The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  “I heard,” Luz said. It was always the same story. Poor, desperate people stealing from other poor, desperate people. “A television stolen just a few blocks from our house.”

  “Thankfully no one was hurt,” Father Santiago said.

  “Keep the big light on over your gate, Father,” Luz said. She managed to smile. “Someone could steal the entire church if you were busy watching fútbol.”

  “Cruz Azul plays tonight,” Father Santiago said with a wink.

  Luz laughed and moved aside to let him speak to the next congregant. She drifted to the gravel path that led to the cemetery where her father and grandparents were buried. She walked to her father’s stone and sat on the nearby bench. The church social hummed in the distance. Over the years the cemetery had been both a grateful refuge and a haunting landscape to sketch. Luz wished she’d brought her sketchpad now. It would have been a distraction from her thoughts.

  I’m doing the best I can, Papa.

  It’s not enough.

  “You walked right by me.”

  Luz looked up to see her best friend from the neighborhood. Carmelita Rosales and Luz hadn’t gone to the same school but they had been in the church posadas together and stood next to each other for their First Communion and Luz was one of the few people who knew that Carmelita had lost her virginity to her father when she was 11.

  “Sorry,” Luz said and shifted to make room on the bench.

  Carmelita sat down. She was thin, with a darker complexion than Luz, and wore her hair in a loose perm that fell to her shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

  “Have you seen anyone with Lupe lately?” Luz heard herself blurt. “A man, I mean.”

  “No, but I don’t see her very much. Just when the girls play together.” Carmelita gave a little shrug. Her two daughters were friends with Martina and Sophia. “Why do you ask?”

  “She’s pregnant,” Luz said. “She’s not saying who the father is.”

  “Oh.”

  Carmelita didn’t say anything else. The two women had talked enough about broken lives to read each other’s thoughts. Carmelita had married and left her father’s house as soon as she could, and defied barrio social conventions by taking her husband’s name. When he died she remained in the home of her in-laws instead of moving back with her parents. She did not give her father’s name to her daughters, moreover, and never offered any explanation for it. Luz thought Carmelita was the bravest person she’d ever met.

  '

  Luz sluiced her hair under the pump in the yard by the old forge. Lupe stared at her anxiously, sewing scissors in hand.

  “Just chop it all off about here.” Luz gestured to her shoulder.

  “You’re sure about this, Luz?” Lupe fretted. “It’ll be awfully short.”

  “Yes.” Luz set her jaw and closed her eyes.

  Lupe sawed at the coarse tangles for a long time. In the end, at least 12 inches went. Luz was left with an even bob of shoulder-length hair, the ends twisting with the last bit of curl.

  As she rode the afternoon bus back to Mexico City with her drab new hair, depression settled over Luz, as toxic and pervasive as the unseen sewage on fruits and vegetables that only iodine could soak off. Juan Pablo would end up hefting cargo on the Veracruz waterfront instead of going to college and becoming licenciado--a professional with a degree. Martina and Sophia would complete the minimum six years of education, then become maids with no future like Tía Luz. Or unwed and pregnant like their mother.

  Depression started to feel like desperation. If Luz asked Señora Vega for a raise she’d surely be fired without the critical recommendation to get another job at a commensurate salary. A second job was impossible; her days started at 6:00 am and lasted until the work was done.

  Luz leaned her head against the window. The bus was already on the outskirts of Mexico City and the endless urban landscape had never seemed so gray and or so harsh. Most of the city was nothing like the old money enclave of Lomas Virreyes where the Vegas lived or Polanco where the city’s most expensive restaurants and clubs catered to the wealthy.

  The bus passed block after block of sooty concrete cut into houses and shops and shanties and parking garages and mercados and schools and more shanties where people lived surrounded by hulks of old cars and plastic things no one bothered to throw away. Sometimes there wasn’t concrete for homes, just sheets of corrugated metal and big pieces of cardboard that would last until the next rainy season. It was the detritus of millions upon millions of people who had nowhere to go and nothing to do and were angry about it.

  The Reforma newspaper had reported a few weeks ago that the city’s population was in excess of 28 million--more than 25 percent of the country’s entire population--and Luz believed it. All of those people were clawing at each other in a huge fishbowl suspended 7500 feet above sea level, where there was never enough oxygen and the air was thin and dirty.

  The city was hemmed in by mountains on all sides; mountains like Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl that sometimes spewed smoke and ash and prevented the contaminatión from cars and factories and sewers from escaping. Luz privately thought of it as la sopa--a white soup that often blotted out the stars and prevented the night sky from getting dark.

  The bus slowed in traffic. As they crept along Luz saw a car stopped on the side of the road, pulled over by a transito traffic cop. As Luz watched, the driver handed the cop a peso bill from his wallet. The transito accepted it but kept talking, gesturing at the car. The motorist handed him another bill. La mordida--the bite--of the traffic cop, right under her nose.

  Los Hierros was crap.

  Chapter 4

  “We will not be talking about Judge Romero,” Lorena Lopez de Betancourt said crisply. She cocked her head to one side and gave the two journalists what she thought of as her wise yet sincere look.

  “He does appear to be your most serious competition for the PAN nomination, señora,” the reporter said. He was tall with thick hair worn long and slicked back. Fit; maybe in his mid-thirties. He smiled ingratiatingly.

  “There will be no competition,” Lorena replied.

  “Has there been any discussion of possibly combining forces?” His name might be Garcia. Lorena wasn’t sure. She hadn’t really paid attention when the introductions had been made. He was supposed to be HOLA! magazine’s top reporter, which is what her office had demanded, and that was all she needed to know.

  “This is my interview,” Lorena said, with just enough edge in her voice to put Garcia in his place. “Not Judge Romero’s.”

  “Of course we’ll want to hear your views on family life and fashion,” the blonde woman next to him interjected.

  Lorena smiled frostily at Elsa Caso, the well-known television talk show host. Clips of the interview would be featured on her show.

  “Of course.” Lorena settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, waiting for Elsa Caso’s camera crew to be ready. The interview had been carefully timed to kick off a series of events planned to increase her visibility and portray her as having popular support as well as being someone whose experience set her above any other potential presidential candidate. One way to do that was to remind the populace that as Mexico’s First Lady she knew how to conduct business from Los Pinos. The interview was taking place in the main reception room and Lorena knew that she looked as if she belonged there. Her prematurely white hair was caught up in an elegant twist and her beaded blue dress dazzled against the dark antique furniture and satin draperies.

  The television people gave a final adjustment to their equipment and signaled that they were ready to start. Garcia and Elsa Caso said some patter, thanking Lorena for the interview, this wonderful chance to meet with the First Lady for a wide ranging chat about the issues facing Mexico today.

  “Let’s start with reports of this police group, Los Hierros,” Garcia said. “Do you believe the reports, and if so, do you think this sort of grassroots movement can be successful?”

  Lorena cut he
r eyes to Max Arias, her secretary and senior advisor, who was standing by the director. He hastily stepped into the interview space, forcing the cameras to stop rolling. “I’m sorry,” he said to Garcia and thrust a paper at him. “Perhaps you lost your copy of the interview questions.”

  “I thought the First Lady wanted to touch on current events,” Garcia replied. He smiled at Lorena again, and if she hadn’t been so annoyed with his departure from the script she might have wondered what he looked like without the suit.

  “Stay with what was agreed upon,” Max said and went back to stand next to the director.

  The cameras started rolling again.

  “Tell us a little bit about your typical day,” Elsa Caso gushed.

  “Fernando wakes me up every morning with a cup of coffee that he makes himself,” Lorena said. She placed a hand on her bosom. “It is a symbol of our love.”

  “Oooh.” Elsa clasped her hands in delight.

  The rest of the interview went as planned, with Lorena weaving heartfelt concern for the Mexican peoples’ welfare with sage political pronouncements prepared in advance by Max and his team. Elsa Caso unwittingly helped, supplying reactions and comments that painted the Betancourts’ relationship as a fairy tale of enduring love. But Garcia held Lorena’s gaze several times as if to remind her that he wasn’t quite satisfied.

  When the questions were all answered the HOLA! photographer took some still photos of her. Lorena spent a few moments adjusting her diamonds in the mirror over the Spanish sideboard and posed with one hand alongside the silver tea service. She changed clothes and jewelry twice, ending up in a strapless black evening gown with a sapphire and diamond choker, standing next to her husband’s official portrait and gazing up at Fernando’s stupid face as if inspired.

  Max led out Elsa Caso and the film crew, the bouncy blonde woman evidently very pleased with Lorena’s hard-hitting comments on relationships, balanced meals, and dressing for a woman’s body type. Garcia waited stony-faced for his colleague as the HOLA! photographer snapped a last picture of Lorena ostensibly pouring her husband a drink at the end of a long work day solving the country’s problems.

  “Thank you, señora.” The photographer bobbed his head at her and began to disassemble his equipment.

  Lorena poured a second shot of tequila and carried both over to the big picture window. Garcia was sitting on a damask sofa. He stood and she held out a glass. “Maybe you’d like a drink, too?”

  As he took the glass Lorena moved it so that his fingertips slid over hers. A corner of his mouth quirked up.

  “To what are we drinking?” he asked.

  “The success of your interview.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass before sipping the strong liquor.

  “I think you’ll like the article when it comes out next week.” He took a mouthful of tequila and tipped his head back. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “But you should have let me ask my questions.”

  “They sounded boring,” Lorena said.

  “You didn’t hear the exciting ones.” He touched his glass to hers. The gesture could have been a toast or an invitation.

  “Such as?” Lorena asked. She liked the way he stood up to her, flirting, using his sensuality to get what he wanted.

  “Such as how does Lorena plan to finance her campaign?” he asked.

  Many of the scripted questions had been phrased that way in order to emphasize her name. She looked down, smiled and licked the rim of the narrow tequila glass. “The people will give Lorena the money.”

  Garcia raised his eyebrows. “Will the people give enough money for a viable campaign if the party tilts toward Romero?”

  “The campaign has already started,” Lorena said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Max lead the HOLA! photographer out of the room, leaving her and Garcia alone. She stepped closer, the taffeta of her evening gown swishing.

  Garcia didn’t back away. “Romero will be tough to beat for the nomination,” he said. “He’s been a prosecutor, a professor, and a judge. Internationally known. Mediated with the terrorists in Colombia and the strikers in Argentina. Books have been translated into 20 languages. A stainless reputation.”

  “The people are with me,” Lorena said dismissively. “I am their sister.”

  “Lorena’s your sister.” Garcia swallowed the rest of his tequila. “That sounds like a campaign slogan.”

  Lorena cocked her head. “I like it. It’ll bring in the women’s vote.”

  “If you use it will I get a royalty?”

  Lorena finished her tequila and swished a step closer again. “Maybe we can discuss an exclusive,” she said. “I want your magazine to write a series of articles, following my campaign from now until the election.”

  “That would be up to my editor,” he said.

  Lorena shrugged. “I’m not offering this exclusive to just any magazine. Or to just any writer.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you know the Hotel Arias?” she asked.

  “In the Centro Histórico?”

  Lorena slowly drew the empty tequila glass out of Garcia’s hand and was rewarded with a stroke of his thumb across her palm. “I go there for lunch sometimes,” she said coolly. “Max’s father owns it.”

  “I hear it’s very discreet,” Garcia said.

  Max stepped into the room. Garcia gave a nod. “Thank you for the interview, señora,” he said and followed Max out.

  Lorena put the empty glasses on the sideboard and took off the heavily jeweled choker. Max returned and handed her a card. There was the HOLA! logo at the top and the name Victor Garza. She smiled. So his name was Garza, not Garcia. Not that it mattered.

  She pressed the card back into Max’s hand. “Friday lunch at the hotel. Two o’clock.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” Max said.

  Lorena gathered up the train of her dress. She watched as Max checked his agenda book then pulled out a cell phone. Max was in his mid-forties, trim, loyal, and discreetly gay. The perfect secretary and political advisor, Lorena mused as she went to change. Smart, well connected, and susceptible to pressure.

  Chapter 5

  “Your hair isn’t that horrible,” Rosa said critically.

  “Umm.” Luz didn’t look up. She had the Arts section from the Reforma newspaper spread out next to her dinner plate and was engrossed in a review of the October exhibits at the Tamayo Museum.

  “I can’t believe you came back last night looking like that.” Rosa leaned over the table, grabbed the sides of Luz’s hair and yanked it away from her face. “There. If you wore it back you’d almost look like la señora.”

  “Rosa,” Luz yelped in protest. The other maid was pulling her hair so tight Luz felt her eyelids stretch. She batted Rosa’s hands away.

  “Come out with me and Manuel Wednesday night.” Rosa sat back down. “Wear your hair back and we’ll go to this rave place in Colonia Roma.”

  “You don’t have Wednesday night off,” Luz said. She smoothed her hair and pronged a forkful of taquitos, the stuffed and rolled tortillas that Marisol the cook had fried for the rest of the household staff before leaving for the day.

  “You won’t sneak out on my night off so I’ll sneak out on yours.”

  Luz laughed and shook her head. Both maids wore a short-sleeved gray uniform dress with white collar and cuffs and apron but the similarity ended there. Rosa Perez Solana was barely 21, with a short, wiry perm and a petite frame. She was funny and irrepressible and reckless with men and an incurable gossip, finding the lives of her employers and movie stars equally fascinating. She’d worked for the Vegas for two years and Luz was continually surprised Rosa had lasted this long without getting pregnant or fired.

  “You need to meet somebody,” Rosa said with the authority of someone who had a boyfriend and regular sex.

  “I don’t like rave clubs.” Luz was hardly going to waste the money she’d saved not getting a perm on a useless night out. Plus, she knew what kind of man
she’d meet in a rave club. He’d be ten years younger, work in a mercado sorting fruit and vegetables, and grope her clumsily the first chance he got.

  “Don’t be such a--.” Rosa was cut off when the swinging door to the breakfast room smacked open.

  Francesca flounced into the kitchen. Tall and thin, with a shiny curtain of light brown hair, the middle Vega child was already a beauty at 14. She wore tight Prada jeans and a silk halter top. A school notebook was tucked under one arm. She looked around the kitchen, at the shiny stainless steel cupboards, counters, and appliances, then went to the desk where Señora Vega checked the household spending accounts, wrote out menus, and paid the staff.

  Luz and Rosa pretended not to watch as Francesca rifled through the desk drawers and looked through the chauffeur’s appointment book. They both knew she was looking for stray cash. Obviously not finding what she wanted, Francesca came over to the table where the two maids were sitting.

  “Luz.” The girl slammed down the notebook. “The cover needs to be decorated by tomorrow or I get a failing grade. Don’t do anything stupid. You know what I mean. And the French homework is inside. Bring it upstairs when you’re done.” She got a Coca from the refrigerator and walked out.

  “I would love to decorate your notebook and do your French assignment, Francesca,” Luz said softly to the swinging door. “Right after I finish Victoria’s homework.”

  Rosa snorted. Luz picked up the notebook and ran her thumb over the smooth paper cover. Most teachers required a decorated notebook as part of a student’s grade for class preparation and Luz decorated a dozen notebooks and folders for the children every year.

  The door opened again but no one walked through. The murmur of feminine voices came through from the breakfast room as the door swung lazily. Luz hurriedly tore the museum review out of the newspaper, stuffed it into her dress pocket and tossed the newspaper onto the recycling pile. Rosa caught her eye. They soundlessly counted to three together before hearing Francesca scream “I hate you!”