Death in Veracruz (11 page)

“That's all been taken care of, Lacho,” Miranda went on. “The people are behind me, I can't lose. You're more important than
La Quina.
That's what everybody says in Tamaulipas, as well as here.”

“Stop bullshitting, brother. It's important not to shoot your mouth off,” Pizarro said as he got to his feet. “What I'm telling you is this. You know what your chances are if you run, but, remember, no one backs a loser. In other words, play politics the right way, and forget about settling personal scores. Don't break party ranks. Help your people get ahead. I've said time and again that you don't just win by winning. Especially if you're plotting against Joaquin. Loyalty is what comes first in life. Didn't they teach you that?”

“But everyone's behind me, Lacho.”

“I've told you what I know. Now. it's up to you to learn what's good for you. If you don't, then just carry on, and at the end of the day we'll see who's right. Meanwhile, this show is over, and it's time to hit the road.”

As soon as he spoke, he bolted for the door. Roibal yanked my arm and lodged me squarely back into the scrum near Pizarro. His bodyguards piloted him through the gauntlet of instant barriers and walky-talkies, hallway by hallway to the elevator and the street.

Instead of Pizarro's car, we now climbed into a large van. Its interior was outfitted with chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet and a table where Roibal placed a report with blue covers for Pizarro. He spoke to the driver in their odd code: “L-1 in zero. Leaving for G-23 in two casings.”

L-1 was code for Pizarro, zero referred to the vehicle we were in, G-23 was for our destination, in this instance the union's farming operation. Casing meant minute.

“Let him know R-1 is staying at Dinner Party,” the driver went on “until L-1 arrives at 05. And everyone on 4. Over.”

R-1 was Roibal, Dinner Party was Pizarro's house, 05 meant 5 p.m., and 4 meant all points bulletin. It was a complicated and ridiculous code that changed every three or four months. At the time, 61 meant “wait”, 53 was “be advised”; 57 was “affirmative” and 75, “negative”. 58 meant “outsiders listening in”, 34 meant on assignment. Hummingbird 007 meant “danger: prepare to fire”.

“To La Mesopotamia,” Pizarro said when we had settled in.

Another guard climbed in the front. From under the seat he pulled out a submachine gun and a pistol whose holster he left on the seat. A black Maverick pulled out in front of us with three guards inside, and a Galaxy fell in behind us with two more.

We made our way through the streets of Poza Rica towards the road north to Tuxpan. The noonday sun seemed to melt the asphalt beneath the tires of tanker trucks, trailer trucks, and dump trucks parked at the corners. Passenger buses unable to negotiate the narrow streets lurched to a halt, spewing out plumes of black smoke from poorly refined diesel fuel. In the distance, a homely array of squat buildings crept along the horizon in an astonishing display of money and bad taste topped by a clear blue sky riddled at intervals by smoke from the gas flares surrounding the city. Flames from the stacks made the air around them shimmer and punctuated the skyline with small dashes of soot. We crawled past imported eighteen-wheelers, pickups, and cranes, symbols of a kinetic petro-civilization, its machinery, and its debris. A bulky accumulation of wealth had grown up with no traditions or culture of its own. The city was full of junkyards piled with drills, pulleys, and the rusting hulks of cast-off vehicles and the high-priced vulgarity of first class hotels with polarized windows set in gold frames. Broad thoroughfares were puddled with oil stains, clogged with junk cars, and lined with upscale restaurants with fried food stands in the doorway. The same streets served as a stage for fire-eaters displaying their prowess among the passersby. On the way out of Tuxpan a pair of young girls stood by the side of the road in short white skirts with burst zippers. They were sun-burnt the color of cinnamon and as thin and taut as two pieces of wire. They sucked on wedges of oranges and threw the rinds into a ditch filled with beer cans and garbage next to the sidewalk.

“Twenty years ago there were explosions around here every couple of months,” Pizarro said. “When there was a gas leak, the whole town would run because you never knew where something was about to blow up. You didn't have to worry about that where you come from.”

“No. All we had to worry about was malaria and polio.”

“And decent land, my friend, which is the worst disease of all.” Pizarro sounded distracted as if he were reciting a lesson learned by rote. “That's been the main cause of death in Veracruz throughout its history.”

“Before oil?”

“Before and after oil, my friend. People come here from the farm every day with the same old story. A guy got killed for refusing to rent. Another guy got killed for refusing to sell, and still another for planting a crop on someone else's land. And then there's the guy killed because his cattle got into somebody's cornfield. The death toll is beyond counting.”

“Which is why you travel in an armored van?”

“The van is armored to protect you,” Pizarro replied ironically. “My people look out for me, the ones behind us and the ones in front. But nobody's looking out for you, and nobody's going to.”

The question annoyed him. He sat up straight in his seat and began shuffling the papers Roibal had given him, underlining them with an emphasis that made it clear he was ignoring me. Through the window I saw eroded fields, flaring smokestacks, the footprint of the oil industry on the outskirts of Poza Rica, and several kilometers of factories, oil spills, machine shops and open space buried under a proliferation of metallic trash. I took out a notepad and passed the time writing in it. When I looked up, I found myself gazing into the cold stare of Pizarro, his eyes implacable and lifeless, sizing me up before re-immersing himself in Roibal's report. Forty minutes later, on the far side of El Álamo, we turned down a dirt road. An afternoon wind blew in from the north, bringing with it a blanket of clouds and a blast of heat and humidity left over from the rain that had turned the road to mud the night before.

Five kilometers ahead we pulled up at the gate to La
Mesopotamia. It was an enormous, 5,000 hectare agro-industrial complex, surrounded by wire fencing and
ocote
pines that first hove into view at the beginning of the dirt road. We entered along a robust stand of mangroves that gave way to a corral some 500 meters wide. The guardrails of its whitewashed fences stretched out of sight from east to west, and the center-pivot irrigation system watered some areas while leaving others dry. From the corrals, our dirt road led past housing units, warehouses and the maintenance shops that kept La Mesopotamia humming. We came to a stop before a row of prefab offices with huge red letters on their sides: Mesopotamia.
An achievement of worker power for the people. Don't criticize, work. Oil Workers' Union.

A noisy group of women awaited us. Its leader was a bleached blonde with rolls of flesh overflowing her tight pants. “A cheer for Lacho,” she shouted as Pizarro emerged. The women unleashed a cacophonous full-throated cheer for Pizarro. “You didn't think we'd make it, did you?” The blonde spoke in a style that was part stump speech and part whorehouse. “Well, we're here for Lacho, like it or not. We're here to complain to you about the bastards that wouldn't let us in. Those assholes really know how to treat women.”

It sounded as if their complaints stemmed from recent grievances. Several guards smiled and so did Pizarro.

“Who's the leader of the oil workers' union with the biggest balls?” shouted the blonde without missing a beat.

“Lázaro Pizarro,” was the dissonant response.

“And the biggest stud?” shouted the blonde.

“Lázaro Pizarro,” they all shouted back.

“And the best looking?” shouted a young girl from the rear.

“Lázaro Pizarro,” shouted the others.

“Thank you,” Pizarro said with amusement, “but I can't praise you for your good taste.”

“You're as good as it gets, boss,” the blonde said. She emphasized her words by slapping her hips with the palm of her hand.

Altogether there were about thirty women, some young and some not so young. They clustered about Pizarro. They reached out their hands to touch him and took turns posing for photos with him.

“Thank you,” Pizarro said, “but I'm busy right now. Have a look around the farm. Take them to the pyramid so they can sightsee. We'll get together at dinnertime.”

“We traveled all night to see you, Don Lázaro,” one of them said.

“And we haven't had a bit of sleep,” added another.

“The bridge was out, and the ferry sank,” said a third one.

“Do what I tell you,” Pizarro said. “If you need to sleep, the sheds are over there, and we'll meet later on. Where's the journalist?”

A dozen arms thrust me towards Pizarro from whom I had been separated by the enthusiasm of the cheering squad.

“Shall I drive, Lázaro?” an aide inquired.

“No, not you. You come, Loya,” he told another aide. “And my journalist friend too. We need to talk.”

A young girl cut in front of him. “Don't you remember me?”

“Of course I do, girl. How's Lupe, your mom?”

“She's well, sir.”

“Give her my best. What can I do for you?”

“I'd like you to give me a recommendation, Don Lázaro.”

Pizarro took out a small notepad, tore off a sheet and drew an elaborate green L on it. “Go see Genaro Roibal at union headquarters in Poza Rica. Tell him I sent you, and ask him for whatever you need. And be sure to give my best to your mom, Lupe. It's going on eight years since I saw her.
Tell her to remember me, there's no such thing as a greeting that goes to waste. And give me a kiss.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and we walked towards the van. A guard handed Pizarro a bag of figs. His bad mood had completely vanished.

“Don't you want a fig?” he asked me. “There's nothing like figs and fruits. Aside from Veracruz, nothing in the world compares to natural foods. That's what I eat. I also do yoga, lift some weights, and bathe in cold water. Have a fig. Have as many as you like, my journalist friend.”

We boarded a jeep with oversized tires for a spin around La Mesopotamia with Loya driving and Pizarro next to him in front. I sat in back with a guard.

“Loya's going to be mayor of Poza Rica next year,” Pizarro announced while sucking on a fig. “I'm going to raise ten million pesos for you to pave streets with in the first quarter, Loya. How does that sound? The streets are in shameful condition, wouldn't you say so?”

“Yes, Lacho,” Loya replied.

“Yes, what?” Pizarro was suddenly abrupt.

“The streets,” said Loya. “They're a disgrace.”

“But I'm telling you you're going to get ten million pesos to fix them. Didn't you hear me? Ten million. I'm not asking you to thank me, Loya.” Pizarro spoke without looking at him. “All I want is your loyalty. Hear me well. Your loyalty because without it you don't get anything else. You can be ungrateful, but you can't be disloyal. Because then you're worthless, you forget who you are and what your place is in life, you understand?”

“I understand, Lacho.” Pizarro's insinuations appeared to annoy him. “I told you I'm grateful, and I am. What more do you want me to do? You want me to drop my trousers?”

“Don't be so sensitive, Loya,” Pizarro said with amusement. “You sound like a girl. You know perfectly well
that all I ask from you is loyalty. I got you the mayor's office, and now I'm going to get you ten million pesos. Good deeds speak for themselves, and that's what I want yours to do. Is that perfectly clear or isn't it?”

“Perfectly clear, Lacho.”

We emerged from the mangroves en route to a cluster of buildings surrounded by an impeccably weeded grove planted with oranges and squash. An army of pickers were gathering oranges. They wore khaki union overalls with the inevitable motto on the back:
Destroy to create. Whoever can add can divide.”

“They're volunteer workers from the union,” Pizarro explained. “We all do volunteer work here once a week. A few hours' work never hurt anybody. Those women haven't even been here two hours. They'll get a break, and then they'll eat here at the complex.” He pointed to the buildings that still lay ahead of us. “They eat better than they ever do during the week, luxury fare. Then our buses take them home. Others are coming tomorrow. No one gets hurt, it's like a party. And little by little they create this abundance. Take a good look, my journalist friend. Take a look and then tell what you saw. Don't be sensational, just tell the truth. I don't like to do the talking. That's up to the celebrities, it's their job. Here I just organize and work with my people, that's all.”

Every hundred meters along the roadway was a sign reiterating one of the ideals that guided Pizarro's workers' revolution: “Work will make you free.” “This is where the Revolution of the Oil Workers' Union grows.” “He who chirps and sings all night wakes up poor.” “Don't criticize. Work.” Suddenly, I was overcome by the sensation of having entered a meticulously ordered world apart, a world torn meter by meter from jungles and swamps regardless of the cost in isolation and disease. It catered to the genuine but
empty zeal of its builders whose deeds were summarized in its mottoes.

“Let me tell you,
paisano,”
Pizarro continued, “as one Veracruzan to another, loyalty is the key. Without it we're lost. You need to be loyal to the nation, the country, your homeland, your ideology, your friend. That's what brings you here, isn't it,
paisano?
And it's why I agreed to let you come. You're being loyal to your friend Rojano, right? Of course you are! But I have nothing to hide, and out of my loyalty to those who work with me and their loyalty to me, I don't mind showing you everything we're doing. That's how we fend off the attacks and insults of our enemies. Loyalty gives us the strength to fight back when others are paid to attack us and to win over the indifferent. Loyalty is what lets us make believers of the workers, the people, and the government too. My kind of loyalty gets results, loyalty on behalf of everyone and in plain sight. La Mesopotamia is one of those results. Take a good look,
paisano.
You can't deny what you see with your own eyes.”