Mexico City Noir

by Paco Ignacio II Taibo

  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!”

  VIOLETA ISN’T HERE ANYMORE

  BY MYRIAM LAURINI

  Hipódromo

  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.

  Lalo Cohen came to visit. He demanded that I hold his beloved tape player while he smoked nonstop. He made his demand in that way of his—as if he doesn’t have any friends, even though he is, in fact, a friend in the end. He asked that I tell him the same story I told the police and the Public Ministry. Words upon words, minus some of this, that’s what I told the Public Ministry—because the police had already given my statement to the PM. Even though it’s illegal, I don’t plan to protest, I just want this to be over with.

  Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side A.

  July 17, 2007

  I got up at 6 in the morning, like I do every day Monday to Friday, and on Saturdays when I have to work. Then I do ten minutes on the treadmill and ten minutes on the stationary bike. Then I bathe, shave, and dress. With my tie still undone I made my way to the dining room for breakfast. Pretty much on automatic pilot, because routines become automatic … or life on automatic pilot creates routines. What do I know? I didn’t smell coffee, or huevos rancheros, or even freshsqueezed orange juice. I thought Violeta was still asleep and I was going to have to make do without breakfast.

  When I got to the dining room, the light was off. Violeta’s asleep, I said to myself, and cursed. I was in a hurry and it was dark; it was 6:30 and, though the bank is only four blocks away, I had to check in by 7 on the dot, otherwise I’d lose my eligibility for the annual punctuality award.

  On my way out, I inadvertently stumbled on a chair and whatever was on it. I hit it with my knee and cried out. I can’t explain it. In an instant everything rushed to my head like a crazy hurricane and I somehow knew it was Violeta. I ran to turn on the light. I saw her and the gasp from hitting my knee was quickly replaced by screams of horror. She was tied to the chair with a cable. I couldn’t bear to look at her and I ran out to the street, scared out of my mind. I paused at the door and my screams turned into a professional mourner’s lament. I don’t know how much time passed, maybe a minute or two … it’s just that in situations like that, minutes become an eternity.

  That’s when Lalo Cohen showed up; he’s a neighbor who goes running in the park every morning at the same time. He’s like Kant—according to legend, people would set their watches when Kant went out for a walk.

  “What’s the matter, Mikel?” Lalo asked. I tried to answer. But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, choking on my sobs and shaking all over; I couldn’t get a single word out.

  I started to scream. Lalo plastered his hand over my face. That is, he slapped me so hard my head rattled, and I’m actually grateful because I think it might have been the best way to get rid of my hysteria.

  “What’s the matter, Mikel?” he repeated harshly.

  “She’s dead, I mumbled.”

  “Who’s dead?” He was getting angrier and his voice was even more harsh.

  “Violeta,” I said with a steadiness I didn’t really feel.

  “Violeta? Are you sure? That can’t be. I was talking to her just yesterday afternoon. That can’t be.”

  “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her…” I kept repeating, and Lalo squeezed my arm so hard he almost broke it.

  “You’re being hysterical, she must have just fainted—calm down,” Lalo said, and pushed me away from the door. “Come with me and stop screaming.”

  I decided to follow my neighbor’s orders. Hanging on to the walls in the hallway, I went in after him. As we came to the dining room, I covered my eyes with the arm he’d almost broken.

  “Fucking A, they killed her!” were Lalo’s first words. And the second ones: “We have to call the police!” He went for the phone and I stumbled to the floor, falling right next to Violeta, and lost consciousness.

  I don’t know if I was awakened by the pain or the plaf, plaf, plaf of Lalo’s slaps. Whatever it was, it made me leap away from the dead woman and scold my insensitive neighbor: “Why are you hitting me, you beast?”

  He acted as if he’d been caressing me. “C’mon, you have to rise to the occasion!”

  “To the occasion? I’m going to the bank, I’m already late.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. The police are on their way and you’re going to have to give a statement,” he said without any sympathy.

  I began to shake again and started repeating my refrain: “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her.” I shut my mouth when I saw Lalo raise his heavy hand.

  When the authorities showed up, they arrested me as soon as they laid eyes on me, without even asking my name or any questions. But I’m not going to talk about any of that, because you already know all this, I told it all to the commander.

  The commander, who said his name was Ponce de León, looked at me with the eyes of a rabid dog until I thought I could see drool in the corners of his mouth.

  “Your statement is absolute crap—you haven’t said anything remotely useful. Let’s try again,” the guy growled, looking very secure behind his big desk with his big guns. Sitting like that, anybody can give rabid-dog looks and growl.

  “I got up at 6 in the morning, like I said—”

  “Fuck that shit! Just answer my questions! You understand?” barked the commander.

  “Whatever you say …”

  “That’s right, whatever I say.”


  An officer came in with some folders and a woman brought a bottle of Coke and left it on the desk next to a pistol.

  “This asshole’s going to drive me crazy, I can barely keep myself from smashing his brains against the wall,” said the one with the rabid look.

  “Be cool, commander, don’t worry: this fag will give it up sooner or later, he’ll give us everything we want.”

  “Everybody’s innocent, even after they’ve sliced up their sainted mother and used her to make mixiotes,” said the woman who’d brought the soda.

  “Here, everybody’s guilty until they prove otherwise,” declared the rabid one, and the others offered hearty laughs in response.

  The dog finally calmed down a little in the other cops’ presence and drank some soda. But nobody calmed me down. My guts rumbled in a way I knew meant I should hurry to the bathroom. I asked for permission to go but was turned down.

  “So tell me: full name, place and date of birth, profession, whether you can read and write, parents’ names, and how long you’ve been living in the home of the deceased.”

  “Mikel Ortiz Goitia. Puebla,” blah blah blah …

  “The names of three reputable citizens who can serve as references. Address and telephone number for each.”

  “I’m not opening a bank account or applying for a credit card, so I don’t need to give you references.”

  “Cut the crap! Just answer my questions. You’re driving me nuts, you fucking faggot!”

  “Excuse me, but I want to state for the record that I’m not a homosexual.”

  “If you keep this up, motherfucker, you’ll end up being the biggest seapussy on the boat.”

  I didn’t have the strength to argue that he was trying to lock me up without any evidence whatsoever. And that I was innocent. I didn’t kill Violeta, who in just a few hours had lost her name and become simply the deceased.