“You must get a lot of comments about your name,” Mr. Esmeralda says.
“Yes. ‘Like the revolutionary hero?’ is what people usually say.”
Mr. Esmeralda laughs. “I shouldn’t laugh. I named my daughter Perla Rubi.”
“It’s a nice name. I like it.”
Mr. Esmeralda studies Emiliano for a few seconds, then uncrosses his legs. “As my wife no doubt told you, we are very grateful that you are Perla Rubi’s friend.” This time Emiliano doesn’t mind being referred to as a friend. Mr. Esmeralda says it without any emphasis, in the same tone as the rest of his words. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure Colegio México was the right choice for Perla Rubi. It’s not in the best part of town and the security is not—well, it doesn’t really inspire confidence.” Emiliano laughs and immediately feels guilty for doing so. He likes Cristobal. “But Perla Rubi wanted to go there. She wanted to play for one of the best volleyball teams in the city and she wanted to be challenged academically. Colegio México has a very rigorous academic curriculum.”
“Yes,” Emiliano says, “extremely rigorous.”
The way he says it makes Mr. Esmeralda laugh again. “So I was happy to hear that someone like you was watching over her. With all the kidnappings that still take place, it made me feel better that you were with her after school. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.” It never crossed his mind that he was protecting Perla Rubi. He always stayed with her after school because he did not want to miss a single second of her company. But maybe that’s how rich parents think: that bad people want to kidnap their kids for ransom.
There’s a long moment of silence, and Emiliano wonders if the conversation is over. He shifts in his seat as if to stand.
“Stay a little longer,” Mr. Esmeralda says. “Although you’re probably eager to go downstairs and spend some quality time with Perla Rubi’s cousins.”
“Yes. We have a lot of polo to discuss.”
Mr. Esmeralda laughs a third time. Who knew Emiliano could be so funny? “I understand. I don’t really care that much for those spoiled brats myself, but they’re family.”
“They’re okay,” he says cautiously.
“They are rich, arrogant, lazy dandies who think they’re better than people like you, and you know it.”
Emiliano smiles.
“Perla Rubi is not like that. Don’t you think?”
“Yes. I mean no, she’s not arrogant … or lazy.”
Mr. Esmeralda stretches out his left hand and rests it on the glass desk. He taps his fingers on an imaginary piano as he looks around his office. Emiliano follows his eyes and notices the same colorful Mexican paintings he saw throughout the house.
“When I was your age”—Mr. Esmeralda sits back and returns his gaze to Emiliano—“I also made papier-mâché animals and sold them to tourists from El Paso. My father had a small store that sold Mexican souvenirs. The whole store was about the size of this office. I stood on the main street with my parrots and bulls and tried to lure tourists down an alleyway to the store. My parents insisted I finish high school, but after that, I went to work in a factory, making those famous Mexican tiles everyone loves so much. I helped my parents and made sure my younger sisters finished school. I saved, invested, and went to law school eventually, and after a few years, I started my own firm. All I have today is the product of hard work.”
Mr. Esmeralda pauses. “The parents of Perla Rubi’s cousins were just as poor as I was. But somehow they forgot to pass on to their children all the values that got them where they are now.”
The cell phone vibrates on the glass desk and Mr. Esmeralda reaches for it and reads a message. He puts the phone on the desk facedown.
“When I opened my own firm, I tried to take the kind of cases that helped people. Poor store owners like my father who were losing their businesses or their homes. I helped the small guys. I was a good, conscientious, clean lawyer.” Mr. Esmeralda clears his throat. “But things happened. I wanted to grow, personally and professionally. I wanted to take care of my family but … it was not possible to do that without being a part of this city, such as it is.”
There is a note of regret in Mr. Esmeralda’s voice. His openness and vulnerability surprises Emiliano. Then he slides to the front of his chair, an intense look in his eyes.
“There’s no way to be successful in Mexico without getting dirty. The best one can do is control the degree of dirt. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Emiliano nods involuntarily.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
The way he asks, as if he really wants the truth, makes Emiliano respond with what is foremost in his mind. “What do you mean, ‘getting dirty’?”
Mr. Esmeralda pauses. “Good, good,” he says, sitting back, crossing his arms. “Now I see why people are impressed with you. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Esmeralda stares at him, a serious look on his face. Emiliano stares back, trying not to feel uncomfortable or speak just to fill the silence. Finally, Mr. Esmeralda says, “I got a call an hour or so ago from Enrique Cortázar. One of my clients. You know his son, Armando, I believe.”
A current of fear travels through Emiliano. Is he going to get accused of stealing the car?
“Enrique tells me that you made a good impression on a business associate and close friend of his, Alfredo Reyes.”
“You know Alfredo Reyes?” Emiliano doesn’t mean to sound as shocked as he is.
“Of course I know him. This city is a like a spiderweb. Every thread is connected directly or indirectly to every other thread. Enrique Cortázar, Alfredo Reyes, myself, we are businessmen. The success of any organization depends on the quality of the people who work there. These people, they see potential in you. That is very special. The kind of trust that was shown to you today is not given easily. Not many people are invited to Alfredo Reyes’s house or are offered an opportunity to work with him.”
Emiliano rubs the back of his scalp. “They want me to …”
“Stop,” Mr. Esmeralda commands. “I don’t need to know the details. All I want to do is tell you that … growing up means, unfortunately, expanding our views of what we consider good and bad. Within that larger view, we do what we can for our families, we create jobs, we help the less fortunate.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “You asked me what I meant by ‘getting dirty.’ Getting dirty means doing what we have to do for our families and for those around us, given the realities of where we live, in this mess of a life that is good and bad.”
“Good and bad,” Emiliano says to himself.
“Do you know how Colegio México is able to give soccer scholarships to young men like you? Because of businessmen like Mr. Cortázar and myself. When Brother Patricio asked for help, I called Mr. Cortázar and others, and we gave. You are already part of the web, if you think about it.”
Emiliano remembers the calls for donations Brother Patricio makes every year.
Mr. Esmeralda continues, his voice soft and warm, the way Emiliano’s father sometimes spoke to him. “I know a little bit about you from what my daughter and my wife have told me, and I know that your first instinct is to reject Mr. Reyes and his offer. Part of you is probably disgusted by what he proposed.”
Emiliano is silent.
“I know because that was my first reaction to a similar offer when I was only a little older than you, and like I said, you remind me of me. But look.” Mr. Esmeralda opens his arms. “I’m also a good person. I want the best for my wife and daughter. I’m not greedy. I make enough to live comfortably. I could be making more, but I don’t. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“So. Think about what I said to you today. Think about the offer that Mr. Reyes made to you. Consider all the implications, said and unsaid, and get back to Mr. Reyes one way or another. Don’t make him wait too long. Get back to him no later than Monday. All right?”
Emiliano nods. “All right.”
Mr. Esmeralda stands and Emiliano does as well. “Come on. I’ll take you back to Perla Rubi and her scintillating cousins.”
They walk through the house in silence, Mr. Esmeralda half a step ahead of Emiliano. As they go down the stairs, he notices a series of photographs of Perla Rubi. They are posed portraits, the kind done in a studio or by a professional photographer who comes to your home. Mr. Esmeralda sees Emiliano looking at a photograph of Perla Rubi when she was four or five. She’s wearing a charro outfit and holding a lasso in her hand.
“You know,” Mr. Esmeralda says, putting his arm around Emiliano’s shoulders, “children don’t grow up as well as Perla Rubi has without rules. One of the rules we have been very strict about is that dating and boys are not going to be a part of her life until she graduates from high school. Her focus during these years needs to be on school, and whatever extra energy she has, she can use in volleyball.”
Now it makes sense to Emiliano why Perla Rubi did not want to say openly that they were girlfriend and boyfriend. He shouldn’t have resented her for that. He should have understood.
“On the other hand,” Mr. Esmeralda continues, “I’m no fool and neither is Judith. If the rope is too tight, the horse will break it. That’s why we didn’t mind when Perla Rubi told us you had become a good friend to her. Someday she’ll find the right person and fall in love and get married. But I will tell you this: When that day comes, I am going to make sure that the man she marries is a hardworking man who has the courage to do whatever it takes to care for her. To make whatever sacrifice is needed on her behalf. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Emiliano?”
Emiliano gazes into Mr. Esmeralda’s eyes for as long as he can. Finally, he has to look away. He stares at the picture of the child Perla Rubi in front of him. She’s confident and secure, even a little cocky. She’s felt no hardship in her life and sees no hardship in her future. Emiliano wants to take care of her, to do whatever it takes to give her everything she wants and needs. He knows Mr. Esmeralda wants that too.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Emiliano says.
“Good.”
They walk through the rest of the house, Mr. Esmeralda speaking quickly as he waves and nods to guests. “I saw you play in Chihuahua, you know.”
“Perla Rubi told me you were there.”
“Your technical skills are superior and your stamina is impressive. I don’t think you were even breathing hard at any point in the game. But you know what I liked the most about how you play?”
Emiliano shakes his head. They pass through the kitchen. He sees his mother’s cake platter on a counter next to a huge stainless steel refrigerator.
“I liked how you played with a kind of controlled anger. You know what I mean?”
Emiliano has never thought of his concentration on the field as anger, controlled or otherwise. What he had when he played was not anger but an ability to see the whole field, almost as if he were calmly hovering above it. They stand in front of the closed glass doors that lead to the terrace and the party. Mr. Esmeralda puts his hand on the handle of the door.
“That kind of intensity is a precious gift, Emiliano. Don’t waste it.”
He looks at Emiliano one last time, making sure all the implications of his message are received. Then he opens the door and waves at Perla Rubi and his wife at the other end of the terrace.
“What were you guys talking about for so long?” Perla Rubi asks when they approach.
“A little business, a little getting to know each other,” Mr. Esmeralda says. “Right, Emiliano?”
“Right,” Emiliano answers. The expectant looks on Perla Rubi’s and Mrs. Esmeralda’s faces indicate that more explanation is needed. “I … we …” he stammers.
“One of my best clients called me this afternoon to tell me that a very influential business associate had been very impressed with Emiliano. He wants Emiliano to do business with him.”
“Really?” Perla Rubi asks, excited.
“My folk art business,” Emiliano says. Hopefully, they can leave it at that.
“And?” Perla Rubi asks, raising her eyebrows expectantly. “Are you going to do it?”
Emiliano knows that a yes will light her face with joy. Mrs. Esmeralda watches her like a parent watching a child unwrap a Christmas present. If he says yes, Mr. Esmeralda will know he’ll be the type of man who can take care of Perla Rubi. But the image of little Marta setting up the fan with her trembling hand flashes through his mind.
He forces himself to speak. “I’m going to seriously consider it. I’ll think about it this weekend and let him know on Monday,” he says, glancing quickly at Mr. Esmeralda.
“That’s right,” Mr. Esmeralda says. “All important decisions should be considered carefully.” Looking at his wife, he adds, “Right, sweetie?”
“Yes. They should.” The way she says it makes Emiliano think Mr. Esmeralda has on occasion acted on important decisions without consulting his wife. She smiles. “Now, enough business talk for one day. Go dance, you two.”
Perla Rubi takes Emiliano’s hand and leads him to the section of the terrace where a DJ has set up. She puts her arms around his shoulders, and they begin to dance to a slow ballad. There is space between them, and yet Emiliano can feel her warm breath on his neck. “They really like you,” she says, pulling back to look at him.
“Who? Your cousins?”
“Very funny. You know who. My parents. Papá wouldn’t have talked to you for so long if he didn’t. You have to tell me every single thing he said. And Mamá, she wouldn’t say ‘Go dance, you two’ if she didn’t really like you.”
“They like me,” Emiliano teases, “because I’m the big tough guy who protects you while you’re waiting for your mom or Jaime to pick you up after school.”
“Stop it.” She laughs. “First of all, you’re not big and tough, and second of all, I can take care of myself.” She moves a little closer. Emiliano can smell wildflowers in her hair. “I’m glad they like you,” she says softly. “I hope you say yes to my father’s client. Papá knows everyone. He’ll help you.” The music stops, but Perla Rubi keeps her head close to his. “I like thinking you’ll be connected to my father’s work. It’s like you’ll be part of the family.”
Emiliano feels a knot in his throat, hot liquid in his eyes. He brings Perla Rubi closer to him. He hugs her silently until he can feel the wave of emotion recede. Then, when the music starts again, she starts to sway softly and he follows her movement. They dance like that, hardly moving, and when the song is over, Perla Rubi holds his hand and meets his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Perla Rubi touches his heart. “For this.”
He smiles.
“Do you want to sit down?” she asks. “You haven’t had anything to eat.”
“Listen,” Emiliano says, biting his lip. “Would you mind very much if I went home early?”
“Why?”
He tries to smile. “Honestly, this dance and this conversation are so nice that I don’t want the moment to be ruined by what’s coming next.”
Perla Rubi follows Emiliano’s eyes and sees Federico raising a bottle of champagne. He motions for them to come to his table, but she ignores him. “I’m sorry. He’s a harmless snob. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Emiliano says. “But I am kind of worried about the Mercedes I drove here. I want to make sure I park it in a safe place tonight. Paco said I could leave it in his backyard, but I don’t want to get there after everyone’s asleep.”
“It’s only nine o’clock, Emiliano. No one goes to sleep this early.”
“I know. It’s just been a long, long day and I …”
“Okay. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow, don’t forget. We’re playing Sacred Heart at home. Come by and say hello.”
“I’ll be there.”
She takes his hand and leads him down the back stairs of the ter
race. She glances around to make sure no one can see them, and then she leans over very slowly and kisses him on the lips. The kiss is soft, lingering, full of more to come.
“Good-bye, Emiliano Zapata.”
“Good-bye, Perla Rubi Esmeralda.”
The way she looks at him, the smile she gives him, tells Emiliano that the kiss meant all that it promised.
The banquet room of El Camino Real Hotel can barely fit all of the guests attending Guillermo’s daughter’s quinceañera. The twenty round tables are supposed to sit ten people each, but that’s not enough space for everyone who showed up uninvited, so two additional people have been squeezed around each table. Sara sits between Mami and Juana, so she doesn’t have to engage in small talk with strangers, but she finds herself wishing she wasn’t sitting next to Juana. Juana is her mentor, the person who gave her an unpaid internship when she was in high school, permanent employment as soon as she graduated, and progressively harder assignments so that she could grow as a reporter and as a writer. She fought Felipe to have Sara’s article about Linda printed, even though it was not written in the objective journalistic style that Felipe insisted on. Most of all, Juana is a relentless advocate against all the different forms of violence, physical and otherwise, perpetrated against women. But Sara promised Ernesto she would not tell anyone about Hinojosa, not even Juana, and with her mind full of Linda and Erica, she’s afraid she will break that promise.
When Ernesto shows up late, he squeezes in at their table, and Sara can tell by his fake smile that he’s as unhappy to be there as she is. As the evening wears on, she can almost see his mind tallying up the cost of each champagne bottle popped, each cocktail served at the open bar. Every time a tuxedoed waiter brings yet another dish or a new bottle of wine to the table, Ernesto sighs, shakes his head, and rolls his eyes at Sara. Watching Ernesto’s various grimaces is the only enjoyable part of the evening for her. That, and seeing her mother laugh.
During one of the old Mexican rancheras, Mami leans over to Sara and says, “Whenever I hear that music, I think of your father.”
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