The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  By 6:00 am Luz was in the Vega’s kitchen waiting for Ricardo to ring for the trash.

  The rest of Saturday was like a nightmare. She fell asleep at the kitchen table at noon and woke with a start when Francesca came in for a Coca. Luz started drinking coffee after that, so she’d be awake when la señora came to punish her, but her brain stayed hazy while her heart raced and she felt so agitated she wanted to scream.

  When Alejandro cornered her in the hallway and started in on her she had no patience to deal with him adroitly. Without thinking about the consequences she grabbed the front of his pants and squeezed until his eyes watered.

  “Keep away from me,” Luz hissed. She shoved him aside and went back into the kitchen. She fell into bed at 10:00 pm after taking off her panties, shaking from nerves and too much caffeine, the paper cuts stinging.

  Chapter 37

  “You’re sure about this, Eduardo?” Arturo Romero asked.

  “Let’s get it done before I go,” Eddo answered.

  “‘Regarding current income from and holdings in Marca Cortez,’” Arturo read from the paper in front of him. “‘Upon your demise, a quarter of said assets to your niece. A quarter to the Marca Cortez Medical Fund, a quarter to Lomas Altas Children’s Hospital, and the final quarter to Luz de Maria Alba Mora of Lomas Virreyes, Mexico City.’”

  “Where do I sign?”

  “Here. And here. And again here.” Arturo arranged the papers on the table so that Eddo could sign the will.

  The room was silent except for the scratching of Eddo’s pen. Arturo signed as the witness.

  They were in Arturo’s study in the big house in Oaxaca. The French doors to the patio were open, a breeze gently moving the long white draperies gathered to one side. Cotton slipcovers on the upholstered furniture were a cooling contrast to the dark wood of the library table and the brown leather armchairs. An eclectic mix of landscape paintings, family pictures, and memorabilia from Arturo’s distinguished career decorated the walls.

  From where Eddo sat he could see the mountains rising greenish brown beyond the far wall enclosing the Romero compound. Some of the peaks were perfectly pointed; everyone knew there were unexcavated pyramids out there but no one had enough money or energy to tackle them. The ancient city at nearby Monte Alban was enough for most people.

  It was the second time he’d come to this house to heal. The first had been when his parents had died. That time his soul had been broken, this time it was his body. His cracked collarbone had knit well, but it was still sore. The scars were red and angry, but they would fade in time, and he’d let his hair grow to conceal the one on the side of his head. He’d started exercising as soon as he could and his strength had come back quickly.

  “Does Pilar know?” Arturo asked.

  “About the will or that I’m going to Panama?” Eddo asked.

  Arturo slid the will into a file jacket then settled back in his chair, still long and lean despite being in his early sixties. His hair was silvery gray and his features were sharp and aristocratic but never cold or aloof. “Both.”

  Eddo stood and walked to the French doors. Several hundred meters away, an armed security guard walked the perimeter of the razor-wire topped wall. Peace and a tight-knit family were inside. Outside were the pressures and dangers of being a judge, a presidential candidate, and a crusader against the weak laws and official corruption that enabled the drug cartels.

  “I told her I was changing the will,” he said. “She was fine with it. After all, her share of Marca Cortez is just as big.”

  “But you didn’t tell her--.”

  “I just told her I’d be traveling for awhile,” Eddo said. “And, no, I didn’t tell her about Luz, either.”

  “Why not?” Arturo poured two cups of coffee from the service on the library table.

  “Vasco has put together all the evidence we have so far," Eddo said, not ready to talk about Luz. “He’s briefing Fonseca.” The Attorney General, Ignacio Fonseca Zelaya, was old and his role was largely that of a figurehead but he still carried considerable influence.

  Arturo handed Eddo a cup of coffee. “Do whatever you have to do in Panama to complete the picture. Let Fonseca take it to the president.”

  The coffee cup in Eddo’s hands was fine china, expensive but faded from everyday use, a symbol of the house and the life that Arturo and his wife Imelda had built together. In contrast, Eddo didn’t even have an apartment anymore, much less a bone china teacup. He pushed aside a feeling of rootlessness. “Betancourt stonewalled before,” he reminded Arturo.

  “Fernando can be slow to decide.” Arturo gave a nod. “But faced with an overwhelming amount of evidence he won’t have a choice.”

  Unless Betancourt is afraid of Hugo. They both walked back to the armchairs and Eddo took a deep breath but before he could speak there was a knock on the door and Imelda came in.

  Arturo’s wife matched him for height and elegance. Her most striking features were her large brown eyes, an extremely short hairstyle, and a cascade of smile lines that betrayed her age. Eddo knew she wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense but even movie stars paled in her presence.

  Right now she was wearing baggy jeans, an old tee shirt, and reading glasses on a string around her neck. She kissed each man on the top of his head and plopped down in another armchair. “Ignore me,” she said. “I just want to be around sane people for ten minutes.”

  Arturo topped up his own coffee cup and handed it to her. “Wedding plans?”

  Imelda took the cup. “All I ask is that both Maria Elena and Duarte make it to the church in appropriate clothing. The rest of this is nuts.”

  Eddo smiled. Arturo and Imelda’s daughter was getting married in a couple of months. Planning the wedding was more complicated than putting together the presidential campaign.

  Imelda chatted about the wedding for a few minutes, making them laugh. The driver would be ready to take Eddo to the airport at 6:00 pm, she reminded them, and left.

  “The campaign needs to move to Mexico City,” Eddo said. “Lorena’s loud and obnoxious but she’s making you look remote. Ask Nestor.” Eddo liked and respected Nestor Solis, Arturo’s campaign manager. During his recuperation Nestor had encouraged him to outline a book on legal reform that would come out before the nominating convention.

  “Nestor also tells me I’m not telegenic,” Arturo said wryly. “He says we have to balance my dullness with the image of a young, dynamic Romero team.”

  He got up and went to his desk, rifled through papers, and came back to Eddo with a folder. “Nestor wants to build that team image around you. Here’s his plan for getting you in front of the public.”

  As Eddo looked through the materials in the folder, Bernal Paz’s words echoed in his head. In all that time you’ve been concealed. Lurking in the shadows. Well, not with this plan. Nestor had scripted an impressive campaign to introduce Eddo to the country with interviews, editorials, and speeches at law schools and police graduations. There were radio and television appearances, too.

  Eddo closed the folder. “This is great, Arturo,” he said. “But have you and Nestor thought about what might happen if I get enough evidence in Panama? If it gets known that someone connected to your campaign took Hugo down, you could lose a lot of party support.”

  “Not a consideration.” Arturo leaned forward, eyes like flint. “We’ll do what’s right.”

  Eddo shook his head. “If it’s a choice between me being part of the campaign and Lorena getting the nomination, I’m out.”

  “No,” Arturo said. “There are only a handful of people who can keep this country from crumbling. You are the best man for Attorney General and I will stand by that.”

  Eddo nodded, nearly bereft of words in the face of Arturo’s loyalty. “I’d better go pack.”

  The two men embraced.

  “Vaya con Dios, Eduardo,” Arturo said.

  Chapter 38

  On the Monday after the feast day of Our Lady of G
uadalupe, the air was so gritty it stung Luz’s eyes. More grit would come in January and February, the height of the dry season. But it didn’t matter as Luz floated down Virreyes to the big Bancomer Bank.

  It had been a Soledad de Doblado weekend but she’d left Sunday on the early bus and gone straight to Jardin del Arte. As a result, along with her cell phone, there was now a Bancomer check in her pocket for 1850 pesos from the sale of two small paintings. Her money problems were solved.

  A zigzag line of at least 30 customers waited patiently for the tellers, guided into place by velvet ropes and brass stanchions. They were mostly laborers in paint and plaster-daubed work clothes. Luz filled out a form to cash the check at a mahogany counter then went to the end of the line.

  It moved very slowly and grew very long. Luz had ample time to look around. The bank was an elegant place of glass and darkly veined marble where people had hushed conversations. The business being transacted was too venerable for a normal tone of voice.

  Luz was only about eight customers away from the teller windows when a man wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit walked into the bank. In the midst of the rough looking laborers, he stood out, tall and good looking.

  He consulted his jeweled Rolex and eased into the line directly in front of Luz. No one he passed reacted at all. The security guards on either side of the line appeared not to notice.

  Luz stared at the finely stitched wool in front of her. Maybe it was the boldness of knowing Eddo or the check that said she was a real artist or the fear that Marisol would punish her for taking such a long time, but she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “The end of the line is back there.”

  The soft murmur of banking conversations abruptly ceased.

  The man turned around. He was younger than Luz, maybe in his early twenties. He looked her up and down, taking in the gray uniform, old sweater, short socks, scuffed shoes, high cheekbones, and flat hair tucked behind her ears. Luz tried not to wilt.

  “What the fuck?” he said and sniffed as if she smelled bad. Then he walked ahead of the next three people in line. They all stepped to the side to let him pass.

  Shaking with impotent rage and humiliation, Luz could do nothing except clamp on her stupid face. The stares of the people in line felt like razor cuts.

  She finally got to a teller window and slid the form, the check, and her identity card under the glass barrier.

  The woman on the other side of the glass tapped an unseen keyboard and shook her head. “This check is not valid.” The teller handed back Luz’s identity card.

  “What?”

  “The signature on file doesn’t match the one on the check,” the teller said smugly. She inserted the check into a tiny machine and there was a whirring sound. The check was swallowed then spit out. The woman slid it back under the glass barrier. “Next.”

  Red ink across the back proclaimed that the check had been invalidated.

  1850 pesos gone. No.

  Luz was shouldered aside by the next customer, a man in plasterer’s overalls. He looked at her darkly, with a barely concealed serves you right expression.

  “Wait.” Luz pushed her way back to the teller. “How am I going to cash this now?”

  “Come back in 15 minutes,” the woman said dismissively and turned to the man in overalls.

  Come back in 15 minutes. The universal Mexican response meaning get out of my face, go away. It wasn’t a literal expression. Nothing was going to be different in 15 minutes and everybody knew it.

  Luz reeled out of the bank, blinking back tears.

  There was no telephone number on the check and the address was a street in Cuernavaca. She could hardly take a bus there and wander around.

  Luz furiously tore the check into pieces and dropped them on the sidewalk. Her artwork wasn’t the solution to anything. She wasn’t a real artist, wasn’t anything but a stupid, stupid muchacha.

  As Luz headed back to the Vega house, a big dark sedan with a long white scratch on the passenger side door passed her. She thought she recognized the person in the front passenger seat, but no, it was just another insane fantasy, like being a real artist or a woman in love with an attorney.

  The day dragged, the lost money never far from her thoughts. She was already in bed when Rosa waltzed into their room at 11:00 pm and snapped a 100-peso bill at Luz.

  “Alejandro just gave this to me for doing it with him in his bedroom.”

  “What?” Luz sat bolt upright.

  Rosa giggled and did a little shoulder shimmy. “He doesn’t know anything. I had to show him where to stick it in. He popped off like a wet firecracker and then cried.” She went into the bathroom.

  Luz scrambled out of the bed and went to the bathroom door. “Rosa, did he use a condom?”

  “Nah.” Rosa came out of the bathroom in her nightgown and stuffed her clothes in the laundry basket. “He’s too young for anything to happen.”

  “Oh, Rosa.” Luz wanted to shake her. “What about Manuel?”

  “He said it was all right as long as I split the money with him.”

  Chapter 39

  Tuesday morning was busy. Not only were the dispensa boxes piling up, but the Vegas were hosting a cocktail party for el señor’s senior managers that evening. Luz and Rosa did their morning chores, handed out dispensas, aligned fine china and old silver on the buffet, and arranged the mountains of poinsettias that Raul and Hector brought in.

  After la comida Marisol sent Luz to La Sumesa. Luz put on her heavy sweater and grabbed her cell phone, sticking it into her pocket with Marisol’s list and 250 pesos from Señora Vega.

  Rosa got off early on Tuesdays and the two maids left the house together, chatting of Christmas presents, sure that Señora Vega would give them their aguinaldo bonus on Friday.

  “I might get him an Alejandro Sanz CD,” Rosa said, bubbling with anticipation. She was on her way to see Manuel and give him his 50 pesos.

  Luz slowed. The scratched sedan she’d seen Sunday was parked on the side of the street.

  “Are you paying attention?” Rosa said impatiently. “Alejandro Sanz.”

  “I like Miguel Bosé.” Luz stared at the car as they passed. The driver was studying a map book. A passenger was reading a newspaper.

  A car with waiting men in it was not unusual. They were probably a chauffeur and a bodyguard. Maybe la señora was visiting friends or their important personage had business in the nearby United Nations building.

  “Do you want to go to the rave place tomorrow?”

  “What?” Luz pulled her attention back to Rosa. “Not that again, Rosa.”

  They were almost to the corner of Fray Payo de Rivera and Virreyes when Luz heard a car engine rumble behind them. She knew without looking it was the big scratched sedan. Luz loitered on the street corner, drawing out her good-bye to Rosa. Hopefully the sedan would pass them, make the turn onto Virreyes, and go away. Rosa eventually turned right on Virreyes toward the intersection with Prado Sur. Luz went straight, crossing the oncoming lanes of Virreyes and stepping onto the median by the Monte Xanic wines sign. The sedan turned right, passed Rosa, and sped off.

  Luz told herself it was a coincidence as she walked up Monte Athos. Christmas was in the air and the south end of the street was lively. The florist was taking delivery of huge red amaryllis plants. The veterinarian’s office door was open. The receptionist’s three-legged miniature collie wore a plaid bow.

  Luz crossed the big boulevard called Explanada, and after two more blocks reached the big shopping area with the café, the Batiz art store, and La Sumesa. Traffic was slow there. Street vendors were out in force and shoppers dodged around cars to get from one side of the street to the other. Luz was just about to walk into La Sumesa, past the toothless crone selling chestnuts and the smarmy guy selling fake Fendi purses, when she saw the scratched sedan in the line of cars cruising north on Monte Athos toward the intersection with Reforma.

  Luz turned around and pr
essed “4” on her cell phone.

  “Bueno?”

  “Tomás? It’s Luz de Maria.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s a car I’ve seen a few times,” she gulped. “I think it’s following me.”

  He made her describe the car then told her to do the shopping and go straight back to the Vega’s house. She should call him when she was back. Meanwhile, he’d get the boys rousted and they’d start looking for the sedan. Nobody would bother her.

  It only took Luz a few minutes to buy the things on Marisol’s list: Bloody Mary mix, seltzer water, tonic water, lemons, limes, a can of shrimp, boxes of crackers, and some fancy olives. She carefully pocketed the receipt and the 25 pesos change.

  She started briskly down Monte Athos, not even stopping to ogle the Batiz window display. To her relief the dark sedan was nowhere in sight. She’d be safely back at the Vegas in 15 minutes.

  After a block she was breathless from the gritty air. The plastic bag with the glass bottles was heavy and cut into her hand. She slid her wrist through the loop to take some of the strain.

  '

  Luz had just put her foot on the median, thinking irrelevantly that the grass looked brown and dusty here because Explanada wasn’t maintained by a corporate sponsor the way Virreyes was, when she heard a car accelerate as it traveled west on the big boulevard.

  The scratched sedan bounced over the curb, chewing grass and spitting pebbles. Before Luz could understand what was happening, the back door on the driver’s side opened. Iron hands snatched her up by the waist and hauled her backwards.

  The plastic grocery bag looped around her wrist came, too. Luz dropped the others and flailed at the side of the car, trying to get a handhold that would prevent her from being dragged inside. But the car swallowed her up, bag and all.