The House on Carnaval Street

by Deborah Rodriguez

  By now I was leaving the front door open with the gate still locked, just as I had seen my Mexican neighbors do. One day I noticed Josi the grocer stop and bend down in front of my gate, picking up the white-pawed cat I now recognized as hers.

  “Gato!” I said through the gate, pointing at my own chest. “I have a gato, too.”

  Josi nodded. “Dónde?”

  I didn’t know the words to explain how Polly was still sometimes a little shy in this new country, still a little too wary to socialize with people. Or wait, was that myself I was thinking about?

  “Gata negra,” I added, hoping Josi wouldn’t rush away. By now five or six other neighbor women had stopped at the gate, eager to see Polly. So I had no choice but to pry my poor cat from her safe place under the sofa and show her off. As I held the petrified Polly up proudly, I could feel her muscles stiffen and watched as her long black hair stood up on end. The women oohed and clucked, and shuffled away. At the time it never occurred to me that Polly was the first long-haired black cat they’d ever seen. They couldn’t decide, I later learned, if I was an Egyptian, based on my looks (!) and love of cats, or a witch, based on Polly’s looks and fear of humans. The truth was that the only cat I liked was my own, and the only human she cared for was me.

  Of course, with the front door now permanently open, the music from the street let itself in without an invitation: opera, bongos, ballads, top-forty hits, oldies, and once an entire banda group blaring its tubas, trombones, and accordion at 5 A.M. Seriously. A full-blown collision of polka and mariachi, complete with microphones and speakers, right outside my door. There were people dancing in the street, waving beer bottles in the air, and using my windowsill as a bar top. I couldn’t tell if the party was starting early or ending late.

  The music in Mexico never seemed to stop. Better yet were the sounds of vendors making their rounds, shouting or singing out whatever they had to offer that day. Shoe shines, shrimp, doughnuts, knife sharpeners, each one had its own unique calling card. A steam whistle announced the guy selling hot plantains and sweet potatoes as if he were a train arriving at the station. You knew the gas truck was approaching whenever you heard the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Even the mailman sounded like a New Year’s Eve reveler as he passed on his green bicycle. And the honey man? We quickly fell into our own little routine. Honey for my honey? No honey today, honey.

  One day I saw a nurse in a white uniform going house to house.

  “Influenza?” she called out when she reached my gate, ­pulling a needle from her bag.

  “Um, no thanks, I think I’ll pass,” I answered, shaking my head.

  Another time a gaggle of three young boys, who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old, were offering to take blood-pressure readings for five pesos.

  During the day, I wouldn’t dare venture farther than down the block to Josi’s grocery, for fear I’d miss the cable guy. Every day the sweet car-wash man sitting on the corner with his bucket and rags would be sure to smile and say “Buenos días,” engaging me in a conversation I barely understood half of. Every day I’d step over Michael Jackson and Roy, Josi’s two little dogs, who spent their days flattened like pancakes on the cool sidewalk under the store’s ancient Coca-Cola sign. Every day I’d buy bottled water or little candies, or a pepper, an onion, and just two eggs, and two Tums for later. When I once asked for Tylenol, Josi handed me one measly tablet. But I loved having an excuse to drop by often, for a little broken chitchat with her before I had to go home to wait some more.

  As the shadows grew long, and it would become clear that yet another day had passed without me getting my connection to the world beyond Carnaval Street, I’d make my way down to the plaza to chat with Sergio and the other English-speaking waiters who had become my only friends. And each night I’d see the same girl selling her flowers, all by herself. She’d hug and smile for pictures with strangers, posing too close for my comfort with men she didn’t know. Somebody had obviously taught her some skills. But whoever that somebody was was nowhere to be seen. I worried about what she’d have to sell once she became too old for flowers.

  One Tuesday I was locking the gate behind me when I finally spied the cable guy. It was the eve of one of the millions of Mexican holidays, so I knew I had to make this man mine before everything shut down for days of partying. I jumped in front of his truck and pointed frantically at the tiled numbers over my door, waving my work order in his face, desperate to bring some noise besides my own thoughts into my silent house, and aching for a connection to the world beyond Carnaval Street. I didn’t care if I got a full lineup of telenovelas; I just needed to not feel so alone. He shook his head and started the engine. “No, no está en mi lista.”

  “Listen, please. Please!” I clasped my hands in prayer, not budging from the street. I must have looked like a lunatic.

  He paused for a moment. “I can only give you the básico cable. For the television.”

  “No, I need Internet!”

  He shook his head and began to back up.

  “One hundred pesos!” I shouted.

  “One hundred pesos?” He stopped and shook his head again.

  “Five hundred pesos!” I stuck my head in through the passenger-­side window. “You give me a full connection in the next thirty minutes and I’ll give you five hundred pesos. Cash.”

  The truck zipped away from the curb. “I’ll be right back.”

  I have no idea where that man went, but I do know that he came back with everything. As the sun went down that night, and the rest of the neighborhood took to the street, I gleefully settled onto my couch with You’ve Got Mail (in English!). The light from the TV seemed to draw passersby like moths—my neighbors had no qualms about peering through my gate whenever the inside was bright enough to make out the details of the renovations. They were curious to see what I had done to the house, and even more curious about me. After the part where Meg Ryan tells Tom Hanks, “You’re nothing but a suit!” I got up to make myself a sandwich. I was just cutting the bread when suddenly I heard someone moaning. Oh baby, that’s it, do it to me, do it now. Odd. I didn’t remember that happening in the movie, and I seriously doubted it could be coming from my ancient neighbor’s room on the other side of the wall. I rushed back into the living room, where full-blown, full-volume porn was pouring from my TV, in full view and ­earshot of all those passing by. I frantically dived for the remote, and in my nervous fumbling pressed the volume instead of the channel button, the raunchy sound track now blaring out onto the sidewalk. Before I could reach the door, I spied a group of kids beginning to gather, so I dived onto the floor and yanked out the plug. That cable guy had obviously been hell-bent on coming through with more than I asked for, as soon became apparent by his frequent drive-bys just to see if I “needed anything.” I even twice caught him climbing the pole outside my door. When I told Karen back in Michigan the story, she instantly dubbed him my Porn Fairy.

  Now that my days were finally free, I quickly fell into a ­routine that forced me farther away from Carnaval Street, down the narrow streets out into the rest of Centro Histórico. First I’d head to the Plazuela República, where the cool vaulted interior of the cathedral offered a welcome respite from the heat outside and the thoughts within. I’d sit in an empty pew under the crystal chandeliers, intent on conjuring up a Deb who would be fun to spend the day with, a Deb who was strong and secure and perfectly happy to be on her own. On more than one occasion I’d succeed, only to burst out into the blinding sun in the beautiful old square to be confronted by a sea of love, where couples of all ages, lacking either time or money for a no-tell motel and with, no doubt, a mother standing guard at home, would sit glued together in a marathon lip lock. It might have been funny, if it didn’t make me feel so alone.

  Sometimes, when I first started exploring, I’d catch myself navigating the brick sidewalks head down, as I had lear
ned to do in Kabul, where eye-to-eye contact from a woman is a dead giveaway for a foreigner, even one wearing a veil. Here, even with my head up, I’d still feel like a guest on the streets, and would politely step aside to let the locals pass, as though I didn’t really belong.

  From the square I’d cross over into the Centro Mercado, where I’d stare in wonder at the severed pig heads and chicken feet and giant prickly cactus leaves, and try to imagine what the hell I’d do with those in a kitchen. Coming from a family whose big treat was gas station chicken (yes, literally fried chicken you’d buy at the gas station), my culinary skills were a little limited. My favorite part of the bustling old market was the far corner in the back, where they sold vitamins and dietary supplements and brujería—black magic. There were potions for everything. Soaps that promised prosperity, rattlesnake sperm incense to bring rapid good luck, pheromone powders to improve your sex life, salts for a better business, oils to ward off the evil eye, water to make you a better student, double reversible lotion potions to protect you from hexes (and send them right back to the hexer). And if you needed a little extra help? A full array of business cards advertising local professional brujas (witches!) was displayed under glass on the counter near the cash register.

  If I wasn’t too scared to mess with that stuff, I might have been tempted to try a spell or two, maybe even a love potion to find myself a partner for one of those park benches. But then again, that would probably not have been a great idea. With my history, I’d no doubt be better off finding a spell to keep men away.

  The shopping area of El Centro never failed to cheer me up. The crowded sidewalks, honking horns, the smell of street food and car exhaust blending together in a stinky urban perfume, all made me feel alive. The stores chock-full of tacky T-shirts, plastic hair clips, clingy tube tops, and cheap jewelry called to me like a dinner bell to an empty stomach. And the shoes! It killed me that I was cursed with size-nine feet, apparently a size nobody in Mexico ever had a need for. But my favorite discovery was the place that sold princess dresses. Seriously. Rows and rows of big, poufy, shiny, sparkly dresses in every color imaginable—hot pink, lime green, bright orange, and against the wall, virginal white. There were tiaras and crowns and wands. This was a store for me, if only I were about two feet shorter and ninety pounds lighter.

  I could feel myself becoming a little more comfortable every day. Yes, I still got lost every time I left my house, but the flashing beacons atop the jumble of radio and TV towers littering Icebox Hill, above Carnaval Street, were always there to remind me that I wasn’t far from home. Having the ocean nearby didn’t hurt, either. I’d simply look at the little compass I kept on my key chain, find west, and off I went. If I hit the water, I’d know how to make my way home, where I could always start off again in another direction. After taking a quick shower and downing a gallon of water, I often did.

  By day, the Plazuela Machado took on a whole different aura. Honking cars inched their way through the streets where I dined by night, and ballet students scrambled to class at the Teatro Angela Peralta, where a never-ending melody tumbled from the windows as aspiring opera singers from around the world practiced their arias, over and over and over. I had become oddly drawn to the theater, fascinated by the tragic story of the woman for whom it was named—a poor, not-so-attractive girl from Mexico City who grew up to become known around the world as the “Mexican Nightingale.” Apparently she was a feisty young thing who, after a sad, brief marriage, started both an opera company and an affair with her manager, Don Julian. Her Mexico City patrons, scandalized, did everything they could to ruin her career, even going so far as hiring hecklers to interrupt her performances. She vowed never to sing in Mexico City again. In 1883, at the age of thirty-eight, she began her final tour. One of the first stops was Mazatlán. Her Mazatleco fans greeted her boat at the dock and escorted her to the Plazuela Machado, where they were rewarded by a spontaneous balcony performance of “La Paloma,” a famous Spanish song that’s all about the triumph of love over death. Little did they know that this was to be her last performance. Yellow fever had hit the ship’s crew and quickly spread throughout the entire company, including Angela Peralta. One of the few who didn’t contract the disease was Don Julian, who quickly arranged for a deathbed marriage ceremony. As his bride-to-be supposedly had plenty of money and no heirs, his motives remain a matter of debate. Witnesses reported that by the time it came time for the “I do’s,” Peralta was completely unconscious, and maybe even already dead. One account says that another surviving member of the company supported her limp body by its shoulders, literally manipulating her head up and down in answer to the proposal. Another says that it was a woman hiding under the bed who uttered the assent. Well, at least she didn’t die alone.

  On some days I’d find myself drifting along the waterfront down the Malecón, which to me felt like a boardwalk without the boards. I’d cut back and forth across the palm-lined median, dodging the buses and cars and motorbikes as I alternated between the salty mist splashing up from the seawall on one side and the smells of coffee and shrimp coming from the hotels and restaurants on the other. The old Hotel Belmar held a particular fascination for me, with its crumbling blue balconies, tiered Spanish fountain, and cool fifties-style logo. I’d read a bit about its history, from its debut as the elegant lady playing host to society balls and elaborate weddings in the 1920s, to its heyday in the 1950s as a favorite hangout for John Wayne, who would arrive on his yacht for a vacation of marlin fishing and card playing. Rumor has it he used to get a kick out of taking a turn behind the registration desk, surprising visitors as they came to check in. His fifth-floor room is still there, available for rent like any other in the hotel. But now the Belmar is more decrepit spinster than faded beauty, half of it inhabited by budget-driven tourists and expats, the other half full of empty rooms crammed with discarded beds and shattered toilets and, supposedly, ghosts of guests past.

  Often, my wandering would end before sunset at Mamita’s, an open-air spot near the ocean, where Analisa the bartender would greet me with a dazzling smile and a glass of red wine. Analisa made me laugh, as she proudly paraded her big fake boobs back and forth behind the bar, with visions of big tips dancing in her head.

  “You like my chichis?” she asked me once. “My last boyfriend, he pay for them. Only good thing to come from that relationship.”

  I loved Analisa and her chichis. I also loved her accent, and the way her sunglasses always matched the color of her nail polish. I envied the fact that even in this miserably hot ­Mexican summer, she never seemed to sweat.

  When the bar wasn’t too busy, Analisa and I would chat. Before long, I knew all about the string of bad boyfriends that made my own history look like a Disney movie: the cowardly Mexican one who left her pregnant after his mother deemed her too low-class for marriage, the violent gringo one who had turned on her one too many times, yet another jealous gringo with pockets deeper than hers, the one who footed the bill for her boobs, later complained about their watermelon-­like size, and was apparently the only man in the Western ­Hemisphere to feel that way. But I also quickly learned that Analisa was devoted to her teenage son and, as an unmarried Mexican woman, was culturally chained to her mother’s household. No matter how old, in Mexico single women don’t move out. It just isn’t done. And for Analisa, that meant living in a household that included not only her elderly mother and her own son, but also a brother, a nephew, and a sister with Down syndrome. It was clear why she needed those big tips so badly, and needed them now. Those hot-mama looks weren’t going to last forever.

  As the sky would start turning from orange to pink, Analisa would turn her attention to the English-speaking regulars who’d fill the place up with their booming voices and enviable familiarity. I’d remain at my seat at the bar with my book and my phone, raising my eyes to watch when I thought nobody was looking. More than once I caught a man getting kicked by his wife under the table, another
casualty of Analisa’s excellent chichis.

  One evening I spotted a familiar face, a guy I had been introduced to at Roger the Realtor’s office when I first came down to Mazatlán.

  “Bodie,” he reminded me with an extended hand. “Bodie Kellogg.”

  I slipped my book back into my bag. “As in cornflakes?”

  He laughed. “Yep, great-grandson of W.K. And this is ­Snickers.” A sweet-looking pup was glued to his side.

  “Nice to see you again.” My memories of elementary school field trips to the Battle Creek factory made this guy an instant celebrity in my mind. Over the next few months I’d learn ­Bodie’s story. How this scion of one of America’s richest families had drifted down to Mexico in a pickup truck a few years ago, looking for a place to live. How, as a self-­proclaimed refugee of the sixties, he got involved with ecotourism in the jungle, ­jaguar-calling in a remote village at the base of the Sierra Madre, anthropological digs in places where kids would giggle at the first gringo they’d ever laid eyes on, tours for the adventuresome traveler into the secluded mountain countryside, where one wouldn’t dare go alone. Bodie got by doing all that, with a little construction, photography, and writing thrown in on the side. We weren’t talking Richie Rich here—Great-grandpa’s millions went directly to the Kellogg Foundation, save for an educational fund for his heirs, which Bodie milked for over ten years, five campuses, and no degrees, which explained why he seemed to know everything.

  But that evening what was most apparent to me was that Bodie seemed to know everyone. And as the sun disappeared, I somehow found myself agreeing to join Bodie and some of his pals on a Sunday excursion to a place called Stone Island.