Mexico City Noir (2 page)
Another shared element in the stories that follow is an interest in experimentation, in crossing narrative planes, points of view. The neodetective story born in Mexico is not only a social literature but also one with an appetite for moving outside the traditional boundaries of genre.
Mexico City Noir
may not be sponsored by the city’s department of tourism, but if anyone, from anywhere on earth, were to ask whether the writers recommend visiting Mexico City, the response would be both firm and passionate: “Yes, of course.”
Because this is the best city on the planet, in spite of itself.
Paco Ignacio Taibo II
Mexico City
October 2009
F
eet moving: a step, another, then one more. Eyes stare at the squares that make up the sidewalk. Stubborn hands grip the supermarket cart carrying all his things: a poncho, a plate and a pewter spoon, two shabby blankets, a plastic cup, a sun-bleached photo of a woman and a boy, a sweater, a paper bag filled with butts and three cigarettes, barely worn sneakers, a bottle with traces of liquor, several pieces of cardboard, and two empty boxes. His life: what remains of it. He pushes. He moves forward, barely registering the faces passing in the opposite direction. I don’t look. I never pay attention. I haven’t seen a thing, chief, I swear. Around here, I don’t even look at the houses or buildings, just the street signs to know where I’m going. He walks on, not listening to the roar of the engines, or the screams of the horns around the public square, or the voices, or the screeching of tires. I’m nobody. No. I didn’t hear anything. I never hear anything. He was a skinny thing, you know. He doesn’t notice the food vendors, even though they arouse something in him, at the bottom of his belly. He goes on, not feeling the rain, the heat, or the cold. He just keeps moving, measuring the sidewalk through the cart’s wire grid, swerving the wheels to avoid the curbs and holes. Like he does every day, all day long.
Yes, he walks without hearing, without seeing. Always the same. Until the arrival of one of the gray-uniformed security guards from the Secretariat of Communications and Transportation, who opens the door to the parking lot before settling behind the tollbooth window. If it’s the old man with the white mustache on the day shift, he pokes him in the chest with the stick hanging off his waist. But if it’s the fat red-faced guy, he kicks him in the ribs—but softly, without any intention of hurting him.
“C’mon, Vikingo, it’s dawn already. Get a move on.”
And, still between dreams, he asks himself who that Vikingo they’re referring to could be, until, in the midst of a stomachache, cramps, and his own mind’s fogginess, a distant image comes to him of a dim red mane and an unkempt beard, which he remembers seeing in a mirror or reflected on some window.
I am Vikingo.
But not before—he didn’t have a beard before. But yes: Vikingo. Nobody. And so he struggles clumsily to stand up while his swollen tongue pries itself off the inside of his mouth to offer one, two, a thousand apologies.
“Sorry, chief, I didn’t hear you, I swear …”
“You don’t have to swear anything to me. Look how filthy you are today. You asshole, you probably cut yourself with a bottle, right?”
“I’m nobody. No. I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Look, take your damn cart and get outta here. People are gonna be coming to work soon. If the supervisor sees you, he’ll probably fire me for letting a huevón like you sleep in the doorway.”
That’s why he’s up so early, moving his feet and pushing his cart. At first, slowly, trying to ignore the swelling of his joints, the violent beating in his temples. He crosses the avenue amidst cars braking and motorists’ profanities as they head downtown, and he inhales the morning smog as he nears the public square where he parades his humanity before the rushing clerks, the old women on their way home from 8 a.m. Mass at Romero de Terreros, and all the morning joggers.
Everyone turns away, some with disgust, others with fear, when they see his enormous figure dressed in multicolored pants, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, and the grease-stained coat he drags behind him. Vikingo lifts his gaze, but then covers his eyes with his hand, as if the brightness of the sun brings him bad memories. Later he slowly rounds the public square, over and over again, hoping that at the end of these turns, blackness will have settled in the skies above the city. He doesn’t rest on any of the stone benches, he doesn’t go near the fountain, he doesn’t stroll in the garden, he doesn’t walk between the trees. He never leaves the brick-colored pavement. He walks for hours to exhaust himself, to stop thinking. To get rid of the images from a life he lived many years ago. To give the neighbors time to throw something worth eating or drinking in the trash. To forget about what happens on the streets at night: what happened last night.
Something that has nothing to do with his surroundings makes him stop suddenly. He directs his focus to the treetops; the honking of the zanates reminds him of a man fleeing between shadows. The man screamed, just like those birds are doing right now. Insults could be heard. Yes. Was it yesterday? Or a different night? His memory strives to capture the data, but it’s too foggy. He resumes his walk and shakes his head in denial. No, I haven’t seen a thing. I swear, chief. I just walk. I don’t know how to do anything else. I just walk around. I like Narvarte because it’s a neighborhood with a lot of trees and birds. Nobody bothers me. I walk around the area not seeing a thing, not hearing a thing. I’m nobody. I don’t even have a name.
The screeching birds distract him again. Vikingo searches the tangle of branches until he distinguishes a brown fluttering in the foliage. He smiles and steps off again. I never see anything and never hear anything. Just the birds. A step. Another. Then one more. Like that, chief. Yeah, you know, right?
The wheels of the cart squeak as if they want his attention. He reviews his load and readjusts it without slowing down. He used to carry more things: portfolios with papers from work, a wallet with IDs but no money, a ring of keys, a comb, a watch, a neck tie. That was another time, before he moved over near Parque Delta, which filled up whenever there was a baseball game with people who called him Vikingo because, according to one of the drunks, he looked a lot like a guy who played for the Diablos Rojos. When they demolished the park to build a mall, he had to look for another place to live and lost his things in the process. Or was it one of the times he was picked up by the police? He’d rather not remember.
He maneuvers to avoid two young women dressed in matching skirts and coats who carry greasy paper grocery bags. He dodges a man wearing a tie who scrapes his teeth with a toothpick. A senior citizen looking for a bench to rest. And a raucous group of teenagers sporting white shirts and pants making their way home. He goes in circles, in many circles. The soles of his feet begin to burn. A step. Another.
I don’t even have a name, chief. Yes, Vikingo. That’s a name? Although I did have one before. Yes. Fernando, I think. Like the boy in the photo. The one with his mother. When he was alive. Now I’m nobody.
A woman in a helmet and a blue uniform with a billy club in her hand crosses the public square just a few meters ahead of him and Vikingo is gripped with fear. He slows his steps. The image of the fleeing man reappears in his memory. No, I’m not Fernando. Fernando was that other guy. He was falling. He ran into me and the others shouted his name. I didn’t see anything. I’m nobody.
He stops. His breathing is agitated. He asks himself if he has already gone this way.
A girl is standing nearby, staring right at him. She looks him up and down, from his messy red hair to the scabs on his ankles. She glances, surprised at Vikingo’s hands, and moves away with a gesture of repulsion.
Yes, girl, I haven’t washed,
he thinks to himself, but he immediately forgets about her to peer out across the boulevard that opens before him, a meridian full of dry palms and wide sidewalks crowded with people around the taco, tamale, cake, and juice stands. The air is loaded with dense, sweet, sticky smells. He drives the cart toward the flow and this time, yes, he clearly hears the hissing of tires and the insults. One of the drivers even opens the car door, furious as he gets out of his vehicle, but as soon as he gets a good look at the vagabond he shuts the door without saying a word.
Vikingo reaches the sidewalk across the street and pauses at a lamppost where there’s a poster:
Mistreatment Meeting
. As they walk by, the men and women look at him intently. They examine his clothing with curiosity, as if they can’t believe a man can wear so many things. Then they see his stained sleeves, his hands, and they quickly move away from him. He raises his face and inhales the city air: there’s a strong scent of excrement and blood. A step. Another. Then one more. He walks. He pushes. Just like he pushed last night. He was Fernando. Yes. Fernando what? I’m nobody. I didn’t see anything, chief, I swear. This way.
Clerks, housewives, and students chew and drink with determination, their faces reflecting pleasure and haste. They talk incessantly among themselves, joke around, laugh. Their sounds reverberate in Vikingo’s eardrums. Some finish eating and light cigarettes, blowing smoke toward the sky, where the wisps join all the emanations from the cars.
They really do have a life,
says Vikingo to himself, without daring to look at them too much. They have names. Fernando or Juan or Lupe. They are somebody. Not me. I don’t even have a name. The blurred memory of the previous night provokes an intense desire in him to feel tobacco smoke scraping his throat, filling his lungs. With his head down, he approaches a guy lighting a cigarette but before he can say a word, the man backs away. So Vikingo drops his head even lower and continues along. He digs inside the brown paper bag. He wants to find the smallest butt, yet comes up with one of the longest. It’s stained, sticky, just like his hands. He brings it to his nose and his mouth floods with copper-flavored saliva. A step. Another. Then one more. I don’t have matches.
He approaches one of the vendors, who has several cuts of meat, clusters of guts, and long sausages frying in a pot. The people eating inside the stall grow quiet when they see him. Vikingo nods, he’s about to walk past when he notices an empty seat at the far end of the counter. The surface is jammed with plates of leftovers, green and red sauces, minced onion, salads, and salt shakers. Sausages hang from above, cut like flowers, as if they’ve been manipulated into serving as décor for the place. A guy in a dirty white apron and a cap splattered with blood strikes a block of wood with a knife; it’s a rhythmic beat, almost musical. Greasy, sharp scents grow more intense, but Vikingo doesn’t smell any of it, only the tobacco that still floods his nasal cavities. He parks his cart next to a garbage can and approaches the man with the apron, who smiles.
“What’s up, Vikingo? You eat already? You want a taco?” “Fernando was running …” the bum says while shaking his head. He holds up the hand with the cigarette. “I need a light.”
“Of course, my brother. Whatever you need. Hold on a sec.”
The man in the apron puts two tacos in front of Vikingo as the others watch uneasily. He lifts a box of matches from his work station, pulls one out, and lights it. Vikingo doesn’t even look at the tacos. He puts the cigarette butt between his lips and leans toward the flame. He inhales. Coughs.
“Hey, what’s on your hands, dude?”
Vikingo glances at the taco vendor’s blood-stained apron. The hand holding the butt trembles. His knees too. He’s in a hurry to get away but talks instead.
“He ran into me and I pushed him away. I don’t know anything. I just walk. A step. Another. I’m nobody.”
“Who ran into you?”
“He was falling …”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see anything, chief. I don’t understand. Nothing. I didn’t hear anything either. I don’t even have a name, although I used to. Thanks for the light. A step. Then another.”
“Damn, Vikingo, you’re getting worse by the day. Órale, look at yourself.”
Now his heart beats faster. He breathes hard, without savoring the smoke, while gastric juices groan in his belly. I’m thirsty and I didn’t see anything. Thirst. He stares at the bottle, where there’s still a little something to drink, but he wants to leave it for later, because he senses he’s going to need it more then. He tries to count each of his steps, each meter traversed, because the image of the running man, of Fernando, has stuck in his memory and he can’t erase it. The street people and the vendors multiply on the sidewalk and he must walk slower to avoid hitting anybody with his cart. Just ahead, there’s a busy metro station. He doesn’t like crowds. He prefers solitude. But the streets here are only deserted at night. Vikingo looks at the sky: the sun hasn’t finished its route. There’s still a lot of time before dusk.
He came toward me. I didn’t see anything, chief. I didn’t have time to step aside. No. All I could do was move my cart. Fernando, yes. But I didn’t see him. And I didn’t hear him either. No. Nothing. I just walk and walk. He was falling. Bent. Holding his belly. He ran right into me and I had to push him off so
I
wouldn’t fall. That’s why my hands are dirty. There were others behind him.
When the cigarette ember almost reaches the filter, he puts his hand in the paper bag again and plucks another butt. He lights it with the dying end of the last cigarette and desperately sucks in the smoke.
There are fewer people on this block and the passersby don’t look at him as much. A shoeshine boy greets him but he doesn’t notice. He watches the familiar faces in the stores, behind the counters. He knows the neighborhood, the people know him too, and that calms him down. He crosses a street, turns the corner. There are fewer people each time. He finally stops in front of the church. That’s where the chief is, the Big Chief, he thinks, as he stares at the cross in the bell tower and the steps that lead inside. He feels the urge to go in the temple and sit down in one of the pews alongside the old women praying. Perhaps he can find peace there. Yes, sitting in a pew in silence. He used to do it back in the day. Back when he would spend the nights around Parque Delta with others like himself. And before that. When he had a name and lived in a house with a woman and a boy.
But as soon as they form, the memories escape from his brain. He extracts yet another butt and lights it with the previous one. Yes. Fernando ran into me. I didn’t see him. I didn’t see the others either. No, chief, I swear it. I didn’t see the plates. Or the uniforms. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I’m nobody. Not even the shots in the belly. Goodbye, Big Chief. I’ll visit some other day, when it’s calmer.