The Savage Detectives (74 page)

The night before he died, for example, as the two bullfighters were drinking at a bar in Agua Prieta and just before they both returned to the hotel, Avellaneda started to talk about Aztlán. At first he spoke as if he were telling a secret, as if he didn't really want to talk, but as the minutes went by he grew more and more excited. Ortiz Pacheco didn't even know what Aztlán meant, never having heard the word before in his life. So Avellaneda explained it to him from the beginning, telling him about the sacred city of the first Mexicans, the city of legend, the undiscovered city, Plato's true Atlantis, and when they got back to the hotel, half drunk, Ortiz Pacheco thought that only Cesárea could be responsible for such wild ideas. She was alone most of the time during the wake, shut in her room or sitting in a corner of the Excelsior's hall, which was done up like a funeral parlor. No women offered her their condolences. Only the men, and in private, since it hadn't escaped anyone that she was just the mistress. She didn't say a word at the burial. There were speeches by the town treasurer, who was also what you might call the official poet of Agua Prieta, and the president of the bullfighting society, but she didn't speak. Nor, according to Ortiz Pacheco, was she seen to shed a single tear. Though she did commission the mason to carve some words on Avellaneda's tombstone, what they were, Ortiz Pacheco couldn't remember, strange words, in any case, in the same style as Aztlán, he seemed to recall, and surely invented by her for the occasion. Invented, not requested, was what he said. Belano and Lima asked him what the words were. Ortiz Pacheco thought for a while but finally said he'd forgotten them.

That night we slept at the ranch. Belano and Lima slept in the main room (there were many bedrooms, but they were all uninhabitable), Lupe and I in the car. I woke up just as the sun was rising and took a piss in the yard, watching the first pale yellow (but also blue) lights slipping stealthily across the desert. I lit a cigarette and spent a while watching the horizon and breathing. In the distance I thought I spotted a plume of dust, but then I realized it was just a low cloud. Low and motionless. It seemed strange not to hear any animal sounds. And yet every once in a while, if you paid attention, you could hear a bird singing. When I turned around, Lupe was watching me from one of the windows of the Impala. Her short black hair was a mess and she seemed thinner than before, as if she were turning invisible, as if the morning were painlessly dissolving her, but at the same time she seemed more beautiful than ever.

We went into the house together. In the main room, we found Lima, Belano, and Ortiz Pacheco, each in a leather armchair. The old bullfighter was wrapped in a serape and he was asleep with a startled expression on his face. As Lupe made coffee, I woke my friends. I was afraid to wake Ortiz Pacheco. I think he's dead, I whispered. Belano stretched, his joints cracking. He said it had been a long time since he slept so well and then he took it upon himself to wake our host. As we were having breakfast, Ortiz Pacheco said that he'd had a strange dream. Did you dream about your friend Avellaneda? said Belano. No, not at all, said Ortiz Pacheco, I dreamed that I was ten years old and my family was moving from Monterrey to Hermosillo. In those days that must have been a very long trip, said Lima. Very long, yes, said Ortiz Pacheco, but happy.

We went to Agua Prieta, to the Agua Prieta cemetery. From La Buena Vida to Trincheras first, and then from Trincheras to Pueblo Nuevo, Santa Ana, San Ignacio, Ímuris, Cananea, and Agua Prieta, right on the Arizona border.

On the other side of the border was Douglas, an American town, and in between was customs and the border police. On the other side of Douglas, about forty miles northwest, was Tombstone, where the best American gunmen once gathered. As we were eating at a coffee shop, we heard two stories: one demonstrating the value of all things Mexican and the other the value of all things American. In one, the protagonist was from Agua Prieta, and in the other he was from Tombstone.

When the man who was telling the stories, a guy with long gray-streaked hair who talked as if his head hurt, left the coffee shop, the man who'd been listening started to laugh for no apparent reason, or as if he'd needed a couple of minutes to make sense of the stories he'd heard. Really, it was just two jokes. In the first, the sheriff and one of his deputies take a prisoner from his cell and lead him far out into the country to kill him. The prisoner knows what's happening and is more or less resigned to his fate. It's a harsh winter, day is dawning, and prisoner and executioners alike are complaining of the cold in the desert. At a certain moment, though, the prisoner starts to laugh, and the sheriff says what the hell's so funny, has he forgotten that he's about to be killed and buried where no one can find him? has he lost his mind? And the prisoner says, and this is the punch line, that he's laughing because in a few minutes he won't be cold, but the lawmen will have to walk back.

The other story tells of the execution of Colonel Guadalupe Sánchez, prodigal son of Agua Prieta, who at the moment he faced the firing squad asked, as a last wish, to smoke a cigar. The commanding officer granted him his wish. He was given his last Havana. Guadalupe Sánchez lit it calmly and began to smoke in a leisurely manner, savoring it and watching the sun come up (because like the Tombstone story, this one takes place at dawn, maybe even unfolding on the same morning, the morning of May 15, 1912), and, wreathed in smoke, Colonel Sánchez was so relaxed, so unruffled, so serene, that the ash stayed glued to the cigar, which might have been the colonel's intention, to see for himself if his pulse would quicken, if in the end his hand would shake and show he'd lost his nerve, but he finished the Havana and the ash didn't fall. Then Colonel Sánchez tossed away the butt and said whenever you like.

That was the story.

When the recipient of the stories stopped laughing, Belano asked himself a few questions out loud: is the prisoner who's going to die outside of Tombstone from Tombstone? or just the sheriff and his deputy? was Colonel Guadalupe Sánchez from Agua Prieta? was the commander of the firing squad from Agua Prieta? why did they kill the Tombstone prisoner like a dog? why did they kill
mi coronel
[
sic
] Lupe Sánchez like a dog? Everyone in the coffee shop was looking at him, but no one said anything. Lima took him by the shoulder and said: come on, man, let's go. Belano looked at him with a smile and put a few bills on the counter. Then we left for the cemetery and went looking for the gravestone of Pepe Avellaneda, who was killed because he was gored by a bull or because he was too short and clumsy with his sword, a gravestone with an epitaph written by Cesárea Tinajero, and no matter how long we looked, we couldn't find it. The Agua Prieta cemetery was the closest thing we'd seen to a labyrinth, and the cemetery's veteran gravedigger, the only one who knew exactly where each dead person was buried, was away on vacation or out sick.

So if you travel with a bullfighter, in the long run you end up liking that world? said Lupe. I guess so, said Belano. And if you're with a policeman, do you end up liking the policeman's world? I guess so, said Belano. And if you're with a pimp, do you end up liking the pimp's world? Belano didn't answer. Strange, because he always tries to answer every question, even when no answer is needed or the question is beside the point. Lima, on the other hand, talks less and less, just driving the Impala with an absent look on his face. Blind as we are, I think we haven't noticed how Lupe is beginning to change.

Today we called Mexico City for the first time. Belano talked to Quim Font. Quim said Lupe's pimp knew where we were and was coming after us. Belano said that was impossible. Alberto had followed us to the edge of the city and we'd managed to lose him there. Yes, said Quim, but then he came back here and threatened to kill me if I didn't tell him where you were going. I took the phone and told him I wanted to talk to María. I heard Quim's voice. He was crying. Hello? I said. I want to talk to María. Is that you, García Madero? sobbed Quim. I thought you'd have gone home. I'm here, I said. I thought I heard Quim sniff. Belano and Lima were talking in low voices. They had moved away from the phone and looked worried. Lupe stayed close to me, close to the phone, as if she were cold, even though it wasn't cold. She had her back turned to me, and she was looking toward the gas station where we'd parked. Take the first bus and come back to Mexico City, I heard Quim say. If you don't have money I'll send it to you. We have more than enough money, I said. Is María there? No one's here, I'm alone, sobbed Quim. For a while we were both silent. How is my car? that voice from another world said suddenly. Fine, I said, everything's fine. We're getting closer to finding Cesárea Tinajero, I lied. Who's Cesárea Tinajero? said Quim.

We bought clothes in Hermosillo and a bathing suit for each of us. Then we went to pick up Belano at the library (where he'd spent the morning, in the firm belief that a poet always leaves a written trail, a belief borne out by none of the evidence so far) and went to the beach. We paid for two rooms at a boardinghouse in Bahía Kino. The sea is dark blue. It was the first time Lupe had seen it.

An excursion: our Impala set off down the road that dangles along one side of the Gulf of California, to Punta Chueca, across from the island of Tiburón. Then we went on to El Dólar, across from the island of Patos. Lying on a deserted beach, we spent hours smoking weed. Punta Chueca-Tiburón, Dólar-Patos: they're only names, of course, but they fill my soul with dread, as one of Amado Nervo's contemporaries might say. What is it about those names that makes me feel so upset, sad, fatalistic, that makes me look at Lupe as if she were the last woman on earth? A little before nightfall we headed farther north, to where Desemboque rises. Darkness in my soul. I think I actually shuddered. And then we turned around and went back to Bahía Kino along a dark road. Every so often we'd pass a pickup full of Seri fishermen singing one of their songs.

Belano has bought a knife.

Back in Agua Prieta. We left Bahía Kino at eight in the morning. The route we took was from Bahía Kino to Punta Chueca, Punta Chueca to El Dólar, El Dólar to Desemboque, Desemboque to Las Estrellas, and Las Estrellas to Trincheras. About one hundred and fifty miles along terrible roads. If we had taken the Bahía Kino-El Triunfo-Hermosillo route, the highway from Hermosillo to San Ignacio, and then the road to Cananea and Agua Prieta, we would almost certainly have had a more comfortable trip and gotten there sooner. And yet we all decided that it was better to travel along roads without much traffic, or with no traffic at all, and we liked the idea of stopping at La Buena Vida again. But we got lost in the triangle between El Cuatro, Trincheras, and La Ciénaga and finally we decided to drive all the way to Trincheras and visit the old bullfighter another time.

When we parked the Impala at the gates of the Agua Prieta cemetery, it was starting to get dark. Belano and Lima rang the bell for the watchman. After a while, a man with a face so sun-beaten that it looked black came to the door. He was wearing glasses and had a big scar on the left side of his face. He asked us what we wanted. Belano said that we were looking for the gravedigger Andrés González Ahumada. The man looked at us and asked who we were and what we wanted him for. Belano said it was about the bullfighter Pepe Avellaneda's grave. We want to see it, we said. I'm Andrés González Ahumada, said the gravedigger, and this is hardly the time of day to visit a cemetery. Please? said Lupe. And why are you so interested, if you don't mind my asking? said the gravedigger. Belano went up to the bars and spent a few minutes conferring with the man in a low voice. The gravedigger nodded several times and then he went into his little hut and came out again with an enormous key he used to let us in. We followed him along the cemetery's main path, a walk lined with cypresses and old oaks. When we turned down the side paths, however, we saw some cactuses native to the region: choyas and sahuesos and a nopal or two, as if to remind the dead that they were in Sonora and not some other place.

This is the bullfighter Pepe Avellaneda's grave, said the gravedigger, gesturing toward a niche in a neglected corner. Belano and Lima went over and tried to read the inscription, but the niche was four levels up and night was already falling over the cemetery paths. There were no flowers at any of the graves, except one where four plastic carnations hung, and most of the inscriptions were covered in dust. Then Belano interlaced his fingers, making a little seat or stirrup, and Lima stepped up, pressing his face to the glass over Avellaneda's photograph. What he did next was wipe the plaque with his hand and read the inscription aloud: "José Avellaneda Tinajero, matador, Nogales 1903-Agua Prieta 1930." Is that all? I heard Belano say. That's all, replied Lima's voice, hoarser than ever. Then he jumped down and did as Belano had done, making a step with his hands so that Belano could climb up. Give me the lighter, Lupe, I heard Belano say. Lupe went up to the pathetic figure composed of my two friends and without saying anything handed him a box of matches. What about my lighter? said Belano. I don't have it,
mano
, said Lupe, in a sweet voice that I still wasn't used to. Belano lit a match and held it up to the niche. When it went out he lit another, and then another. Lupe was leaning against the wall across from him, her long legs crossed. She was staring at the ground, looking pensive. Lima was staring at the ground too, but his face only expressed the effort of supporting Belano's weight. After using up seven matches and burning the tips of his fingers a few times, Belano gave up and got down. We walked back out toward the gate of the Agua Prieta cemetery without speaking. There, by the door, Belano gave the gravedigger a few bills and we left.