The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  Max put the ledger back on its self, again hiding it in plain sight. He gathered his phone and planner, went back into the bar and had another glass of port, chatting quietly with Alvaro until Lorena texted him to say that she was ready to go back to Los Pinos. Max walked into the lobby, cell phone to his ear as he called the chauffeur and the First Lady’s security detail to bring the car around. Twenty minutes passed before Lorena made her appearance, looking a little less put together than when they’d arrived several hours earlier.

  Sitting next to her in the car Max nearly gagged on the smell of semen.

  Lorena smiled in the slightly feline manner she always had afterwards. “A very nice lunch,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Max turned his head to look out the car window.

  The woman had turned him into a pimp. Right under her husband’s nose, too.

  The car was turning into the circle in front of the entrance to Los Pinos before Max remembered he hadn’t changed the password for 1612colcol. He was still using the master password he’d been given along with the userid. The directions, too complicated to remember, were on a flash drive in his office.

  “Tell me my schedule for tomorrow,” Lorena said.

  Max’s planner felt oddly heavy as he opened it to tomorrow’s page and started reading off the appointments to her.

  Chapter 9

  Eddo was up to eight miles a day on the treadmill.

  He pounded out the miles Friday morning, mentally readying himself for the monthly meeting of the ministry’s senior executives that afternoon. Eddo had not seen Hugo since before the lunch with Bernal Paz.

  At 3:00 Eddo took his seat in the ministry’s big conference room. The space was a paean to Mexican history, with an enormous framed antique Mexican flag stretched across one wall and vintage photographs of Mexican government landmarks on the other side of the room. The dark wood conference table could seat 40 and was half filled with the Ministry of Public Security’s top executives.

  The monthly event was equal parts status check and social gathering. A late lunch was always served; this time it was pumpkin flower soup followed by elegant plates of puerco en naranja and a tart salad of shredded nopales and celeriac. Monte Xanic merlot from Hugo’s favorite local winery accompanied the meal. Waiters took away the plates and set out a buffet of coffee and assorted postres, then discreetly left.

  Hugo carried his coffee to his seat at the head of the table and the meeting officially came to order. It always started with a few words from Hugo; his views of how the ministry was doing and any information he felt his senior officials needed to know.

  Eddo made a few notes as Hugo talked but otherwise deliberately kept his hands idle on the tabletop. Hands were always a giveaway. He laughed at Hugo’s jokes--not too much--and nodded at key comments. When Hugo was done those around the table each had their turn, updating the group about developments in their area of responsibility since the last time they’d met. At these meetings Eddo never mentioned investigations that were ongoing and therefore confidential, so today he just spoke briefly about the convictions of three Ministry of Agriculture officials who had been in the business of defrauding the government. Eddo wound up by mentioning that he’d been asked to speak at the Young Attorney Association’s annual conference at the Hotel Franco in Polanco in a few weeks. He made a joke about not being able to get out of it, prompting guffaws from the group. His avoidance of the spotlight was almost legendary and assumed to be shyness.

  The meeting ended in the early evening. As everyone got to their feet, Hugo motioned to Eddo and Luis Yanez Luna, head of the Financial Regulations Unit, the office that investigated financial crimes such as counterfeiting and bank fraud. “Stay, gentlemen, if you would be so kind.”

  Hugo was not a physically imposing man, but he had an intelligent face with regular features and a trim moustache. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a compact build, and a penchant for the same type of sleekly tailored Italian suits favored by Bernal Paz. He had been born into a tremendously wealthy family in Monterrey and had built his own media empire by buying up television and radio stations across Mexico and then branching out into news feeds for cellular phone service. His fortune had paved the way for a political career but not as an elected official. It was well known that his wife, Graciela, had absolutely refused to let him run for president in the last election, paving the way for Betancourt to be selected as the PAN’s compromise candidate. Hugo had already announced he would not be a candidate in the next election, either.

  “Well, my young friends,” Hugo said. He’d shown the rest of the group out and now came back to the conference table where Eddo and Luis were standing. “I just wanted to pass on my appreciation to both of you for how well your offices worked together on this agriculture thing. I’d like to see more of this type of cooperation and this kind of result.”

  “There was good teamwork at every level,” Luis said. A few years older than Eddo, he was an accountant and attorney. He’d never done field work but didn’t seem mired in bureaucracy, either.

  “It went smoothly,” Eddo agreed.

  “Excellent.” Hugo leaned his hip against the table and loosened his tie, the picture of relaxation and goodwill. “Eduardo, who was your top investigator?”

  “Conchita Félix Pacheco.”

  “Conchita?” Hugo appeared surprised that it was a woman.

  “A Harvard Law School graduate who also happens to be president of the Young Attorney Association.” Eddo smiled ruefully.

  Hugo gave a short, seemingly genuine laugh. “Then I say ‘well done’ to her for both the investigation and getting you to the podium.”

  “I’ll pass on your congratulations.”

  “Plan something for next month that I can attend,” Hugo went on. “I’d like to give her a plaque and rally the troops. How about from your side, Luis?”

  As Luis discussed the contribution from Financial, Eddo couldn’t help admiring Hugo’s gesture. The man was tough and demanding but he set high standards, paid attention to his people, and acknowledged excellence. It was why Eddo had gone to work for the man in the first place, why they’d been able to clean up the ministry after years of stagnation.

  “Good, good,” Hugo said as Luis wound up. “Let’s keep the collaboration going.” He turned to Luis. “Can you excuse us now, Luis? I want to talk to Eduardo alone.”

  Luis shook hands with the other two men and left. Hugo walked over to the dessert buffet. He perused the remaining sweets, his back to the room. Eddo slowly put his portfolio into his briefcase, his mind racing.

  “I hear you’re working long hours,” Hugo said.

  “No more than you,” Eddo replied.

  “Very good.” Hugo laughed and turned around with a fruit tart on a plate. “Look, Eduardo, I really wanted to talk to you about Arturo Romero. I know you’re very close.”

  Eddo nodded. Bernal Paz had talked and Hugo was going to say he knew about the warrant Romero had signed.

  “Arturo is a good man,” Hugo continued. “But politics is an erratic business.”

  “So I hear.” Would it be a warning or an outright threat? Would Hugo try to explain or negotiate? Maybe the threat would be directed at Arturo as a way to force Eddo to stop the investigation.

  “How close is he to getting the party nomination, do you think?” Hugo asked.

  “I don’t think I’m the right person to ask,” Eddo said.

  “Surely you have some sense of his backing. Rumor has it he likes you for Attorney General.” Hugo chuckled. “There’s a job with a lot of speeches.”

  “It’s a long road to the nomination.” Eddo didn’t know where the conversation was headed, not sure if he was on solid ground or shifting sand.

  “Romero can come across a bit dull,” Hugo said. He bit into the tart, chewed, swallowed. “Too intellectual. Above the common folk, so to speak. He has to have other weak spots, too.” It was almost a question.

  Eddo shrugged.

  H
ugo finished the tart. “How much do you think his campaign for the nomination will cost?”

  “I’m hardly a campaign strategist.” Eddo kept his voice light.

  Hugo tossed his empty plate onto the buffet and came back to where Eddo was standing. “When was the last time you had a good fuck, Eduardo?”

  Eddo raised his eyebrows.

  Hugo thumped Eddo on the shoulder. “For a young man, you’re too serious.” He made a jovial gesture of dismissal. “Get out and find yourself some women. Fuck their brains out and you won’t care about that speech.”

  Chapter 10

  Raul shambled into the kitchen early Friday evening as Luz sat at the table pasting articles in her notebook and she realized he was expecting la cena. She rushed to set out warm tortillas, brew a fresh pot of coffee, and serve him a heaping portion of the paella Marisol had left. When the old gardener was settled she retreated to the other side of the table and resumed her work.

  Rosa had left that morning for her weekend off and the Vegas had gone to Valle de Bravo immediately after school. Luz cherished the quiet. No worry that la señora was going to find fault with something, no need to sneak around corners to avoid Alejandro’s groping hands or Francesca’s temper. There was only Raul to feed and a few chores that Marisol had assigned. Luz planned to do the chores Saturday morning and spend the rest of the weekend reading the books in Señor Vega’s study.

  The recycling bin yielded some newspapers and a new copy of HOLA! There was nothing in the glossy magazine worth keeping for her notebooks but there was an interview with Lorena Lopez de Betancourt. The questions were all opportunities for Lorena to sound like a combination of the Virgin of Guadalupe and the country’s fairy godmother and as she read it Luz laughed out loud.

  “What’s that?”

  Raul was staring at her. He pointed at the magazine with a folded tortilla.

  “An old revista from the trash,” Luz said.

  “You get ideas.” Raul pushed half the tortilla into his mouth. “No good.”

  “Why is that?” Luz asked, surprised that he was actually talking to her. Raul was very old and kept to himself. Once a year Hector drove Raul to the huge plant market in Xochimilco but otherwise Raul hardly ever left the Vega property.

  “You read too much,” Raul said and shoved his empty plate away. “Like my son.”

  A son? Luz had never heard that Raul had been married or had children. “You have a son, Raul?”

  The old man stared at her blankly. Luz swiftly removed his plate and replaced it with a slice of pastel de tres leches and a cup of coffee. He dumped sugar into the cup and slurped the coffee noisily. Luz slid into her chair with some coffee for herself and watched him expectantly.

  After a few bites of the cake Raul seemed to realize that she was waiting. “He read about the United States and wanted to go. He tried to cross the desert but the Virgin abandoned him because what he was doing was wrong. He got lost and died in the sun.”

  “I’m so sorry, Raul,” Luz said.

  “His mother had a retablo made for the Virgin to have pity on his soul.”

  “I’m sure his soul rests in peace.”

  “When his mother died I had the retablo buried with her.” Raul continued to eat.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Luz’s heart twisting in sadness. Retablos were primitive paintings of a scene of something that happened in a person’s life for which they were giving thanks to the Virgin. But not this time. The son had died trying to get to El Norte and the mother had probably died of a broken heart.

  Raul pushed the empty dessert plate across the table to Luz and got up. He walked over to the door, apparently having forgotten he’d said anything significant.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Raul,” Luz called after him. “I’ll light a candle for them.”

  Raul walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Luz swallowed past the lump in her throat. Everyone knew someone who’d tried to cross the border into El Norte. Many ilegales made it and sent back good money to their families, but many were robbed and raped by coyote guides, left to die in the desert, or hunted down by La Migra immigration police and deposited back on the Mexican side of the border.

  She got herself a cup of coffee, opened the next magazine from the recycling pile, and was soon engrossed in an El Economista article about people who were still rebuilding New York City after the terrible terrorist attack. There was a picture of a smiling woman named Dee Rodriguez who’d opened a flower shop called New Life Blooms. It was a wonderful article, all about courageous people and real change. The article continued and as Luz flipped the page a little card slid out of the magazine.

  Instructions and a telephone number were printed in navy blue ink, Spanish on one side and English on the other. There was a tiny eagle in the upper left hand corner. The top read Información sobre Visas.

  There was more than just the ilegale way to go to the United States where every job paid as much as being a chauffeur in Mexico. Go to the American Embassy on Reforma near the famous El Angel monument and pay for a visa.

  The card stared up at her, full of crisp lettering and infinite promise.

  Almost without thinking, Luz brought the card upstairs and got out her cell phone.

  She got a recording. New visa appointments on weekday mornings cost 850 pesos. The applicant had to deposit the payment into the embassy’s account at Banamex Bank and bring the bank deposit receipt to the appointment, with the account number printed on it by the bank, along with passport, birth certificate, and educational documentation.

  Luz disconnected the call and sat back. The cost of a visa was triple what they spent all month for food in Soledad de Doblado. It was almost as much as her cell phone had cost and it taken a year to save for that. But Luz didn’t have a year.

  Go to New York. The thought made Luz dizzy. She could take her floral certificates and work for smiling Dee Rodriguez whose name was like an omen. She would finally see the wonderful Guggenheim with its undulating architecture and all the other museums she’d only ever read about. Maybe she could study art and learn to draw faces. She wouldn’t have to marry Gonzalez Ruiz.

  Her hands shook as Luz pulled out her notebooks. In the pocket of the oldest one was a large envelope with her floral certificates, the letter from Santa Catalina that said how many years of school she’d finished, her birth certificate, and the passport she’d gotten two years ago when the Vegas had planned a trip to Spain but left her behind at the last minute.

  '

  Monday morning before Marisol came Luz asked Señora Vega for an advance on her salary.

  “An advance?” La señora’s eyes narrowed with impatience. She was heading off to the club for a spinning class. She wore matching yoga pants and warm-up jacket, several gold chains, and a low-cut tank top that showed her sports bra. Her silky hair was pulled into the usual ponytail. “I don’t give advances. You know that.”

  “I’m sorry, señora.” Luz put on her stupid face and stared at the floor, appalled at the risk she was taking. “I’ve never asked before.”

  “You know the rules.” Señora Vega made a dismissive gesture.

  “My mother has to pay a school fee,” Luz said, not moving.

  Señora Vega drummed her fingers on the edge of the big desk. Looked at her watch.

  “Please,” Luz whispered, hating that she had to beg.

  “Just this once,” Señora Vega said archly. “I won’t tolerate this sort of behavior again.” She wrote out a statement that said Luz had accepted 850 pesos as an advance against her salary due Friday 29 October. Luz signed it. Senora Vega counted out the bills from her wallet.

  “Thank you, señora. May I go send it?”

  Señora Vega flapped a hand at her, unhooked her keys and left.

  Rosa was busy cleaning Alejandro’s bathroom. Luz ran up to the attic and called the visa number on her cell phone. When the recording ended she pressed the button to speak to a real person. She m
ade an appointment for Friday morning, the day before the Portillo’s party. Then she walked 20 minutes to the huge Banamex bank at the intersection of the big boulevards of Reforma and Prado Sur. She filled out a deposit slip and took a number. The tote board directing number-holders to a specific teller kept the lines of people moving. When the teller handed her the receipt with the embassy bank account number printed on it, Luz’s knees nearly buckled with the enormity of what she’d done.

  Chapter 11

  “Señor Cortez?”

  Eddo looked up from the report on his desk. The junior secretary, Paola, was standing in the partially open door to his office, clutching a manila envelope to her chest as if for protection. He pulled off his reading glasses. “Yes?”

  “A package for you, señor,” she said hesitantly.

  “Thank you, Paola. Leave it in the usual place, please.” Eddo indicated the credenza along the wall adjacent to his desk.

  Paola walked to the credenza and laid the envelope in the inbox. “It’s marked urgent, señor,” she said. “From Señor Cortez in Puebla.”

  Eddo got up, came around the side of the desk, and took the envelope out of the inbox. “Thank you, Paola.”

  The secretary disappeared out the door like a rabbit down a hole and Eddo carried the thickly padded envelope back to his desk. He cut it open with a scissors and pulled out a letter and a square cardboard envelope marked Urgencia.

  The letter was from his uncle Bernardo explaining that the cardboard envelope had been sent to Marca Cortez from the Banco de Vieja Puebla and that he’d thought it best to send the package on to Eddo in Mexico City.

  “Madre de Dios,” Eddo swore under his breath. “Two weeks exactly.”

  The envelope contained an unmarked CD. There was no note, no message from Bernal Paz.