Mexico City Noir (3 page)
He takes another glance at the bell tower, at the church doors, and pushes the cart. A step. Another. Then one more.
A black cloud passing in front of the sun makes him think dusk has arrived. Vikingo has a moment of joy and sighs. He reaches for the bottle and caresses it tenderly. He doesn’t open it; he’ll wait to get to the government parking lot later tonight. He lifts the bottle to get a good look at it. Street liquor. How did it end up in his hands? He scratches his head and his nails run into a clump of flat and sticky hair. He smells his fingers: dirt and blood. The bottle was a gift, he remembers now. A gift from Fernando. Poor Fernando. He ran into me and fell. He was already falling. Yes. It’s his blood. Poor man.
When the clouds let the sun’s rays through, a mordant restlessness seizes Vikingo. He picks up his step. He walks. Pushes. I have to get to the lot entrance. I didn’t see anything. The street liquor. No. The dead guy didn’t give it to me, it was the others. The guys behind him, the ones who were after him. I’m nobody. I don’t know anything. The street ends at another street. Vikingo looks for a sign at the corner until he sees it:
University.
The public square is there to the left. The entrance is a little further. But it’s still daytime. He has to keep walking. Just like when he lived around Parque Delta. Always walking. Why? Because otherwise the guys in blue wake you up, the tecolotes, they called them. And why would they wake you up? Because that’s the way it is. Because they’re the law. And if they take you in, they beat you to a pulp just to amuse themselves. Better to keep walking. A step. Another. Then one more.
A woman crosses his path. She looks at him. Vikingo thinks her face looks familiar. He thinks he remembers her scolding him for being so dirty and stinking so badly, shooing him from the sidewalk, threatening to call the police if he didn’t go away. He wants to go around her but the woman stops to block him. He thinks about going backward, but he can’t remember how to do it; he only knows how to walk forward. The woman is so disagreeable. She comes toward him, grabs the cart, the wire grid.
“I knew you had to come this way, smelly. You’re not going to get away from me. I already know what you did last night. C’mon, show me what you’ve got in your cart.”
Last night. It wasn’t me. I’m nobody. Vikingo freezes. His legs buckle. His heart races wildly. The image of this Fernando in a bloody pool flashes in his memory. Fernando. That’s what the others called the guy they were after. “Fernando! Stop right there, cabrón! You want protection but you don’t want to pay for it? We’ve come to collect, you son of a bitch!” That’s what the guys in uniform were yelling at him. Then the shots. “And you, get outta the way, you fucking bum! And if you open your mouth, you know what’s gonna happen to you!” The images jump to Vikingo’s mind out of order, as if the woman’s scolding has triggered them. Fernando running. His belly spilling blood. I pushed him and I got covered with it. Fernando on the ground. Blood on my hands. And the bottle … They gave me the bottle. “You haven’t seen anything, you bum.” “No, chief. I didn’t see a thing. I never see anything. I don’t hear anything. I’m nobody.” “That’s how we like it, cabrón. Here, take this bottle. It’ll help you forget.” “Yes, chief.” “But we’re always going to remember you. And we’re the law. We can take you whenever we want. You understand?” “Yes, chief.” “What’s your name?” “I don’t have a name, chief. I’m nobody.” “Fine, I like that, now be quiet and get outta here.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t have name, chief. I’m nobody.”
“Don’t call me chief. I’m Mrs. Chávez, the head of the neighborhood association.”
“Yes, chief.”
“People are complaining about the drunks and drug addicts who hang around here. I just reported you. You’re the one they call Vikingo, right?” “I’m nobody.”
He tries to get her to let go of the cart, but she holds on as if she has claws. He tries again but with little success. Vikingo’s bones have lost their strength, they feel like putty, watered down, drained of energy. He wants to beg the woman to let him go, to tell her he has to keep walking, but the only things out of his mouth are the same words as always.
“I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything either. I’m nobody …”
“You’re gonna tell me you don’t know anything about the dead guy they found this morning near the government parking lot? They say there was a bum hanging around with a supermarket cart. And you’re the only one around here who’s always dragging a cart. Have you seen yourself? The least you could have done is washed off the blood after killing the man.”
“Fernando …”
The woman smiles triumphantly and her face twists into a malicious mask.
“Yes, Fernando Aranda. See, you do know. Now you’re gonna tell the cops everything.”
“I don’t know anything. I just …”
Desperation gives him strength to move the cart but he still can’t get the woman to let go.
“You’re not going anywhere, you criminal!”
“I swear, I don’t know anything.”
People begin to gather and listen to the argument. Some are from the neighborhood and they know both him and the woman. Others have only noticed them in passing. There’s some murmuring. Vikingo recognizes words like
corpse, homicide, killer
. He remembers how, whenever there was a dead guy, the uniforms used to come for him and his friends around Parque Delta and they’d interrogate them in the bowels of the police station. He remembers the wet towels stinging his skin, the electric shocks, water spurting into his brain. Screaming in pain. The mocking questions and giving the answers over and over until he was exhausted. The answers the only words left in his brain. In his fogginess, he also remembers that before the interrogations, he knew who he was. His name. His past. A big wave of fury and panic passes through him as he distinguishes the blue and red lights from a squad car on a nearby window. The murmuring increases.
The dead,
they say.
He killed him
. He jerks the cart forcefully to loosen it and the woman screams.
“Ay! Beast! You broke my nail!”
The onlookers part as he makes his way toward them, while the woman runs in the direction of the squad car. I don’t know anything, chief. I didn’t see anything. I’m nobody.
Two uniformed cops get out of the car. Vikingo sees them and realizes they’re the same guys who went after Fernando. Without hesitation, he grabs the liquor bottle, opens it, and drains the last bit. The alcohol makes his stomach tremble, then spreads a pleasant warmth through his body. Fernando, that was his name. They shouted his name. I didn’t see anything.
“Hey, you, cabrón! Stop!”
It’s the same voice from last night. They’re even the same words. The only thing missing is Fernando’s name. Fernando. Yes. But, unlike that guy, Vikingo doesn’t run: he just walks. “I don’t know anything, chief. I never see anything. I’m nobody.” He recites his litany as footsteps come up behind him. He figures that history repeats itself, that they’ll take him to the station’s bowels, or to some other cellar, to squeeze the truth out of him, that they’re going to stick him with the murder of a guy he didn’t even know, like they’ve done so many other times, and that after a few weeks or a couple of years in the penitentiary they’ll throw him back out on the streets, where he’ll have to find a doorway to sleep in again and a supermarket cart to keep walking. He wants another cigarette really badly. But there are no matches. “I swear, chief. That’s right.” When the footsteps slow down behind him, Vikingo recalls the face of the corpse from the night before. “I don’t know anything. I’m nobody. I just walk. A step. Another. Then one more.”
T
he set of jungle music Lizzy programmed on her iPod to wake her up went off at 7 in the morning. She stretched, untangling herself from the black silk sheets on the king-sized futon.
Just like every morning, the first thing she looked at when she opened her eyes was a painting by Julio Galán on the wall directly in front of the bed in her Polanco apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, her personal trainer was waiting for her in the adjoining gym with an energy drink in her hand. Helga was an ex—Olympic finalist from Germany who accompanied her everywhere.
“
Guten Tag
,” said the blonde. Lizzy replied with a grunt. Lizzy did forty minutes of aerobic exercise and an hour of weights.
At 9, after a cold shower, Lizzy ate a bowl of cereal with nonfat yogurt and drank green tea while checking her e-mail on her iPhone. Alone in the immense dining room, she peered out her large windows overlooking Chapultepec Castle. Pancho brought her breakfast from the kitchen, where he had prepared it himself.
At 10, in her office parking lot in Santa Fe, Lizzy stepped out of her car, a black 1970 Impala with flames painted on the sides.
On her orders, the car had been salvaged from a shop in Perros Muertos, Coahuila, and sent to Los Angeles for restoration.
She busied herself during the morning hours with financial matters. Tired of the fiscal chaos left by her late father, she had sought advice from an investment counselor who suggested she diversify her portfolio.
She loved verifying her account dividends and was fascinated to see how she was getting richer every day.
At noon, she had a cold beverage, fresh fruit, a high-fiber muffin, and tea. Before lunch, at 2 in the afternoon, she took a call from a gallery in Europe. Although she’d studied at the Toronto School of Art in Canada, she’d abandoned her creative career to concentrate on building a contemporary art collection.
“Lizzy, darling, I have something that’s going to blow your mind,” said Thierry in his thick French accent.
“I’m not sure, Tierritas. Last time you came up with pure garbage.”
“You are going to die, mon amour. I have seven pieces by David Nebrada.”
After a tense silence, Lizzy asked: “How much?”
Money was never a problem.
At 2:30, she entered the VIP room at Blanc des Blancs, on Reforma, where she greeted Renato, an old industrialist friend of her father’s, who was dining with the minister of labor.
The two old men invited Lizzy to join them, a proposal she gently declined before moving along to her favorite table in the back of the restaurant.
On the way, she ran into Marianito Mazo, the son of a telenovela producer, who was sitting with a couple of pop singers enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame. Marianito greeted her with a kiss, introduced the two girls, and invited her to a cocktail party he was having at his parents’ house in the Pedregal the following Saturday.
“I think I’m going to be away then,” said Lizzy, smiling. “Let me check and I’ll have my secretary confirm it with your people.”
After another warm farewell, Lizzy finally sat down. She ordered an arugula salad, salmon carpaccio, and white wine. She ate in silence while checking her e-mail on her cell. After the meal, she called her cousin Omar, who worked as a deejay at an Ibiza nightclub.
“Mademoiselle?” the waiter interrupted. “This cocktail is from the gentleman at that table.”
She looked where he was pointing.
The general solicitor of the republic’s private secretary winked at her from across the room.
That evening, she asked Bonnie, her secretary, to cancel all her appointments so she could get a mud-therapy treatment at a spa in Santa Fe, just a few blocks from her office.
“Don’t forget that you have to go to the warehouse,” noted the gringa with her clipped Texas accent.
“I won’t forget, I’ll go later tonight,” Lizzy responded.
She decided to walk to the spa, much to Pancho’s consternation; he didn’t like her wandering around unprotected. But she always managed to do as she pleased.
The French girl who applied the mud for the massage, a recent arrival from Lyon, couldn’t help herself and said, “You have a beautiful derriere. As firm and smooth as a peach.”
“Thanks,” said Lizzy.
At 8, they arrived at Tamayo Museum in her father’s old armored BMW, Pancho driving. Two light Windstar trucks packed with bodyguards followed them.
She was dressed completely in black leather, her hair pulled back in a bun speared with little chopsticks. She looked almost beautiful.
“Wait for me outside. I don’t want to attract attention,”
she said from the door of the museum.
“Miss …” protested the bodyguard with the cavernous voice.
“Do as I say.”
Pancho ordered the team of eight Israeli-trained escorts—two of them women—to be placed strategically in key positions around the museum. The old bodyguard monitored their movements by walkie-talkie.
The girl’s whims made him nervous, but he had sworn to the Señor, her father, that he’d take care of her.
Inside, unconcerned with her bodyguards, Lizzy distributed kisses to gallery owners, art collectors, curators, critics, and artists. She was an art world celebrity. Everyone knew about her collection and her peculiar tastes. She’d surprised more than a few with her resources. No one asked where her funds came from.
The opening was for a retrospective by an Armenian-American painter named Rabo Karabekian. Eight of the pieces belonged to Lizzy’s collection. As usual, she had asked that they be credited to an unnamed private collection. She didn’t want any publicity.
She had to cross a human gauntlet to greet the artist, who managed to spot her even at a distance.
“Lizzy, baby!” The old artist’s face lit up when he saw his favorite collector.
“How you doing, Rab?”
They chatted animatedly for half an hour. When the press wanted to take photos, Lizzy demurred.
The painter told her that there would be an after-party at the curator’s apartment in Condesa, that he would love it if she came by. She apologized.
“Got some business to take care of, sorry,” and she said goodbye to everyone.
On the way to the car, her cell rang.
“Got ’em,” growled a voice on the other end of the line.
Seconds of silence.
