Mexico City Noir (8 page)
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!”
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.
