The Jaguar's Children (26 page)

“My father does not explain exactly what this ‘reason' is, but I think he is saying I have a duty. I decide then that this is my country and if I have no faith in my power to protect it, then what am I doing here anyway? I made a plan to go to the Ministry of Food and Agriculture where I know people and I meet with the guy I trust the most. He's interested and asks to see my data, and I'm not sure what to do then. I have never been in such a situation. I decide to give him a copy because we came through university together and without the cooperation of the Ministry it will be impossible to fix this problem. What else could I do?

“I don't hear anything for a week and I am about to call when the Ministry calls me first. But it is not my friend on the phone—it is a man who says he is working with BioSeguridad, a new sister agency to the Ministry. He mentions my friend's name, tells me he is very impressed with my work and that he wants to speak with me. Well, I am suspicious about this, but I can see his phone number on the display and it has the same prefix as the Ministry so I am thinking it is probably OK. He asks me to meet him that afternoon in front of the Ministry building. This sounds safe enough, and—it seems ridiculous now, but it is a beautiful day that day, so I agree. I am still a bit suspicious so I call my friend to be sure, but he's not in his office. I call his cell, but there is only a message. What do I do? I decide to go anyway. What can happen in front of the Ministry? When I get there I realize I don't know this man's name or what he looks like, but a man there recognizes me immediately. ‘Dr. Ramírez!' he says. ‘Mucho gusto. I am Raúl López with BioSeguridad.' He shakes my hand and offers his card.

“I'm thinking his voice is not the same as the man on the phone, but I'm not sure. This guy is in his fifties and his chest and neck are thick like a bull's. He isn't tall but his hand swallows mine. He nods toward the street and a cab pulls up right away. ‘We'll take this one,' he says. His arm is around me now and we are moving—or he is moving me, talking and talking. ‘Do you know Café Verde in Coyoacán? Just opened. Fantastic coffee.' He is so close his head is touching mine. ‘There's a waitress there. Incredible tits. Maybe you get lucky, get some extra sugar with your coffee today.'

“He is laughing and I am getting a bad feeling, but also a feeling like this is some kind of destiny, like this is a choice I made the moment I showed my data. For some reason I am afraid to resist him, afraid to make a scene in this public place, and all the time he is talking and moving toward the taxi. ‘You know, my mother's family is from Oaxaca—from the Mixteca Alta, not so far from you—now those are some farmers! If you can grow corn up there with all that cactus, you can grow it anywhere. Don't you agree? Get in.'

“And then we are in the taxi. It was so quick, and I notice the doors locking as we pull into the traffic. Raúl opens his phone and sends what looks like a message of one letter, then he puts the phone away again. ‘My boss is looking forward to meeting you.'

“I ask him if his boss is at Café Verde. It is so pathetic when I think about it now. ‘We will go there after,' he says. Raúl never speaks to the taxista because the taxista already knows where we're going. And you know the traffic in D.F., well, this guy is a fucking magician, he is moving us through the city like there is no such thing as traffic, turning and turning so that I am not even sure where I am. Now Raúl isn't talking anymore. He only looks out the window like I don't exist, like his job is finished. I'm thinking about what can happen and what I can do. The door handle is there, easy to put my hand on, so I do it. Raúl is still looking out the window. I push on the lock, but it is on the children's setting and will not move. Whoever invented these did not think about all the situations. After maybe thirty minutes we arrive at a new office park. There is a gate there with an intercom and the taxista types in a code and says, ‘Chaco.' The gate opens and we drive into a parking lot that has only one other car in it. The building is maybe ten floors, but it looks empty. I ask Raúl if this is the office of BioSeguridad and he says, ‘Temporarily.'

“Now I am terrified. But I am more terrified to object, to try to run, because then the illusion of Raúl and Café Verde and the mother from the Mixteca will be completely broken and something much worse—some kind of truth—will replace it. The taxista parks away from the other car and Raúl is back now with his friendly voice. ‘He's waiting for us,' he says. ‘De acuerdo.'

“We all get out and this is the first time I get a good look at the taxista. He is not Danny Trejo, but he is a hard-looking guy with a lump under his coat and this is when I admit to myself what I was afraid of admitting before—‘Pendejo, you let yourself be kidnapped.' You hear about it all the time in D.F., but usually it's some businessman or his kid, you never think it's going to happen to you. But now it is, and I'm telling you, it's not like I imagined. It's like being caught in a powerful river, it has its own momentum and we are all in it together, floating along toward the door of the building which the taxista opens with a fob and then we're through it and into a stairwell, climbing up and up—the taxista in front, Raúl behind and me in the middle. I'm thinking now I'm going to be thrown off the roof and my legs are shaking under me so bad I must hold the railing, and when I do this I can feel both men noticing, bracing themselves for whatever I might do. All this time, I'm holding on to this tiny hope—as long as no one speaks there is still a chance it can go some other way—because this is a door I cannot bear to see closed.

“Somewhere around the eighth floor, the taxista opens a fire door and we go into an empty hall with no lights only a window at one end. The window is broken and there is a wind blowing so I have to cover my eyes because of the dust. There are doorways along the hall but no doors in them and, as we pass, I can see they all lead into empty concrete rooms with wires hanging from the ceiling. It is the same with the room we enter, only there is a man in there and he is sitting on a folding chair—the kind you take to the beach. It is the only chair in the room. Behind him is a big window, but it looks like the kind that can't open. The man is sitting next to a large spool of electric wire and he is using it for a table. On it is a cell phone, a bottle of Coke and my data—ten pages held together with a clip. I can see it's mine by the cover letter.

“I can tell you, when you think you are about to die, you notice the details and these are burned into my mind now. This man in the chair is maybe forty-five years old. He is dark—mestizo, but not from the south—with a forehead round like a pot. His hair is going and what is left is combed straight across. He is wearing a pink shirt with French cuffs but no jacket. His mouth is full and wide and crooked and when we get close I see his eyes are different shades of brown. Somehow this makes it seem like there are—not exactly two people there, but more than one. Raúl and the taxista are behind me now, I can feel them there between me and the door. The man in the chair picks up my data by the clip and, with his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, he swings it in a careless way. ‘This is your work, Dr. Ramírez?'

“I am so relieved not to be on the roof that it makes me bolder. ‘I think I have a right to know who I'm speaking to,' I say.

“‘Do you know this building is state of the art?' The man looks at the ceiling. ‘They're even installing a green roof—a milpa. And in this milpa they will grow corn and beans, and the people in the building will eat the corn and beans because that is all a Mexican needs.'

“‘Who are you?' I ask again.

“‘If it mattered, do you think we would be meeting here?' He stops swinging my data and holds it in the air. ‘This is yours.'

“My strength is gone again and I nod my head.

“He drops it back on the spool table. ‘Are you a terrorist?' he asks. He's looking at me very calm, and he picks up his Coke, slowly breaking the seal which sounds like whip cracks in that empty room. ‘Is this your manifesto?' He nods toward my data. ‘Your argument for sabotaging the future of agriculture in this country?'

“‘What?'

“‘You went to UNAM on government scholarships—master's, PhD—all paid for by us. That is an honor, and very expensive. So why do you hate Mexico so much? Why bite her tit like this?' He looks up at me like he really wants to know. ‘Your father is a campesino, yes? Maybe he's in the milpa right now. Well, we have something in common, you and me. My father was a campesino too. I grew up in Morelos and there we use horses for the plowing, but it is all the same in the milpa and that is where I found my father. I was nine years old and he was younger than I am now, and I found him there one afternoon, dead in the dirt from a heart attack. The horses were just standing there like they would wait forever for him to get up. After that day, I went behind the plow with my brothers and sisters. We had to do everything because my mother wasn't herself anymore.'

“The man's arms are on the armrests of the beach chair and he opens his hands to me. ‘And how long have we been doing this? Five hundred years? A thousand? The animals will do it for another thousand—forever—but we are men, no? Maybe you hate Mexico, but do you hate your father too? How can a young man given so much be so selfish?'

“He stands up then, walks to the big window and waves me over. I don't want to go near that window. ‘Come,' he says. I turn to look at Raúl and the taxista, but they are both looking at their phones. I walk over to the man and stand sideways to the window so I can keep an eye on everyone. The man is looking out at the city, which looks from there like a rolling carpet of gray boxes. ‘Twenty years ago,' he says, ‘this was all forest and milpas, but don't those people still need to eat?' He turns back to me. ‘What UNAM has done for you is the same thing we are doing for the corn—maximizing its potential. When we signed NAFTA you were still a boy, but this was my generation's gift to you. Not since Porfirio Díaz built the railroads and industrialized the sugar cane has a Mexican leader made such a strong commitment to progress. Thanks to Carlos Salinas, Mexico is becoming a modern country—and we are becoming a modern people. Tell me, how old were you when you got your first pair of shoes?'

“‘I don't remember,' I said, which was a lie.

“He leaned toward me like he was sharing a secret. ‘I was seven and I was not the first to wear them. Now I wear Magnanni. And look at you, a doctor of science, working at UNAM in a biogenetics lab with students of your own. It's incredible, no? In one generation your family has progressed from the Middle Ages to
this.
I can only imagine how proud your father must be. You can help us improve the native corn just as quickly. Transgénicos are the
future
,' he says, stepping toward me and pointing out the window, ‘and Mexico is going to be a
leader.
You know as well as me that Mexico is the mother of the corn—for the whole world. And science is the father. Together we are making a better corn that will grow more, grow anywhere with no more lost crops, no more dead fathers and broken mothers. You know how hard it is so why do you, of all people, want to threaten the future of Mexico? This is a revolution, not only for the corn but for the people. Don't you understand what this means for us? For our families?'

“His eyes are wet and it makes the two colors in them even more different. He is asking like it's a question, but I can tell that for him it's answered already. I know this subject like my own hand, but I am scared and angry and there is something about his eyes. I'm having so much trouble collecting my thoughts. Finally, I get control of myself and I say to him, ‘Señor, do you understand the risk you're taking? Nobody knows what transgénicos will do to the native crop over time, the science is too young. But what I do know'—and I'm pointing at my data now, stabbing at it—‘is that I found Kortez400 in the Sierra Juárez, in four separate locations. Everyone in our lab knows there's a global ban on terminators, and everyone working on Kortez knows it's volatile. So what in the name of God is it doing in
Oaxaca?
'

“The man is standing two meters from me now and he sighs, looks at his watch and then over my shoulder at Raúl. ‘It doesn't make sense,' he says, shaking his head. ‘You call yourself a scientist and yet you have no faith in science to perform the miracle it is already performing in crops all over the world. It is a contradiction. It is bad for Mexico and, if you're not willing to hear me, it will be bad for you.' He walks back over to the spool, picks up his Coke, takes a sip and puts it back down. ‘Listen to me now and I will tell you what this is.' He picks up my data and holds it in front of me. ‘This is a dirty bomb. If you activate it as you are trying to do, you could do serious damage to millions of people and to a young industry that will bring Mexico wealth and respect in the twenty-first century. If you cause this to happen you will no longer be a scientist in our eyes, you will be a terrorist—an enemy, not just of Mexico but of our ally and partner the United States, and these are dangerous enemies to have.' He drops my data back onto the spool, but he keeps talking.

“‘I can see you have a passion for this work, a gift even, and I'm willing to believe that you think you're doing the right thing. Now, Dr. Ramírez, with respect, I want to invite you to do exactly that—to be part of this green revolution that will transform Mexico. Already it is happening. Not only do we have the science, we have the support of NAFTA, the Ministry of Food and Agriculture, your Governor Odiseo and several multinational companies, including SantaMaize. But it will help the cause to have an indigenous scientist working with us, someone who can represent that population and give them confidence in the mission, to let them know we aren't taking anything away, we're simply harmonizing science with tradition. It will be a victory for you, for your people, for all Mexicanos. I can also say that if you join us you will be paid very, very well. I know for a fact that UNAM has secured funding for a new position on their faculty of sciences, a chair for a plant geneticist of native blood. Dr. Ramírez, you could be the first—the Benito Juárez of biotech.'