; I couldn’t get a single word out.

I started to scream. Lalo plastered his hand over my face. That is, he slapped me so hard my head rattled, and I’m actually grateful because I think it might have been the best way to get rid of my hysteria.

“What’s the matter, Mikel?” he repeated harshly.

“She’s dead, I mumbled.”

“Who’s dead?” He was getting angrier and his voice was even more harsh.

“Violeta,” I said with a steadiness I didn’t really feel.

“Violeta? Are you sure? That can’t be. I was talking to her just yesterday afternoon. That can’t be.”

“I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her…” I kept repeating, and Lalo squeezed my arm so hard he almost broke it.

“You’re being hysterical, she must have just fainted-calm down,” Lalo said, and pushed me away from the door. “Come with me and stop screaming.”

I decided to follow my neighbor’s orders. Hanging on to the walls in the hallway, I went in after him. As we came to the dining room, I covered my eyes with the arm he’d almost broken.

“Fucking A, they killed her!” were Lalo’s first words. And the second ones: “We have to call the police!” He went for the phone and I stumbled to the floor, falling right next to Violeta, and lost consciousness.

I don’t know if I was awakened by the pain or the plaf, plaf, plaf of Lalo’s slaps. Whatever it was, it made me leap away from the dead woman and scold my insensitive neighbor: “Why are you hitting me, you beast?”

He acted as if he’d been caressing me. “C’mon, you have to rise to the occasion!”

“To the occasion? I’m going to the bank, I’m already late.”

“You’re not going anywhere. The police are on their way and you’re going to have to give a statement,” he said without any sympathy.

I began to shake again and started repeating my refrain: “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her.” I shut my mouth when I saw Lalo raise his heavy hand.

When the authorities showed up, they arrested me as soon as they laid eyes on me, without even asking my name or any questions. But I’m not going to talk about any of that, because you already know all this, I told it all to the commander.

The commander, who said his name was Ponce de León, looked at me with the eyes of a rabid dog until I thought I could see drool in the corners of his mouth.

“Your statement is absolute crap-you haven’t said anything remotely useful. Let’s try again,” the guy growled, looking very secure behind his big desk with his big guns. Sitting like that, anybody can give rabid-dog looks and growl.

“I got up at 6 in the morning, like I said-”

“Fuck that shit! Just answer my questions! You understand?” barked the commander.

“Whatever you say…”

“That’s right, whatever I say.”

An officer came in with some folders and a woman brought a bottle of Coke and left it on the desk next to a pistol.

“This asshole’s going to drive me crazy, I can barely keep myself from smashing his brains against the wall,” said the one with the rabid look.

“Be cool, commander, don’t worry: this fag will give it up sooner or later, he’ll give us everything we want.”

“Everybody’s innocent, even after they’ve sliced up their sainted mother and used her to make mixiotes,” said the woman who’d brought the soda.

“Here, everybody’s guilty until they prove otherwise,” declared the rabid one, and the others offered hearty laughs in response.

The dog finally calmed down a little in the other cops’ presence and drank some soda. But nobody calmed me down. My guts rumbled in a way I knew meant I should hurry to the bathroom. I asked for permission to go but was turned down.

“So tell me: full name, place and date of birth, profession, whether you can read and write, parents’ names, and how long you’ve been living in the home of the deceased.”

“Mikel Ortiz Goitia. Puebla,” blah blah blah…

“The names of three reputable citizens who can serve as references. Address and telephone number for each.”

“I’m not opening a bank account or applying for a credit card, so I don’t need to give you references.”

“Cut the crap! Just answer my questions. You’re driving me nuts, you fucking faggot!”

“Excuse me, but I want to state for the record that I’m not a homosexual.”

“If you keep this up, motherfucker, you’ll end up being the biggest seapussy on the boat.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue that he was trying to lock me up without any evidence whatsoever. And that I was innocent. I didn’t kill Violeta, who in just a few hours had lost her name and become simply the deceased.

“This is going from bad to worse!” shouted the one with the rabid look, and he hit his fist so hard on the table that the guns, papers, phones, and pencil holder danced, and the Coke bottle almost spilled.

But the commander turned out to be so right. This was all nothing compared to what came later.

Neighbors Cassette. Side B.

July 16, 2007

[Same problem as Side A. Impossible to get these people to talk one at a time.]

I want to know why Lalo didn’t give a statement. He’s a journalist. The police don’t usually like it when journalists snoop.

Wait and see what he says.

I was the first to make a statement.

And what did you say?

I told what little I knew about Violeta.

Did you see a strange man or woman hanging around the block a few days ago, yesterday, today, this afternoon, tonight? Did you hear a struggle, screams, anything out of the ordinary?

This neighborhood has been run over by cops, it isn’t what it used to be. With a zillion restaurants, bars, theaters, and all that other trash, it’s just packed with outsiders.

So how can you tell if those outsiders are potential killers, petty thieves, or rapists? How can you distinguish a cry for help from a wild scream or some drug addict or drunk losing his mind? This is Mexico Park, one of the prettiest places in the whole city, and they killed her right across the street. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.

I saw Mikel say goodbye to a girl in the park while I was walking my dog. It was after 12. We said hello in passing.

Then Mikel couldn’t have killed her because Lalo said the murder occurred between 10:30 and 11. That’s certainly a relief. Just imagining we might be living with someone who’d kill an old woman makes my skin crawl. It couldn’t have been Mikel. She spoke so well of him, and he of her. Besides, he’s a very courteous young man, very responsible.

Poor guy, I hope they treat him okay and set him free. It’s not fair to blame an innocent person.

Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side B.

July 17, 2007

The rabid one asked me what time I got home the night of the crime. I told him, “Late, after 12. I went straight to my room, trying not to wake Violeta up.” Then he wanted to know what time I usually get in at night. “Between 8:30 and 9, then I watch a little TV and go to sleep because I get up at 6 in the morning.”

“But that night you got in after midnight. Why?”

“I went to Mass at 8 at Coronación parish and afterward I talked for a bit with a young woman I’ve chatted with a few other times. She invited me to coffee and then we went for a walk in the park. We agreed to meet again next Sunday, at the 1 o’clock Mass.”

“Let’s see… you go to Mass every day?”

“No, just on Sundays and special occasions.”

“What was so special that evening? Were you going to ask forgiveness for killing your landlady?”

“I didn’t kill her! I went because it was the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.”

“Name and surname, phone number, and address for that young woman. Is she a student? Does she work? Where? Who does she live with?”

“Beatriz. Her name is Beatriz, but I didn’t get her last name.”

“Of course-you didn’t get her address either. You have a perfect alibi. You know what time your landlady was killed? Do you know, you fucking faggot, that if you’d gotten home at the same time you do every single night, she’d still be alive? But no, that night you got in late, so late you didn’t even run into the killer. What a coincidence! Your orderly schedule out of order that night, a stranger entertaining you for hours on end, then you get home so late you don’t even need to call for help.”

“I didn’t kill her! I didn’t kill her! I swear to God and the Holy Virgin Mary!”

“Don’t blaspheme, you fucking faggot fuck. And you better confess soon because I’m sick of hearing this shit. Your alibi is pathetic.”

“I really need to use the bathroom. Please let me go to the bathroom!”

“Denied. And you better not shit in your pants. I can’t stand the smell of shit, it drives me even crazier than you do. I swear I’ll slice you up with a razor. Do you understand me?”

Of course I understood him. The effect of that threat was to terrify me; the idea of being sliced into a poblana stew paralyzed my intestines and bladder. I thought of Beatriz, so sweet and good, and felt a certain relief, but it was short-lived because the dog was quickly back in action.

“You went out with a young woman, you don’t know her last name, her phone number, or her address. You went out with a young woman and you don’t know anything about her. If she even exists, she’s obviously your accomplice and you’re covering for her. While she entertained the deceased, you wrapped the cable around her neck, pulled her hands behind her back, and tied her legs to the chair. So disgusting! How could you do that to a defenseless old woman? Who has the goods? Because it’s clear that you killed her in order to rob her. Or did you kill her just for fun? You and that Beatriz are a couple of shits. You’re heading straight for a life sentence, you’re going to rot in jail.”

A life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit loosened my bladder and I peed myself. It’s impossible to repeat all the insults and threats that rabid man directed at me. All I could think about was saving Beatriz, an innocent young woman who, because she’d had a cup of coffee and a pineapple juice with me, was going to rot in jail. The dog called I don’t know who on the phone and there was an instant knock on the door. A guy with a big sketchpad and a bunch of pencils and erasers came in.

“Give me a physical description of your accomplice, buddy, understand? If you lie to me, I’ll cut your balls off with this blade or maybe I’ll just blow them off.”

“Beatriz is… tall, slender, fragile, white-skinned. Light brown hair, short. Small eyes, like almonds. Small mouth, thin lips. Her face is longish. Straight, medium nose.”

I said the same thing twenty times. The good part was that the dog left me alone for a while. The sketch artist would show me the face and ask questions, then draw in the features, erase a little, sketch again. In the end, Beatriz came out quite beautiful and the dog soon started up again.

“When and where did you agree to meet your accomplice?”

“She’s not my accomplice and we didn’t agree on anything.”

“Okay, smart guy, you didn’t agree on anything-but five minutes ago you said you’d agreed to meet next Sunday at the 1 o’clock Mass at Coronación parish. You’re not going to get a chance to go to jail-I’m going to kill you first, you piece of shit!”

He jumped from his chair, grabbed his gun, and stuck its barrel in my mouth. He screamed, as if possessed by all the demons in hell: “I’m going to kill you, faggot, I’m going to kill you, you fucking fag, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!”

My intestines couldn’t hold any longer. I shit my pants. There were more screams, more threats, until he finally got tired and called in the others to take me to the bathroom and give me clean clothes and make sure I didn’t come back stinking of shit. “That smell drives me nuts,” he said, his mouth foaming.

A cold-water shower with Zote soap brought me back to life, rid me of that stink and even some of the humiliation. Back with the hydrophobic, and now more sure of myself, I was the first to speak.

“If you want to kill me, kill me. I don’t intend to say another word until you notify my parents and my lawyer gets here.”

“It’s obvious this faggot spends his days watching gringo cop movies. Let’s see, bring me the penal code and I’ll read him his rights.”

He pulled an issue of Proceso magazine out of his desk and made like he was reading it: “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in court…” As had now become predictable, those around him laughed heartily. None of it did me any good.

Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side A.

July 19, 2007

[I’ve known Ponce de León since I began covering the police beat, what we call la nota roja. We were both novices: he’d just finished up at the Instituto Nacional de Ciencias Penales and I at the School of Mass Communication. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s a man who’s close to the law, opposed to torture, and in favor of a professional police force. He likes investigations, technical stuff, analyzing hair and other clues. In other words, his thing is being a sleuth so he can solve crimes. Nonetheless, at no point do I forget my grandfather Levi’s words: “Fidarsi é bene, ma no fidarsi é meglio.”To that I add my own professional skepticism, and that’s why the tape recorder has become a permanent part of my person, like a prosthetic I can’t take off, and so I hide it or show it depending on the circumstances. We met at El Chisme, where you can still talk without the background music forcing you to scream.]

“Mikel Ortiz is driving me crazy. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath, a total cynic, a con man, or if he just has some terrible problem with his nerves.”

“Ponce, have you lost your mind? Mikel is just a naïve boy from the provinces. A practicing Catholic, serious and responsible both at work and in his private life.”

“Christians are the worst. They hide behind the church. And that fag unsettles me. I’ll tell you something and then you can say what you think. I asked him for some information on the friend who he was allegedly hanging out with on the night of the crime. Initially he only knew her first name, but then he finally gave up her last name and a physical description. With the sketch, we went to the parish where he says he met her. The priests said they’d never seen her before-that is, assuming they’re not also accomplices. Although they did give us a clue. On Michoacán Street, we found the Viterbo family. According to the fag, the chick’s name is Beatriz Viterbo.”

“Beatriz Viterbo? I knew he had a friend, maybe a girlfriend, named Beatriz, but certainly not Viterbo.”

“Yes, my friend, Viterbo. We went to the house and were greeted by a skinny old woman who looked just like the Beatriz in the sketch, but about seventy years older. The lady said she didn’t recognize the girl in the sketch, same as the priests, said she’d never seen her before in her life. But the best was yet to come. We asked her if she knew Beatriz Viterbo. She said of course, that was her aunt who’d died in February 1929, and she remembered her birthday was April 30 and that for years her family would get together on April 30 to celebrate the woman’s birthday. How’s that, huh?”

“You’re messing with me. Do you know who Beatriz Viterbo is?”

“Of course I know: she’s the skinny old woman’s aunt who died in 1929 and-”

[Ponce had a little laughing attack and choked on his tequila. He raised his hands. Red-faced, gagging, he coughed a few times and then kept laughing. This went on for quite awhile. In the meantime, I finished both my tequila and his.]

“She’s the protagonist in ‘The Aleph,’ the only Borges story I’ve ever read-on your recommendation. But I didn’t just read it once: I’ve read it so many times, I know it by heart. And I’ll tell you, that faggot was really pissing me off. After I pressed her further, the old woman finally let us in. Proud of what she’d told us about her aunt, she showed us photos of Beatriz. There were several in the living room. Take note of this, because it’s crucial: there’s a hustler from Xochimilco who is, coincidentally, named Bety. Chema Molina and I exchanged crazy glances, we couldn’t believe it-last year I’d made him read ‘The Aleph.’ The old woman misinterpreted our glances and explained that her aunt had been the most beautiful woman in the city, that she’d had a dozen admirers who were loyal to her even after her death, including one in particular who always came by for tea on her birthday. That’s life-she died young, she didn’t even have time to get spoiled. I tell you, my friend, I thought I was imagining this. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but this was the topper. I couldn’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe it either. When did Borges come to Mexico? Did Alfonso Reyes talk to him about her? Did he have other Mexican friends? Did he write ‘The Aleph’ before he came to Mexico and met Reyes? Or did he meet Reyes when he was the ambassador to Argentina? You didn’t ask this woman if she had a basement off the dining room, did you? If not, you’re going to have to find out.”

“You’re going to have to find out yourself, my little friend, you’re the literature guy. I have to solve the murder. The prosecutor is squeezing my balls. He wants results, he wants that killer yesterday. He hates a civilized society. I’m not even going to tell him this story because he’ll send me straight to the last ring in the seventh circle of hell.”

“Couldn’t it be that the old woman has also read ‘The Aleph’ and knows it by heart and has set up the whole thing, pure fantasy, out of boredom, or because she’s demented, or for some other insane reason?”

“She didn’t make it up, there’s no fantasy here. Beatriz Viterbo is buried in the Dolores crypt, in a white marble tomb with sculpted flowers and all the decor you’d expect from that time. There’s a photo on the front in a bronze oval frame, same as the one in the living room. There are big angels on both sides and the gravestone gives the date of her death: February 28, 1929. The elderly niece, who’s the current owner of their house, is Estela Viterbo, and don’t even think about identity theft. This woman has a birth certificate, a voter registration card, receipts for her mortgage, and the water and phone bills, all in her name.”

“Fuck, what a story! Her name is Estela… and the guy goes by on the aunt’s birthdays… You have to find out more! This can’t all be coincidence.”

“I’m going to order another tequila to toast all the things you have to investigate. When we were looking at the photos, the old woman couldn’t stop talking about her aunt, and then a young woman came in, about twenty-four years old. She said hello, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and left. She was the exact opposite of the sketch: tall, thin, fragile, but darkskinned, dark-haired, black eyes, large mouth and fleshy lips, a round face, flat nose. No sooner had the door closed than the old woman explained that this was Beatriz, her housekeeper’s daughter. I should have done something, ran after her and brought her back, asked her about Mikel Ortiz-but I swear to you I could barely move, I was hypnotized, and so was Chema Molina.”

“Shit, shit, double shit! The housekeeper’s daughter-same as Violeta, a servant’s daughter. That’s Mikel’s friend Beatriz-he was trying to protect her. He was afraid the same thing that happened to him could happen to her. He told me how you messed with his head, how you stuck your gun in his mouth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t touch a hair on his head, and that faggot can’t take much anyway-he’s already gone crying to you about it. The gun wasn’t loaded, it was just part of the scenery; you think I’d leave a loaded gun within reach of a prisoner? He lied to you. I only pointed it at him, an unloaded Colt. He probably told you that to explain why he shit in his pants. If I didn’t squeeze these guys a little, I’d never get anything. They’re all innocent, right? I still have a lot of doubt about that Mikel.”

“Well, you can get over it. There’s a witness who saw him say good night to the girl in the park, after midnight. He and the witness greeted each other. Besides, the neighbors say he had a very good relationship with Violeta.”

“So? What does that mean? They could be accomplices. He described the girl in reverse and instead of giving her last name, he gave her employer’s. As far as we know, he-or the murderer-gets to know old women, charms them, treats them well, and wins their trust so he can get inside their homes.”

“Ponce, you’ve forgotten all about being an investigator, about science, even after making such a big deal about it. There are such things as fingerprints, hair, nails, DNA. What’s under Violeta and Mikel’s nails?”

“There’s nothing under their nails. We found fingerprints from the last century and a few more recent ones. The ones on the deceased-on the leather jacket she had on, on her shoes, on the cable-don’t correspond with the prisoner’s.”

“Then why such a speedy conviction?”

“C’mon, don’t fuck with me. I’m just holding him. I’m over my seventy-two hours, but the family lawyer showed up and I was able to negotiate one more day. If I don’t get some kind of evidence by tomorrow, I’ll let him go. At 8:30 tomorrow, I have to go to the old woman’s house to see what I can get out of this so-called Beatriz. When I called to make the appointment, I tried to tell her a little story, that the prosecutor wanted us to talk to her about safety precautions for seniors. She didn’t really react at first, and then her response caught me off guard. She said she wasn’t in the least bit scared of the Old Lady Killer, that no Old Lady Killer could frighten her. She said she keeps a.22 nearby at all times, that she had it in a pocket in her skirt right then, and that she has excellent aim. Maybe it’s the old woman who’s your faggot friend’s accomplice.”

“Fuck you. You’re just making stuff up-and stop insulting Mikel. The insults aren’t going to clean your conscience. You have an innocent man in jail, and the worst part is that you’ve known it since the very beginning.”

“Excuse me, buddy, he’s a fag and a half, and that’s that.”

“Ponce, you always do the same thing when you screw up

… it’s like your blood gets thin and you stop thinking.”

“My bleeding is only because of what I call the eternal return. The eternal return is my belief that killers will go back to the scene of the crime. Even if it’s not true in 99 percent of the cases, the home of the deceased should always be watched. I proposed it in this case. ‘We don’t have the resources available’ was all I got.”

“Listen, with all that Borgian stuff I almost forgot to point out that Violeta was part of the neighborhood’s Security Commission. She got along well with the guys from the district: lemonade in the summer, coffee in the winter. If neighborhood gossip means anything to you, it is widely rumored that Violeta was Micaela’s daughter and that’s why she was her heir, and it’s possible Micaela had nieces and nephews circling Violeta like vultures.”

“What a mess! All we need now is a blind guy, like in the telenovelas. If Micaela had nieces and nephews, we’ll investigate. I’ll check in with the district. Lemonade in the summer, coffee in the winter, but those sons of bitches couldn’t figure out something was wrong, they couldn’t save their friend. This is so annoying. Chema Molina should be here any minute, we said quarter past 8, and we’re just a few blocks away. We’ll figure it out, one way or another.”

“Can I go with you? It would be really helpful for my next article.”

“No way, Lalito. And you should be careful about what you write. You might scare off the perpetrator. I don’t want the prosecutor, or any of his colleagues, to squeeze me any harder.”

“My sources are more sacred than the Virgin of Guadalupe. We’re friends, aren’t we? I’ll wait for you at that bar, El Centenario, in a couple of hours.”

“That bar, my dear Cohen, is no longer a bar, it’s full of junior assholes who get plastered by their second drink and then scream like a bunch of menopausal bitches. I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 p.m., at Sep’s, where we can still eat and drink like God intended.”

Mikel & Cohen Cassette. Side A.

July 20, 2007

“I’m calling to say goodbye and thank you for your support. I’m returning to Puebla to live with my parents. The cops let me go, but with conditions. They’ve ruined my life, Lalo. I’m suspended without pay at the bank, though they say it’s only temporary.”

“I’m sorry, Mikel, that’s really shitty. This will be taken care of soon, you’ll get your job back and everything will be like it was before.”

“They’ve ruined my life. They’ve branded me, and those scars can’t be erased. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent. I’ll be suspected of killing an old woman until I die. I called Beatriz to say goodbye and her sadness froze my blood. The police went to her house. Twice. She didn’t tell me much, but I’m guessing it was that demented torturer, Ponce de León. Imagine how they must be suffering. I know that family, and they’re really good people.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. When they find the person who did it, it’ll all be forgotten.”

“Ha! Careful what you say. Whether they find him or not, my life is still ruined. They took mug shots, front and profile. I was fingerprinted I don’t know how many times; I still can’t get the ink off. I won’t get my job back and I won’t be able to get work at any other bank, because I’ll be flagged all over the country and possibly even abroad. I don’t blame them either, because they have to protect their businesses-how can they have an executive who was accused of murder? There isn’t a client in the world who would trust an executive accused of murder. I’ve also lost Beatriz, who was a good friend and might have become my girlfriend. They’ve ruined my life. They branded me with an iron, like they do to horses and cattle. They humiliated me, they destroyed me both emotionally and physically…”

“Mikel, you’ll see that time takes care of these things. Life goes on. Stop crying and get on with your life.”

“Lalo, go to motherfucking hell-”

Click.

[Mikel hung up. He was just a kid, still wet behind the ears. He hung up before I had a chance to respond to his curses. There was a black and furious storm in my head.]

Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side B.

July 20, 2007

[At 10 o’clock I sat down at a table next to a window from which I could also see the entrance. Ponce liked to control windows and doors, entrances and exits. He arrived at 10:05. As soon as he sat down, he sliced a piece of bread, smeared it with abundant paté, and put the whole thing in his mouth. Then he ordered beers.]

“Fuck! I’m really worried that Violeta’s murder is going to be just another statistic, another one of those 97 percent unsolved.”

“What little confidence you have in your city’s police force! Chema Molina talked to the guys from the district who were on patrol that day. At 9:15 they went by the deceased’s home. She was at the door talking to a nurse and waved at them, nothing out of the ordinary. We think that the 1 percent will pan out in this case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The 1 percent of killers who go back to the scene of the crime. After the interrogation and the poor description of the nurse that the district guys gave, we sent two of our men to watch the park. They saw a nurse in a cheerful conversation with an old woman and her caretaker. To make a long story short, they hung out for a while, then grabbed her and found a Chinese key on her person. They suspected that the nurse was a he, and so they went to rip off the wig, and surprise! There was no wig. But then there was resistance. They discovered that all her documentation was fake. They’re interrogating her right now and I’m going to bet this is it. There will be justice for the deceased.”

“The deceased was named Violeta. She was born, she lived, she died. She was of this world and now she’s just an ordinary cadaver. How sad.”

“I can’t get worked up about every little murder that comes my way, predictable or not. I’d be doped up and in a straitjacket in a psych ward. But enough of this damn mess. I want to tell you what happened the other night at Old Lady Viterbo’s house, though I’ll warn you right now that I won’t tolerate you making fun of me.”

“I’m not going to make fun of you. Let’s order now since service is so slow, and let’s get another round of beer so your throat won’t dry up.”

“The older woman quite happily invited us in. She forced us to sit down and offered us tea, a snack, soda, whatever we wanted. We’re working, it’s all right, thank you. I asked if there was a basement under the dining room and she said yes and asked how I knew. I hadn’t answered yet when a tall, thin guy appeared, older than her, more dead than alive. She introduced us. ‘This is my Uncle Carlos, my Aunt Beatriz’s first cousin. A great poet. If you like, he can recite a few of his poems.’ I can’t describe the look that Chema and I exchanged. My spinal cord froze, just like Borges’ did when he went down to the basement to see the aleph, and I felt like we’d fallen into some kind of trap.”

“Actually, Borges never said anything about his spine freezing…”

“Let me finish. We can argue about the details later. Great, I told the old woman, killing time and trying to figure a way out. The old man pulled some wrinkled sheets out of the pocket in his robe pocket and read: ‘There is, among your many memories, one that has been irremediably lost / neither the white sun nor the yellow moon / will see you descend to the core.’ ‘You’re an impostor! Those verses are by Borges, not Carlos Argentino Daneri,’ I screamed. ‘I recognize them!’ The old man jumped back and tried to speak. ‘You’re wrong, young man, my name is Carlos Andrés Danielli.’ I leapt from the couch as if someone had stuck a needle in my ass. ‘Identify yourself!’ I screamed. The old man was so scared, his eyes popping out as he looked to the old woman for help. ‘Your passport,’ I demanded. ‘Good lord! This man has gone crazy,’ said the old woman as she aimed her.22 at me. Chema stood up, unholstered his weapon, pointed it at the old woman’s head, and shouted, ‘Ma’am, put your gun down!’ I started laughing so hard, I nearly fell over. I couldn’t stop.”

“Motherfucker! You’ve lost your mind, Ponce. If your bosses find out, you’ll get demoted, you’ll end up working as a janitor.”

“Tell me about it, Cohen. Fear-fear is a terrible thing. It plays dirty, gets in your way, and confuses you if you’re not careful. The laughing attack was a response to fear. That’s the subconscious at work.”

“But that old couple’s crazy too. The guy reads verses that aren’t his… How did you know they were Borges’ if you’ve only ever read ‘The Aleph’?”

“Easy-memories, white sun, yellow moon-they sounded just like the blind guy. The old woman threw the.22 at Chema’s feet and got silly too, she was laughing and crying, she shook her arms, doubled over, she looked like a puppet. When we calmed down a little, she said, ‘I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. We must have a party, I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge.’ Then Chema and the old man started laughing too. We made a toast to life, to the three Beatriz Viterbos, and to many other things.”

“I envy you, and it pisses me off that you didn’t let me go with you. How did it occur to you that the old man might be named Carlos Argentino, like in the story?”

“Coincidence, accident, who knows? With all that was going down, logic suggested his name was Daneri. But logic doesn’t do fiction any justice.”

“Got it. So you hung out with the old couple, just having fun…?”

“With them and with Beatriz Viterbo, the one who was the opposite of Borges’. We toasted to the three Beatrizes: the imaginary one, the one buried in the Dolores crypt, and the housekeeper’s young daughter, the one with the unknown father.”

“The young Beatriz, she’s also Viterbo?…So Mikel told the truth and the old woman got her confused with the aunt who died in 1929? We must investigate. This is a bit much, it doesn’t seem right.”

“I already investigated. The old woman gave her last name to the housekeeper’s daughter, made her her heir, sent her to school, where she’s earning a master’s degree, and, to cap her good work, wants to marry her off to a good man, like Mikel, ‘that poor innocent,’ she said sweetly. You realize she wants to marry her off to your friend, the faggot from Puebla? I tried to object, to explain we hadn’t determined who the killer was yet, blah blah blah. Those three stooges defended the faggot better than the best defense attorney in the country.”

“Look at that. Despite a few coincidences, look how different the stories of Beatriz and Violeta turned out to be. And that luckless Mikel left thinking Beatriz didn’t want anything to do with him, that he was marked for life.”

“I told you he was a faggot. Instead of facing the girl and the old woman and explaining what had happened, he ran away to his mother. He’s a coward, that guy.”

“Ponce, it’d be better if you just shut up, because you had a lot to do with his running away. Although I confess that right now I could give three shits about that crazy guy. All this smells rotten to me-the three Viterbos, your sudden fearlessness, acting like nothing happened and drinking to madness. Didn’t you think for even an instant that they could have drugged your champagne?”

“Well, then I would have gone down to the basement and seen the aleph. What more can you ask from life?”

[With my head floating from the beer, the tequila, and the interminable literary chat with Ponce, I walked home. As I crossed Mexico Park, I thought of Violeta. I’d met with Ponce to write an article about her, but another story-this one written 1,500 kilometers away-had distracted us from the impact of her death. I remembered that the evening Violeta was killed, she and I had talked for a bit-if exchanging twenty, thirty, forty words can be called that. She had smiled tenderly. I didn’t know anything about Violeta, only that she was nice and asked about people’s health and their work. In ten years as her neighbor, I never once asked her if she needed anything. Nobody else did either. They erased the smile off that lonely woman’s face and killed her for no reason. No one claimed her body, and she won’t have a gravestone to remind us she was born, lived, and died. Pretty soon, those few of us who did know her will forget her as well.]

OUTSIDE THE DOOR BY ÓSCAR DE LA BORBOLLA

Barrio Unknown

The screams for help crashed through the second-story window with the broken glass. Everybody from the building across the street claimed to have seen the shards hurled like bloody projectiles. The window had turned into a woman’s cry, into the sounds of a torn brassiere and broken matrix. She’s being raped, some of us thought-killed, imagined others-and we all rushed up the stairs. The metal apartment door was jammed. There was no way to open it; the strongest among us slammed against it unsuccessfully. The next-door neighbor called the police but the line was continuously busy. Let’s go get a patrol car, somebody proposed, and two of the other neighbors dashed down to the street. I stayed behind, striking the flat metal of the door with my palms. There was no response from inside and we wouldn’t hear anything again. I was soon informed that the condo was vacant and that the owner had put bars on the bathroom windows.

After a while, the neighbors who had gone in search of a patrol car returned with a promise from a couple of officers to come right away; we elicited the same hope from the phone when a bureaucratic voice finally responded and asked us to spell out the address and summarize the facts. Yes, said the neighbor, it happened about an hour ago, around 2 p.m.

But another hour went by and still the authorities didn’t show. We called again; we even tried the Red Cross, the Green Cross, the fire department-but the phones were dead, busy, or rang endlessly without an answer. It was horrible not being able to do anything, feeling so impotent next to that door blocking our way; we were sure the woman who’d screamed was still alive. We couldn’t hear a thing but we desperately wanted to help her. Plus, the rapist, the killer, was still in there, because no one had left the place after the screams.

I ran down to the street to look for another patrol car, but there wasn’t a single cop, nor an ambulance-nobody. I walked around for a long time and finally, exhausted, I returned to the building, hoping somebody had shown up. But when I saw the others taking action, now with tools, trying to break the locks, I began to curse the irresponsibility of the cops. After all, it was almost 6 p.m. and growing dark and still no help had arrived.

We tried everything with the tools we had: a chisel to loosen the frame, a pickax for leverage to pop the door. But we only managed to chip the point of the chisel and the wall showed barely a scratch. It was even worse with the pickax, because it slipped and cut the leg of the guy from apartment 7, who, accompanied by his wife and a few other neighbors, had to be taken to the hospital, he was bleeding so much.

Then it was after 9 p.m. and nobody had eaten. A neighbor brought coffee for everyone and glorious tacos filled with refried beans. My husband had to stay in bed, she said, because at his age and with all the commotion he’s not feeling well. He’s put up with a lot, we all said, and we thanked her for the tacos. Go take care of him, someone suggested. Don’t worry about us, we understand.

By 11 p.m., those of us who were still there sat down on the stairs, at the foot of that damn door that refused to yield to our demands; worn out, we didn’t even have the energy to bitch about the police.

It was useless to continue keeping watch: we couldn’t go in and we couldn’t hear anything. Perhaps there wasn’t anybody alive to help anymore, perhaps it was too late. Perhaps the killer, the rapist, had gotten away before we’d arrived. We weren’t sure about anything anymore: our certainties had gradually given way to fatigue. What do we do? asked the tenant from apartment 10; he had to go to work in just a few hours. And me, I have a trigonometry test first thing in the morning, said the guy living in apartment 8. The question of what to do floated about on the stairs for a few minutes until I articulated it again: so what do we do? Somebody proposed we take turns on guard duty until dawn, when we could send somebody down to the station to file a complaint and demand that the cops come. But that idea didn’t go anywhere because nobody wanted to stay alone by the door, which could open at any moment and release the rapist or killer; and who could guarantee that it would be just one and not two, and that they wouldn’t be armed? I don’t live in this building, but across the street, I said. Anyway, I need to go home to see if I got a call because I’m expecting a confirmation on a business trip. We each began explaining our needs and by 2 a.m., without having decided who’d go to the station to file the complaint, we decided to just leave.

The message I was hoping for was waiting on my answering machine: the reservation code for a flight that would free me from Mexico City for a week. I hardly had time to pack my suitcase, call for a taxi, and sleep a couple of hours. As soon as I got to the airport I decided to forget about the screams, to concentrate; I had to get my head straight to deal with my business in Guadalajara, to not mess it up. With distance, talk about work, calls to the office, and the detailed report I had to submit upon my return, there was no way I could think about anything else, and the scene on the stairs began to seem to me more like a nightmare than a lived experience.

A month after I got back to Mexico City, I was crossing the street and ran into the man whose leg had been hurt with the pickax. He didn’t know anything either, because his leg had become infected and, between medical appointments and his work, he hadn’t had time to ask about the outcome of that ill-fated night, and neither had his wife. After the accident, she didn’t want to hear any more about it.

Time passed with the rhythm of daily life, and one night, by chance, I bumped into the guy from apartment 10 at the local supermarket; it was the man with whom I had complained the most about the police for hours in front of that damn door. No, as far as I know, nothing’s happened, he said. What? I exclaimed, indignant; seeing him had revived the memory of the screams that came from that poor dead woman, because she had definitely been killed. Yes, he responded, I think they killed her too. But then, I asked, how is it possible that nobody went to the station and filed a report; wasn’t the door finally busted down? No, not that I know of, he said, shrugging his shoulders, then added: we all remember the incident, we even lower our voices when we pass the metal door. Even the next door neighbor, remember? The one who called and called the police? She’s going to move or maybe she already has; she told me last week when I saw her taking boxes up to her apartment. We must do something! I insisted, furious, as if I were determined to go and personally file the report. But you, why would you commit yourself to going to the station? You don’t even live in the building. I stared at him; it had been almost two months… The supermarket cashier then said: That will be 275 pesos. Do you have a parking ticket for validation? I handed over the money, mechanically, picked up my change, and said goodbye to the neighbor.