Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  Teresa and Araceli were giggling conspiratorially as they invited Elizabeth to accompany them to el baño. Inside the ladies’ room, Araceli pulled a plastic packet of white powder from her Ferragamo clutch along with a small mirror, a credit card, and a two hundred-peso bill. Setting the mirror on the faux marble countertop, she cut six lines of the powder, rolled up the bill, and did one bump and then another. Lifting her head, she inhaled deeply and passed the bill to Teresa, who did the second and third lines. Elizabeth was given the bill next and did the last of it.

  There was only one other woman in the restroom, and after catching Elizabeth’s eye once, she had refocused her attention on the image of her pretty, twenty-something face in the vanity mirror. She was applying her lipstick, a plum color that matched the plum streaks in her short blue-black hair. The back of her neck was covered with black and blue tattoos. She had light blue eyes and dressed like an American hipster in black jeans, a black tank top, and two-inch heeled biker boots. She had come in after Elizabeth. In fact, the hipster had held the door open so Elizabeth could step inside first.

  Araceli licked a fingertip and ran it over the mirror and then touched it to her tongue. Then she returned the paraphernalia to her purse. In front of the same vanity mirror above the sink, Teresa and Araceli corrected the color of their red lips. The hipster slipped her lipstick into the pocket of her jeans and left the restroom.

  “I’ve never done coke,” Elizabeth said. She was the only one who hadn’t brought makeup.

  “¿No?” Araceli asked.

  “Everyone does cocaína in Condesa,” Teresa said.

  “Isn’t that risky?” Elizabeth asked.

  Araceli grew thoughtful. Then she explained, “In Mexico City, we live with an element of risk. There are kidnappings and holdups, murders, and pollution. But cocaine in Condesa is not a risk. This is not a colonia where the police arrive to arrest you for narcotics. Condesa is where the hipsters come—the artists, the academics, the television personalities.”

  She caught Teresa’s eye in the mirror.

  “And the writers,” Teresa said.

  “Yes, and the writers. We are the people who see cocaine as a social entitlement.”

  “Are you listening, Elizabeth? She is very smart, my friend Araceli.”

  Teresa and Araceli’s reflected images exchanged an affectionate smile.

  “Quiero bailar,” Araceli announced. I want to dance.

  “Órale pues,” Teresa said. All right then.

  Elizabeth didn’t feel like dancing. Teresa and Araceli seemed more animated now that they had done cocaine. Elizabeth felt little more than a slight nasal irritation. This was the addictive drug that had created an illegal billion-dollar industry? A cup of strong coffee had about the same effect on her, if tonight’s experience was any indication. On the way out of the bathroom, Elizabeth noticed a red sign on the door. No hagas drogas. Don’t do drugs.

  Two hours and two palomas later, Teresa and Araceli were still dancing. Elizabeth was tired. The music was giving her a headache. She was thinking that she just wanted to go home, to la casita, when she saw Gabriella. She was coming up the stairs, arm in arm with a tall, busty blonde. Why did Latinas dye their hair blond when it was so beautiful left black? Gabriella and the bottle blonde glanced around, not noticing Elizabeth, before they disappeared into the vibrating crush of bodies.

  Elizabeth moved toward the place where they had been standing just a moment ago. As she did, she spotted Teresa and Araceli on the floor, their bodies pressed together in a slow grind. Elizabeth knew what that meant. She danced her way over to Teresa and put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

  “Teresa, I’d like to go home, please.”

  Teresa forced her gaze away from Araceli’s face. “Oh? Ernesto will take you. He’s downstairs.”

  “Is Ernesto gay?”

  “Oh, no. He waits for me with the boys when I come to dance. No boys are allowed upstairs. He’ll drive you home. And tell him I don’t need him any longer tonight. I’m going home with Araceli.”

  “Okay.”

  Elizabeth found Ernesto sitting at the bar, drinking a Modelo and smoking a Pall Mall XL.

  “Ernesto,” Elizabeth began. She spoke slowly, searching for the words. “Teresa dice que no te necesita esta noche porque ella va a casa con Araceli. Por favor, llévame a casa.”

  Ernesto looked relieved. He finished his beer with one long swallow and snubbed out his cigarette in a stone ashtray. “Gracias. ¡Estoy muy solicitado!” Thank you. I’m getting hit on!

  Elizabeth laughed. “Porque eres un hombre tan guapo.” Because you are such a good-looking man.

  “Ah, sí, es verdad.” Yes, it’s true.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Elizabeth didn’t know where she was. She had slept most of the four-hour drive out of the city, down a long highway through a rural landscape made small by a wide blue sky. She had a slight hangover and a serious headache and was promising herself that she would stop this life of indulgence before it got completely out of control. In California, she had developed a habit of self-restraint uncharacteristic of nearly everyone around her. She hadn’t smoked cigarettes or dope, just said no to coke and H, and her drinking had been limited to a glass or two of white wine.

  With the exception of a few drunken nights in college, Elizabeth had been a model of moderation. Not from some principle or moral objection or even out of a pragmatic caution. It wasn’t that she was prudent. She had overindulged in sexual experiences and was surprised she had survived numerous partners without contracting an STD. So, it wasn’t that she was cautious. It was just that drinking and drugging hadn’t really appealed to her. Maybe she had been too uptight. Maybe she had been afraid of losing control.

  All that had changed in the last three weeks. She had drunk more, smoked more, and snorted more in the twenty-three days since Billy’s death than she had ever done in her thirty-one years, even counting those recent drunken, weedy afternoons with Denise. Today was Saturday, June 8. Today, she would not indulge, no matter what she was offered.

  The Barerra ranch was outside the small city Teresa identified as San Miguel de Allende. Elizabeth had awakened when the chili-red Ferrari slowed its pace to begin bouncing down the quaint cobblestone streets of SMA. Because there were no traffic lights, intersections were handled by glorietas, or “roundabouts,” Teresa explained, as the sports car rounded a circle filled with vehicles traveling counterclockwise. On some corners, the city planners had placed stop signs that nobody stopped for, including Teresa.

  “In San Miguel, alto is advisory,” Teresa said. “Not like California.”

  Speed limits seemed to be just a suggestion, too. Teresa sped through the last red octagon advising ALTO onto a two-lane highway bordered by utility poles draped with layers of wires. Thirty minutes later, she took a dirt road that had been cut through a field of bright lavender. After several miles, the Ferrari was still kicking up dust as it approached a stone and timber entryway. From the top beam hung a carved sign announcing Hacienda Barrera. There was no need for guards here or even for a gate. In the state of Guanajuato, everyone knew better than to cross into Barrera land without an invitation. With Teresa at the wheel, Elizabeth crossed over.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Elizabeth had been around money. In Sausalito, Elizabeth’s kinky Mistress and her husband had money. The difference here was that the Barreras had serious money. Elizabeth had assumed that Don Emilio would flaunt his wealth in a Scarface-like display of power. Meeting him for the first time, she was surprised that he wasn’t what she had imagined. Standing poolside, he was the prototype of understated dignity in a short-sleeved white linen shirt and matching trousers with a canvas belt the same color tan as his suede loafers. There was a gold wedding ring on his finger but no gold chains around his neck and no Rolex watch on his wrist. He was as handsome as Teresa was pretty, looking like a Hollywood idol from another era with his black hair slicked back with pomade.


  Teresa introduced Elizabeth as her amiga de la Universidad de California. His expression of calm certainty didn’t change at the introduction; his lava-black eyes remained indecipherable. Nonetheless, Elizabeth sensed recognition at the mention of her name. She extended her right hand to shake, unsure of which courtesy was required in this instance. Surely not a cheek kiss; that seemed to be only for women. A nod would be too dismissive. A handshake seemed the safest option.

  Don Emilio smiled, bent his head slightly, and kissed the back of her hand. “Welcome to my home,” he said in deliberate, flawless English. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Teresa has shown you to your room?”

  “Yes, she has. You have a beautiful home, Señor Barrera.”

  That was true, and the queen bed in the guest room had looked temptingly inviting. Elizabeth still had a hangover.

  “You are very kind. Credit is due my wife.”

  “¿Dónde está mamá?”

  “We will speak English for your friend, hija. Your mother is in Bogotá with your grandmother, who is not well.”

  “Where is Chucho?” Teresa asked.

  She meant her brother, Jesús Emilio Barrera García. Like Teresa, “Chucho” had been sent to the U.S. to complete his education. He had returned with an MBA from Stanford, although Teresa claimed Chucho had majored in partying. The expectation was that Chucho would one day inherit his father’s business, Teresa had told Elizabeth. Don Emilio had no such expectations of his only daughter, whom he hoped would one day marry into a like-minded family. For that and other reasons, Teresa was closeted. Arranged dates with attractive males—usually gay—made la chica del tiempo appear to be the most eligible bachelorette in DF. Ahora magazine proclaimed it to be true, so must it not be true? Teresa had asked Elizabeth rhetorically.

  “Your brother will arrive later with a young lady.”

  “Ah,” Teresa said and rolled her eyes at Elizabeth. “Another young lady.”

  “Abril,” Don Emilio called.

  A young girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen—looked up from the counter of the outdoor bar. She wore a short-sleeved housekeeping dress in a pale blue color. A white apron was tied around her small waist.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked Elizabeth.

  “Elizabeth needs a michelada,” Teresa said.

  “Oh?” Don Emilio asked.

  “Yes, and one for me, as well.”

  “Dos micheladas por favor,” he told Abril.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “You’re not drinking, Papi?” Teresa asked.

  “No, I have business to take care of in my study. You young ladies will excuse me now.”

  “Come on, Elizabeth, let’s change into our bikinis,” Teresa said.

  “You will have dinner with us?” he asked Elizabeth.

  Teresa answered for her. “Of course she will.”

  “Good. I will tell Roma.”

  “Our cook,” Teresa said to Elizabeth.

  “Have a pleasant afternoon, young ladies. I will see you later.”

  Whether it was the cool water on her skin or the michelada of icy beer, lime juice, and spices in her throat (and so much for not indulging today) or the mota she smoked with Teresa, who was at this moment hanging on to the blue stone coping of the pool, or the nap she took on the white canvas lounge chair in the sun, whatever the cause, by late afternoon, Elizabeth was feeling better, even though the exposed flesh of her body had turned lobster red. Although she had used sunscreen before and aloe vera sábila gel after, Elizabeth’s skin glowed like a light over a prostíbulo. Her Belize tan couldn’t protect her from these high-altitude rays.

  “So,” Elizabeth said. “You and Araceli?”

  Teresa was in the shallow end of the pool, standing with her bronzed arms leaning on the blue stone. Elizabeth was in the lounge chair. “No.”

  “No?”

  Teresa shrugged. “Araceli is in love with her career. She’s a journalist first and always. I cannot compete with that. It’s worse than competing with another woman.”

  “Too bad,” Elizabeth said. “You make a beautiful couple.”

  “It’s true. We do. But let’s talk about something else. What about Gabriella? How are you enjoying your classes? Gavi is single, by the way.”

  “Have you two ever—?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, no. We are not even amigas con beneficios. You should ask her out,” Teresa said.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I barely know her,” Elizabeth said.

  “So? That is how you will get to know her. Are you attracted to her?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And so?”

  “So, she was with someone Friday night.”

  “Yes. Why would that stop you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ah, but the two of you have so much in common. Gavi is a bit of a chairo. Like you, my friend.”

  “I don’t remember what a chairo is.”

  “Let me say a chairo is smarter than I am. Someone who belongs in university. You should ask Gavi out. She would say yes, I believe.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  They dressed for dinner, Don Emilio in a black suit, white button-down shirt, and skinny black tie. Teresa wore a Versace dress in red with matching red lipstick. Elizabeth had brought along a pair of white dress slacks and a flowing black blouse, courtesy of Teresa and Versace. That was something Elizabeth would have to get used to, the formality of la cena with its designer clothes and its 10:00 p.m. hour.

  Chucho was late. The meal was held while Don Emilio asked Elizabeth about her American education. Had she enjoyed her studies? Was she a feminista like Marta Lamas?

  “Who?” Elizabeth inquired.

  What? Don Emilio asked. Did she did not know of the scholar Marta Lamas? That was, perhaps, because Señora Lamas was a teacher at the National Autonomous University in Mexico and not at a university in California. Before Elizabeth could respond, Chucho arrived. He had the same round face as Teresa, the same dark eyebrows, long lashes, and full lips. He wore his hair a little longer than was fashionable among Mexico’s elite men, perhaps in rebellion. Strands of black bangs fell just above his dark eyes.

  Following behind him was a beautiful young woman with enormous brown eyes and a hesitant smile. She wore a tight yellow dress that showed off her curves. Don Emilio rose as she approached. Introducing herself as Lucia Susana Flores Fragoza, she extended her hand and bowed her head as he kissed it. Chucho had already seated himself at the end of the table. Don Emilio pulled out a chair for Lucia. After she was seated, he returned to sit at the head. Teresa sat at his right hand, Elizabeth at his left. Lucia was seated next to Teresa.

  A white-gloved butler, wearing a white shirt with a black waistcoat, black bow tie, and black trousers, presented a bottle of wine to Don Emilio. In California, Elizabeth had drunk Napa Valley chardonnays. The label told her this was a Sancerre sauvignon blanc from the south of France. The wine was uncorked; the butler poured a small amount in Don Emilio’s glass. He sipped and nodded his approval. After the glasses were filled, the appetizer of ceviche was served in a martini glass.

  “Buen provecho,” Don Emilio said. Enjoy your meal.

  Elizabeth did, relishing the fresh, slightly fishy taste balanced by the citrusy tang of the lime. Next was a red gazpacho, a refreshing chilled soup made of tomatoes and other vegetables. When the soup bowls had been removed, a red zinfandel was brought out for Don Emilio’s sanction. The red wine was served with the main course of paella con albondigas, Valencia rice with meatballs. Coffee flavored with cinnamon and orange peel accompanied the dessert of crema catalana, a sweet, rich caramelized custard served in a white ramekin.

  The dinner was perfect, Elizabeth thought. What was not perfect was the dinner conversation. By that time, it had turned to politics. President Ernesto Zedillo and his Institutional Revol
utionary Party, the PRI, was “the perfect dictatorship,” Chucho was arguing in the English Don Emilio had insisted they use out of consideration for Elizabeth.

  “Is that what they teach you at Stanford?” Don Emilio asked and then directed a comment to Elizabeth. “My son, he goes to California, he comes home a Communist.”

  “Papa, you cannot deny that the PRI is a partner in repression with the United States,” Chucho said.

  “I cannot?”

  “There is a dirty war on dissidents. There is a dirty war on drugs. Everywhere in Mexico, there is a dirty war. We are all victims of imperialism.”

  “I know, I know,” Don Emilio said, holding up a hand in the universal “stop” gesture. “The Aztecs were glorious. The Spanish were devils. This is what they teach you at university. In life, it is not so black and white. The conquest happened five hundred years ago. It’s history. Today Mexico is mestizo. We are two cultures, the indígena and the Spanish. One thing we are not. We are not victims.”

  “No? Today as always, Mexico gives its ass to the imperialists,” Chucho exclaimed.

  “Chucho, enough! You are vulgar in front of the ladies.” To Elizabeth, Don Emilio said, “Forgive my son. He is young and speaks sometimes like an idiota.”

  Chucho pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Lucia looked up from her crema catalana.

  “I need to dance,” Chucho announced. “Thank you, Papa, for dinner. Lucia and I are going now.”

  “¿A dónde vas?” Teresa asked.

  “Al club en SMA.”

  “Wait for me. I’ll go with you.”

  She looked at Elizabeth. “Do you want to club, Elizabeth?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll turn in early.”

  Don Emilio stood as Chucho, Lucia, and Teresa left the dining room. Then he motioned for the butler, who came near. After Don Emilio had whispered something in his ear, the butler left the room. Elizabeth stood. Before she could thank him, Don Emilio said, “A word, Señorita Bundy?”