Milena, or the Most Beautiful Femur in the World

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  “Yesterday I left at midnight, and today’s looking similar. But I have to know what you’ve found out.”

  “What time is your Page One meeting over? Can I drop in around six?”

  “I’ll wait for you here. Hey—don’t I even get a kiss?”

  “Here’s two. One of them’s decent.”

  Tomás looked at his watch. It was almost five, and his secretary reminded him it was time for the Page One meeting with his editors. He told himself he’d have to get Milena out of his mind and focus on putting together a good layout for the next morning.

  The section coordinators started taking their seats, each with the latest version of their news budget. He was aware of his lack of experience and the adversity of Herminio Guerra, the deputy director, who felt more qualified and criticized his decisions behind his back.

  The editing at El Mundo obeyed an immense collection of habits, codes, and values that Tomás didn’t completely understand. He broke the rules when he asked for the heads of Sports and Culture to show up to the Page One meeting. Normally, the deputy director presented important news from those sections to the group, but Tomás insisted the editors themselves be present. He thought the paper’s approach was too political and wanted to give their topics more weight.

  Today, he tried to keep up the provocation: if his position at the paper was going to be temporary, at least he would make sure it was worthwhile. He waited for everyone to be seated and made a show of counting heads.

  “Thirteen to two,” he said. “Even Prida’s cabinet has a better gender balance than our editorial staff.”

  Those gathered looked at each other, then turned their attention to the only two women present: the Culture editor and the deputy director of graphic design, who was only there because her boss was on vacation.

  No one seemed to care for the comment, least of all the women, who laughed nervously as if to plead forgiveness from their colleagues. It struck Tomás that the misogyny there ran far deeper than he’d believed.

  “Today we’ve got an obvious choice for a headline, the kind you don’t even think about,” Guerra said. “The revenue secretary gave his answer to the government. His declaration could go right across the front page: ‘You have to know numbers to govern.’ That’s a hell of an exchange.”

  Tomás ignored him and told them to run down the day’s news. He said the name of a section and the person in charge laid out the two or three most important stories of the day. The director took notes on his pad. Finally, with a click of the pen, he issued his verdict.

  “We’re going with ‘FIFA intercedes in soccer in Mexico,’ and underneath, ‘Morelia and León have one month to sell their second teams before being expelled.’ And lower down, ‘PRI budget punishes poor.’ Put in a graph and a little table. The centerpiece will be the end of the truce in Ukraine, we’ll put in the photo of the militiaman aiming the mortar.”

  “Sir,” Guerra said, “the revenue secretary’s statement is the first head-on confrontation between the two ministers. They’re the main candidates to succeed Prida. It’s four years from now, but the battle for the candidacy starts now, and we can’t afford to miss out.”

  “Agreed. Put that in third,” he told the graphic designer. “A photo of the two officials facing off, like a boxing match, with their previous declarations, but under the fold. I want the FIFA thing to really stick out.”

  “That’s a mistake,” Guerra said.

  A frozen silence overtook the room. Even the Deputy Director himself was surprised at his audacity.

  “I prize disagreement, Herminio,” Tomás said. “They tell me it’s not common in these parts. Some other time, I’ll take your perspective into consideration, but not now. Journalists have turned into underlings of the political class, a mirror of government officials, and as a consequence, we’ve started making the news for them. People are right to quit reading. These little dustups among politicians matter mostly to the politicians themselves. From this day forward, we’re going to prioritize the topics that most affect the lives of our present and future readers. Now then, let’s get to work,” Tomás concluded, standing up.

  He returned to his desk, and his hands quivered as he picked up his cold cup of coffee. He had never been the imperious type: that wasn’t part of his personality. But the role of director had so much power, and he would have to wield it somehow.

  Emiliano Reyna, editor and deputy director of opinion, tapped on the glass door. Tomás waved him in and he entered.

  “You won that round, Director. You really shook them up,” he said, “but I warn you: Guerra won’t just stand there with his arms crossed.”

  Reyna was the only friend Tomás had at the newspaper. He was still grateful to him for risking publishing the column calling out the former secretary of the interior a year back. Of all the vices a person can contract in a newsroom, cynicism is the most frequent, but for some strange, fortunate reason Reyna had remained immune.

  “Well, I’m more amused than I had imagined, my dear Emiliano. At least it makes the sleepless nights worth it,” the director said. “We’ll have to start thinking of a replacement in case the bastard steps too far out of line.”

  “I’d recommend you tread carefully. He’s got control over half the section chiefs and the majority of the reporters on the important beats. He’s the one who put them where they are.”

  “Then we’ll have to move the pieces around, little by little,” Tomás said. “Do me a favor, write me up a confidential report of the editors and reporters who got there because of their loyalty to Guerra and not their qualifications. We’ll start with them. I’d like to can someone now to set a precedent, but I need to be able to do it without losing face in front of the editors. There’s always one person the rest of the team thinks is an incompetent bootlicker… Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a sleazy power struggle between one side and the other; it’s about a conception of journalism. The paper won’t move forward as long as what leads is the kind of strident message people like Guerra go in for: journalism filled with declarations, political rows, demagoguery. We need young people and women in directorial positions, a fresh focus, and a lot more guts.”

  His explanation was cut short by a woman gesturing behind the glass door: from outside, the graphic designer was showing him a mockup with the cover editor in tow. Tomás waved them in.

  “I have a proof for you, sir. Don Herminio already approved a proposal for the headlines.”

  “‘FIFA intercedes in soccer in Mexico,’ ‘PRI’s budget punishes poor,’” Tomás read. “Exactly what we shouldn’t do. From now on, we’re running headlines the way people talk, not in telegraph language.”

  “El Mundo has always gone with a punchy style, sir, it’s more dynamic and more attractive for readers,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “It’s contrived and absurd, people don’t even tweet that way. Change it to ‘FIFA prohibits ownership of more than one team’ and ‘The PRI’s budget punishes the poor.’ I’d prefer to go with a smaller typeface for the headline than have it written in Sitting Bull language. Unless another Berlin Wall goes down, I want to stay away from that type of thing.”

  When the two young people walked out, Reyna and Tomás broke into laughter.

  “I see you’re having fun here,” Reyna said. “I hope you give me a push, too. I’ve been wanting to make changes to the editorial pages. They’re stuffed with Don Rosendo’s old hobbyhorses and politicians rehashing the same old clichés.”

  “Plus, politicians don’t even write their own texts. They’re unbelievably boring,” Tomás said.

  “Give me a week and I’ll get you a proposal to change it up. Te tinca?”

  “Te tinca?”

  “Does that work for you. It’s a Chilean phrase, my wife’s from there.”

  “As long as you don’t put it in an editorial… We’re not trying to go too slangy,” the director answered. He was surprised that Emilio was married; he had always thought he was gay
. Newsrooms are like that, or maybe every place where people work under pressure: the members live with their backs turned and interpret every gesture or shift in tone of their coworkers without knowing a thing about their private lives.

  When he was by himself, Tomás spent a few minutes going over the letters piled up in the tray on his desk. Most of it was company mail. He called his secretary into his office to tell him about the invitations that had come in by phone and email. Miriam Mayorga had been Rosendo Franco’s secretary and was now, for a few days, his assistant.

  “They called from Los Pinos,” she said. “The president wants to invite Doña Claudia and you to lunch whenever time permits. He knows she is in mourning. Three cabinet members and two governors would like to meet with you, too, all of them separately.”

  He noted down the invitations to talk over with Claudia and then told Miriam to be sure Amelia’s car and her escorts were allowed into the parking deck. She didn’t show up until a quarter past six. Tomás was sweating with impatience.

  “Conjugal visit,” Amelia said as she entered. “Since you’re not going to fuck in my office anymore, your lover’s going to the mountain.”

  Tomás laughed. Months had passed since they’d given up their ardent encounters on her sofa or office desk. Their carnal fits had grown into the pleasant, if predictable, regularity of weekend reunions at her home.

  “Let’s just say that the environment of the Party of the Democratic Revolution isn’t exactly an aphrodisiac. I prefer your bed. And it won’t be easy here unless sharing your affection turns you on,” he said, kissing her and pointing at the security camera that scanned the director’s office.

  “Who spies on journalists?”

  “I guess Franco was a little paranoid. Come on, let’s go to the balcony, this is my chance to get in a smoke.”

  They walked out onto the minuscule space that served as the editors’ smoking deck and the November cold struck them in the face. Amelia had to press her body against Tomás, but she still preferred the balcony’s chill to the teeming fishbowl of the newspaper’s offices. A solitary reporter in shirtsleeves huddled against the darkness of the horizon but stubbed out his cigarette and stepped away once he made out the new arrivals’ identities.

  “Don’t ask me how, but Luis Corcuera found Milena. She was holed up in a Holiday Inn downtown.”

  “Luis? What the fuck is he doing mixed up in this? Wasn’t he in Barcelona?”

  “Long story. I saw him by chance yesterday and asked him for advice. Vidal just told me Luis and Rina had her hidden somewhere safe. He didn’t want to say anything else over the phone.”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “The curiosity was killing me, but she must already be confused with the two kids showing up there and she might get spooked if a bunch of other people she didn’t know started parading through. The only person she knows anything about is Claudia. She should be the first to speak with her.”

  “You’re right. Where can they meet?”

  “Talk to Vidal. He’ll take them and Milena.”

  “Perfect. I’ll work it out with Claudia.”

  Her eyes followed his thin cigar as it fell to the floor and he stomped it out with the tip of his shoe. Amelia noticed a small ember still burning despite the pressure from his shoe, but Tomás was no longer looking down. The sight of it made her feel fragile. She swore she would never let her lover toss her aside like that.

  As if aware of her sudden glum mood, Tomás hugged her and buried his face in her hair.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to manage all this,” he said.

  She stroked the back of his head and pulled him into her neck, but stopped. A mere wink, and all she wanted was to comfort him and strengthen his self-confidence. A second before it was she who needed solace. Amelia’s image as an all-powerful woman was a disadvantage when it came to emotional exchange, she thought. From childhood, she had been the leader of the four Blues, thanks to her sharp tongue. Her fellow students and teachers all feared her withering nicknames and sarcastic comments. As an activist, she had been unstoppable in pursuit of her causes, and in Congress, her oratory and unquestionable ethics made her a rival who inspired respect. But recently, she felt more and more ill at ease with the role of Iron Lady of the Left she’d been saddled with by friends and foes alike, starting with her own partner. Tomás thought she was so strong that her insecurities as leader of the PRD had no room in their midnight conversations.

  “What do you lose by trying?” Amelia responded. “As long as you look at it as a way station, it’s just a learning experience. The important thing is for you to feel good about the changes you can make, and if they don’t let you make them, then quit. You won’t have lost anything.”

  “Deep down, I’m not afraid of how difficult the job is; I’m afraid of getting trapped. They court me like I’m a celebrity. What if I end up liking it?”

  “Well, the fact that you know the risk is there is already a good sign. The real danger with this type of job is thinking they’re sucking up to you personally and not to your position, that it’s because you’re special. Whoever takes it like that is fucked.”

  Tomás saw she was speaking from her own experience as leader of the PRD. But it was easier for Amelia, she hated the political class. It was impossible she’d ever be tempted by power in any of its manifestations.

  “Well, almost all the good ones who make it this far lose their sense of direction. They get coddled, and their job turns into making sure their privileges don’t run out.”

  “You should have more confidence in your own virtues, my love. You’re better than you know, and if you need proof, I’m here to remind you of it.”

  “See why I love you? You’re the alter ego with the best ass I know.”

  Amelia laughed.

  “Give me a kiss before you go back to pestering politicians,” she said.

  The president of the PRD, of course, was among the politicians he’d have to pester. Each had considered El Mundo’s potential conflict of interest, and both consoled themselves thinking it wouldn’t last long. In six months, she would be giving up her post, and he didn’t think he would make it too far as director.

  Tomás kissed her back, but when he was finished, what most excited him was the thought of letting Claudia know they had already found her father’s lover.

  Them II

  I had never been with a hooker before I met Sofía at a convention. She said she was an economist. Later she confessed she was really an economistress. In the mornings, she assisted the director of a consulting firm, and in the evenings, she sold her body in the bar of an executive hotel.

  I liked her from word one. She had a particular way of looking at you, warm and intense, like you were the only guy there in a room packed full of people. Maybe that’s why I got hooked on prostitution, almost without realizing it. By the time she told me what she charged, price was an afterthought.

  It was only after the night was over that I realized I’d been turned. I had always criticized friends who went to whorehouses. Paying for sex struck me as denigrating for the man and awful for the woman. But there was nothing awful about Sofía. A few weeks later, she called me to ask if I had plans for the weekend. That Saturday, we went out for dinner. Did she really like my company, or did she just see me as another client? I couldn’t say, so I took two hundred euros in cash with me, just in case.

  We ended up in my apartment, where we had sex and watched TV until midnight. I was in heaven: I was the best lover in the world. I had managed to get a pro to do it with me for pleasure on her night off. And the feeling didn’t vanish completely when I heard what she said before she left: Leave a little present for me in my purse, please?

  I kept seeing her for six months, until she told me someone from work—from her day job, not her night job—had asked her to marry him. By then I was addicted. I tried to replace her with lovers, but there was no substitute—too much emotional involvement, too much complai
ning. Some women got uppity the first time I smacked them on the ass; others would let me bite them, but then they’d call off the next date. I never had the chance to use the handcuffs again, or the whip with the metal tips.

  Now I stick with professionals. I pay for their pain and everybody’s happy. The only problem is it keeps getting costlier and more risky for me to come. To use my knives, I’ve had to go to some nasty, dangerous, down-and-out places. The last time they made me pay eight hundred euros for a drugged-out whore who barely reacted. How I miss Sofía.

  I.G.B. Municipal Treasurer,

  Marbella

  ‌13

  Jaime

  Tuesday, November 11, 7:15 p.m.

  Jaime looked at the transcript of the calls between Amelia and Tomás on his desk. Once again, Luis had gotten the drop on his intelligence team. The specialists at Lemlock had also detected Milena’s email login from the salon in the city center, but the kid was closer and had got there before they did. His men had scoured video cameras overseeing traffic in the area, but the ones posted on the corners closest to the salon hadn’t captured any blondes with Milena’s features.

  Jaime calmed down, thinking it wouldn’t be long before he figured out where Rosendo Franco’s lover was being kept. His team was tracing the phones of all the Blues and their acquaintances in real time, but he had missed his shot at showing Claudia and Tomás he was capable of taking care of security issues that might arise for El Mundo. Luis was becoming an unexpected bother, and Jaime had to do something about it. For now, he’d need to find a way to cut into communications between the young man and Vidal, and he wasn’t sure what method Luis used to keep in touch with his friend.

  He thought of Vidal and a wave of warmth ran through his body. That kid was the closest thing to a son he’d ever have. Something about his basic goodness and his eternal desire to please reminded Jaime of himself when he was a teenager, spending day after day mastering new techniques and abilities, trying to get his father to admire him. That was before he’d destroyed Jaime’s life. Despite the positions he’d held in Mexican state security, Jaime still felt he had many steps to go before he’d make it out of his father’s shadow. Carlos Lemus had been the country’s attorney general and the head of its most important law office. Everyone knew that a suit against one of Lemus’s clients was doomed to fail. Even worse, Carlos Lemus himself knew it, and he lived to show it.