I opened my eyes. It was dark. Figures moved slowly around me. I squinted and blinked. Jesusa, Chicano and Gaby were leaning over me.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“You’re home,” Jesusa said. She touched the side of my face. Someone turned the light on. The room burned bright, hurting my eyes.
“Those boys gave you quite a beating,” Chicano said.
“Mosca.” My voice came out low and raspy like it belonged to someone else. I took a deep breath and swallowed. “They killed Mosca.” My sides burned with pain. “And Pepino took his diablito rojo.”
Gaby turned away and wiped her eyes. Then she stood and walked quickly out of the room.
“But she didn’t even like Mosca,” I said.
Jesusa looked at Chicano.
“They killed Francisco,” Chicano said softly. “He was one of the men in the Suburban we saw last week.”
Chicano’s mask was ripped at the side near his ear. The stitching around the tear-like shapes that outlined his eyes was coming off. The mouth had a long rip and only a few of the little blue stars remained. He smiled. For the first time I noticed he was missing one of his front teeth. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I got you a present.” He held up the necklace Pepino was wearing. The devil’s fire.
“Relax.” Jesusa’s voice was steady, gentle. Her cold hand pressed against my forehead. “You’re going to be fine. You just need rest.” Her voice was so soothing. My body felt light, like it was levitating. I closed my eyes.
32.
It was almost noon when I woke up. I was still in terrible pain. When I sat up, a wave of dizziness almost knocked me back.
The house was quiet.
I walked into the kitchen where Jesusa was washing dishes. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“It hurts.”
“They really laid into you, ¿no pues?”
I remembered Pepino, his friends, Mosca’s devil’s fire. I hurried back to my room.
Jesusa came after me, wiping her hands on her apron.
I pulled my pajamas off.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to find him,” I said.
“No, Liberio, Chicano said you have to stay here until he comes home.”
“Where did he go?” I pulled a t-shirt from the dresser and caught my reflection in the mirror. My entire left side was a long black bruise. My face was swollen, black and blue spots at the eye and cheek.
“He didn’t say. But just wait. Please.”
I put the shirt on. Then I stepped behind the closet door and changed my pants.
“He said he would be back soon,” she said.
“When did he leave?”
“I don’t know. Early this morning.”
“It’s noon,” I said.
“Wait for him, Liberio. Por favor.”
“What if he never comes back?” I cried as I ran out of the house.
“It’s dangerous!”
The plaza was deserted. Everything was shuttered. Three double cab pickups were parked in front of the municipal building. Pineda’s Yukon was there. Two men carrying cuerno de chivo assault rifles stood by the trucks. Two men and a woman walked into Los Pinos restaurant where another guard stood at the entrance with a black military style machine gun slung over his shoulder.
Across the street, Father Gregorio hurried into the church.
I followed him. He was with a group of men. One of them placed his hand on his shoulder and laughed. Another man gave him a pat on the back. When our eyes met, Farther Gregorio’s smile faded. Then he smiled again. It was a lie. The men turned and stared at me, unsmiling. The priest nodded at one of the men and moved toward me with long hurried steps.
“Liberio.” His voice was soft, friendly like I had known it all my life. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.
I ran. I slipped on the wet steps and fell. My whole body flexed with pain. I pushed myself up and kept going. I had to keep going.
I ran up to Santacruz. My legs, my sides throbbed with pain. My chest burned. The road was all mud. Every step was an effort. But I had to get to Mosca’s house. I kept thinking it had all been a mistake, a bad dream. This could not be happening.
I stopped to catch my breath. There were no street dogs, no kids or old ladies on the side of the road or in front of the houses, hanging laundry. No chickens. Nothing.
I reached the top of the hill. The sun began to peek from behind the rain clouds. There was no answer at Mosca’s house. I knocked on his tía Yarce’s door. No answer. There was no one in the streets, no kids flying kites or playing soccer or mothers sweeping patios. Santacruz was deserted.
I ran to the side where I had last seen Mosca sitting on the edge of the cliff with the big black binoculars. He was gone. Everyone was gone. My parents, Chicano, the people of Santacruz. All gone.
I closed my eyes and asked God for help. When I opened them again I saw two boys running. They disappeared up the path toward the grotto and the giant cross. I ran after them.
Around the bend, at the top of the mountain, a large crowd had gathered, everyone looking up at the sunrays breaking through the clouds and spilling down on the giant white cross where Chicano Estrada’s body hung from his neck by a rope tied to the right arm of the cross.
33.
We sat at the center of the bus to Mexico City—Gaby and me with Jesusa and my abuela in the seats in front of us. That day there was no first-class bus out of Izayoc, but the second-class bus was comfortable. It had air-conditioning, was quiet and smelled of cherry air-freshener.
I had a window seat. Just after we started, we stopped to pick up two passengers on the side of the old highway. They had a lot of luggage. It took a while for them to get settled and for the bus to start again. Behind us was the Pemex station and El Gallo de Oro.
When the bus finally started, we travelled slowly until we reached the place where the old highway met the new one northeast of town. We passed Zopilote’s parent’s restaurant. Workers were building something on the empty lot beside it. The parking lot was crowded with big trucks and a black Suburban with tinted windows.
A man walked out of the restaurant. The glint of the silver pistol tucked in his belt caught the sun and reflected like a mirror against my eye. And for some reason I thought of Ximena and the time she blew that kiss at me after we’d won the school’s history contest, her lips pressed together as she blew, her eyes bright and full of life and the false promise of the future.
In the front of the bus, the driver had started a movie on the small television above the windshield. It was one of the Scooby Doo flicks.
My abuela leaned to the side and touched Jesusa’s arm. “You are going to love Veracruz. You will see. It is such a wonderful place. Peaceful like heaven.”
I looked at Gaby. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She had her head turned to the side, her eyes downcast, her hands folded on her lap. She looked just like she did when we were little and drove with our parents to Acapulco.
I nudged her with my elbow. “What are you thinking?”
She looked at me and smiled. Then she pursed her lips and her eyes furrowed. “About Veracruz,” she said. “I just hope it’s like Abuela says.”
I lowered my head. Her fingers moved nervously one over the other like the time we waited at Pineda’s office. I took her hand. “Relax. It’s Veracruz. Everything will be great.”
She smiled and wove her fingers between mine the way my mother used to do. “So what’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get there?”
Gaby’s eyes had a terrible sadness. I thought of Mosca and Chicano and my parents and everything that happened in Izayoc. And somehow I knew it would never leave her. It would never leave any of us. Veracruz, Mexico City or any other place in the world could never make the sadness disappear.
“I’m going to find a gym,” I said, and brought my hand to my neck and felt the necklace, my fingers rubbing the smooth sphere of the devil’s fire. “I’m going to be
come a luchador. The best ever. El Diablo Rojo.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m extremely grateful and indebted to Rita Ciresi, Ira Sukrungruang and Ylce Irizarry for their feedback on Playing for the Devil’s Fire, and to my agent Stephany Evans for believing in it. As always, my warmest gratitude to la familia at Cinco Puntos, especially to Lee Byrd for helping me make the manuscript sing. And to my wife Lorraine, for everything.
GLOSSARY
A
abuela: Grandmother
agüita: A translucent glass marble
albóndigas: Meatballs
amigos: Friends
ándale: Go on or let’s go
B
bolillo: A traditional Mexican bread roll with a hard crust
botanita: Snack or appetizer
broder: Slang, a derivative of the word brother
buen provecho: Enjoy your meal
C
cachorritos: Baby animals like cubs or puppies
café con leche: Coffee with milk
caguama: A large (usually 1 liter) bottle of beer
cantina: Bar
caray: Jeez
cabrón: Billy goat, used as an insult
carnal: Slang, brother
carteles: The posters that advertise an event
chamaco: Boy
chicharrón: Pork rind, usually served with lime and hot sauce
chichis: Vulgar slang, breasts
chingados: Vulgar slang, screw it
chíngatelo: Vulgar slang, screw him over
chingues: Vulgar slang, to mess around with.
No chingues: Don’t mess around
chiquita: Little one. An endearing term
chiras pelas: An expression used with playing marbles when a player knocks another player’s marble out
chismes: Gossip
cócteles: Cocktails as in seafood cocktails
colonias: Neighborhood, but it is also used to reference poor neighborhoods that sprout up where squatters take over
compadre: The godfather of a person’s child. Also used about a good or best friend
conchas: A type of sweet bread that has the shape of a clamshell
conjuntos: A small musical group
corrido: A traditional style of song or ballad that tells a story of a person or event
cuates: Pals
cuerno de chivo: Goat’s horn. Slang, an AK-47 assault rifle, referencing the magazine of the rifle that is curved like the horn of a goat
cumbia: popular music style originally from Colombia
D
dios mío: My God
E
efectívamente: An acknowledgement in the affirmative, like saying indeed
el diablito rojo: Small red devil
el dolor del amor: The pain of love
el enmascarado de plata: Silver-masked el Hijo del Santo: Son of Santo, a Mexican wrestler el Norte: The north, the USA
elotes: Corn on the cob
enano: Midget. Used either as an insult or endearment
entonces: So, or so then
escuadra: A carpenter’s square. Slang, an automatic pistol that has a right angle like a carpenter’s square
estas loco: You’re crazy
estudios Churubusco: Film studios in Mexico City
F
feria: Fair
fiestas: A party. Also refers to holidays
fútbol: Soccer
G
gente pobre: Poor people
gordo: Fat
güey: Alternative spelling wey or buey. Dude, but has a slightly vulgar connotation
H
hijín: Slang, from hijo, which means son.
Hijo is used in Mexico for a good friend or dude, the same way güey is used.
hijo de su chingada madre: Like saying son of a bitch
huipil: A loose brocaded blouse worn by Indian women
J
jacal: Small peasant hut usually made of mud and sticks
jefe: Boss. Slang, father
L
limosna: Money you give to a beggar or the church
linda: Pretty
luchador: Wrestler
M
maguey: A type of agave plant with thorns found throughout Mexico
malecón: Seaside boulevard or promenade
mano: Buddy
mantilla: Traditional head and face scarf worn over the head and shoulders
mayordomo: Can mean butler, but in rural Mexico it means the person who works (usually on a volunteer basis) to clean and take care of a church or other community property
metiche: Someone who gets in other people’s business
mi amor: my love
mijo: Contraction for mi hijo, my son
Mil Máscaras: A thousand masks: a famous Mexican wrestler
milpa: Field planted with crops, usually corn
mis pendejitos: My little idiots, or my little assholes
mocos: An insult.
Mocos means boogers, but in Mexico the saying accompanies a vulgar hand gesture akin to giving the finger
mocoso: Snot-nosed kid
molletes: Bolillo bread sliced in half, coated with refried beans and melted cheese
morral: Peasant’s sack or bag, usually made of woven palm fronds or wool
mosca: Fly
muy buenas tardes: Very good afternoon
N
Nahuatl: the language and culture of the Nahua Indians, descendants of the Aztecs
nalgas: Vulgar, buttocks
naranjas: Slang, no
nieve: A type of ice cream like a sorbet
ni madres: Vulgar, no way
niña: Girl
niños: Boys
Niños Héroes: Boy heroes. Six young cadets who, when in 1847
the invading U.S. forces entered Mexico City and made their way up to Chapultepec Castle—then the military academy—wrapped themselves in the Mexican flag and jumped off the cliff to their death instead of surrendering the flag
no manches: Vulgar slang, don’t mess around
nopales: Variety of edible cactus
no, que va: An expression similar to saying, no way
O
órale: Similar to saying, come on
P
pa’ cogersela: Vulgar, to screw her
panadería: Bread store where they also bake the bread
pan dulce: Sweet breads
para servirle: At your service
pendejo: An insult similar to idiot, but worse
pepino: Cucumber
perico: Parrot. Also the name of an opaque aggie agate marble that has colors similar to those of a parrot
piloncillo: Raw sugar
pinches putos: Vulgar, fucking assholes
pollitos: Slang, chicks, girls
por el amor de Dios: For the love of God
por favor: Please
procuraduría: The police station
profesor: A male professor or teacher
pueblo: Town
pues: An expression, similar to saying, see or you know?
Q
que Dios lo bendiga: May God bless you
qué hubo: Slang, what’s up?
R
regiomontanos: People from Monterrey in the north of Mexico
S
Santo: the most famous Mexican masked wrestler
Secundaria Vicente Suárez: middle school (Vicente Suarez is the name of one of the Niños Héroes)
señora: Woman, but it is also used to show respect. When Jesusa says, sí señora, she is saying, Yes, ma’am. Servants don’t usually call their employers by their first names
simón: Slang, yes. Derived from sí
T
taquería: Taco shop
taquero: Man who makes tacos
telenovela: Soap opera
tocayo: Two people with the same name are tocayos and they can refer to each other as tocayo
tortillería: Shop where they make and sell tortillas
troca: Slang, truck
&n
bsp; trompo: Top, a toy that spins when propelled with a string. The meat for tacos al pastor is stacked in the shape of a large top
U
un perro callejero: Stray dog
Uruapan: A town in the state of Michoacán
V
válgame: Usually people say valgame dios (may God save me), but often times people just say valgame (oh my)
varos: Slang, pesos (Mexican money)
veladora: Religious votive candles
vieja: Old woman. Slang, chicks, girls
Virgen de Guadalupe: Patron saint of Mexico
vulcanizaroda: Tire repair shop
Y
ya basta: Enough or stop
ya veras: You’ll see
PHILLIPPE DIEDERICH
Phillippe Diederich is a Haitian-American writer and photographer born in the Dominican Republic and raised in Mexico City and Miami. He worked in Mexico for half a decade as a photojournalist, traveling through the country extensively and witnessing the terrible tragedies of the drug wars. He thinks of Mexico as his home. Playing for the Devil’s Fire is a novel born from his nostalgia and deep sorrow for Mexico. He wanted to put a face to the 80,000-plus deaths in the so-called war on drugs and to address the corruption and the senseless narco violence that is tearing the country apart.
PRAISE FOR PLAYING FOR THE DEVIL’S FIRE
In Playing for the Devil’s Fire, we ride a young Mexican boy’s emotional helter-skelter as he gradually understands the hopelessness of his battle against evil. Philippe Diederich has found a brilliant way of going behind the headlines to show that the Mexican tragedy is about real people.—Alan Riding, author of Distant Neighbors: A Portrait of the Mexicans
Phillippe Diederich’s Playing for the Devil’s Fire is a frightening and gripping story of what happens when evil takes control of a small town. Boli, a baker’s son, gives us a firsthand understanding about the long plague of Mexico’s drug wars, the disappearances of those willing to speak out, and the helplessness common people feel when their leaders choose money over justice. Boli’s friendship with El Chicano Estrada, an itinerant masked luchador, recalls the same odd and deep bond Huck and Jim formed in Twain’s great book. The stakes are just as high here for a child whose heart is just as good.—Tony D’Souza, author of Whiteman
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 22
