When he was done, looking to make sure nobody was watching, he sneaked past the Cherokee with its gunmen in the street, and he swung around the side and climbed the building. He used the rainspout and the old water tank to get halfway up. From there, he could grab the roof and boost himself. He did this every morning, without fail.
He sat on the tin until it grew too hot to bear. He looked east. He watched through the trees. From the roof, he could see a small elbow of the road from the highway. The road to Mazatlán, where he had never been. It was all trees in that direction. All willows and pecans and mangos and hibiscus. Bamboo and banana and sugarcane.
Pepino liked it on the roof. He liked the breeze, except when it came from the river and stank of rot and mud. And he liked watching the wild parrots fly to the ruins of the church. He liked the butterflies and the occasional peek he caught through Yvette García’s window of her unbearable hotness in her nightgown. The bandidos could not smack him or burn him with cigarettes up here.
But mostly, Pepino liked to watch the road.
Old women below scolded him: “Pepino, you maniac. Get off Tacho’s roof!” But he was deeply into his mischief and ignored them. They gestured at the terrible Jeep, warning with their chin juts and their shrugs: They will kill you.
Those women were alarmed when they heard him shouting.
They hurried to the front of the shop and squinted up. Was he stung by a scorpion? A bee? Nobody knew. Why was he shouting? Wasps, some said—it had to be wasps. The doors of the Cherokee opened, and the bandidos peered up at him. They were just skinny punks with scrawny necks and bad expressions on their faces. They craned around, trying to see.
Pepino came to the edge of the roof and slapped the top of his own head.
“Pepino! Pepino!” the women cried. “Is it wasps? Are they stinging you?”
He jumped up and down. He yelled. He pointed east.
“Nayeli!” he yelled.
“What about Nayeli?”
“Nayeli!” He spun in a circle. “Nayeli and Tacho walking with a monkey!”
“What? What monkey?”
“Walking home. With a big monkey.” He held his hands over his head. “With a big stick!”
The bandidos got out of their vehicle.
Pepino laughed and gestured down at them.
“Nayeli and Tacho,” he warned, “brought an army!”
They all turned and looked at the spot where the road from the outside world passed through the dark woods and entered the village.
“Nayeli!” Pepino shouted. He pointed, he waved his arms in widening loops as if he were going to fly right off the roof. Voices came from the distance, small through the trees, and now Pepino looked like a mad conductor, bringing this choir forth.
They all heard a strange voice rising above the others. It called out:
“I am Atómiko!”
“The monkey talks!” Pepino shouted.
Now the women of Tres Camarones were smiling.
Acknowledgments
I first encountered the name Nayeli while doing relief work in the Tijuana garbage dump. It was the name of the daughter of my friend Negra. They had Tarascan roots in Michoacan, and to them Nayeli meant flor de casa. The flower of the household. The physical aspects of the fictional Nayeli reflect the real young woman. I hope she likes the book.
The banter and humor of the young women in this book owe a debt to our daughter Megan’s circle of friends, once known as “the Sensational Seven”—some of whom were here often. As a dad, I found it deeply amusing to hear them worry, laugh, converse, and argue. I tried not to be a “creeper,” as they say, but you can’t help hearing things. Though none of them were models for the young women in my story, their energies were greatly with me as I wrote. Thanks especially to Elizabeth Biegalski, our cheerful neighbor. Other voices: Mariah Landeweer, Jamie Schertz, Emma DeGan.
As always, I owe a great debt to my fried Stewart O’Nan. When the writing life grows dark, you nudge me back onto the path. Constant reader, good critic, hardest-working man in show business.
Thanks to everyone at Little, Brown—especially Geoff Shandler. I feel that my books are duets with the best editor in the business: you make me better. A lot of the public life I have enjoyed these last few years is due to the superhuman efforts of Bonnie Hannah, publicist extraordinaire. Though Bonnie has moved on—it is the nature of the job—I know what she put into motion will carry us forward.
As always, thanks to the Sandra Dijkstra Agency. Sandy, Taryn, Elise, Elizabeth, Kelly, and everyone else in the Del Mar offices: gracias and love. Special thanks to Trinity Ray and the gang at APB. To Mike Cendejas at the Pleshette Agency: the master of the movies. You are a true friend. Thank you again, and I’ll meet you at Barney’s.
Although everyone in this novel is fictional, anyone with roots in or near Rosario, Sinaloa, will recognize names, personalities, locations, and addresses. Tres Camarones does not exist, which doesn’t mean you can’t find it. The Cine Pedro Infante does exist, but of course not in Tres Camarones. Aunt Irma is not really my own Aunt Irma, and I wish there were a real Atómiko. I went with a group of young women to Tacho’s house late one night around Christmas Eve to see what kinds of women’s dance shoes he had for sale. Just ask my brilliant translator and cousin from Tres Camar-ones, Enrique Hubbard Urrea—Mexican Consul General.
Miss Mary-Jo and the good people of Kankakee do exist, as does the welcoming atmosphere of the city. Its parameters are mine, since I wrote fiction, and the details are no doubt wrong. What is not wrong is the wonder that is Kankakee’s library, and the hero of the city, Mary-Jo Johnston. (Not related to the fictional Matt Johnston.) May she rest in peace. This book is offered as a small token in her honor.
And Cinderella—everything, always.
About the Author
Luis Alberto Urrea was born in Tijuana, Mexico, to an American mother and a Mexican father. His bestselling novel The Hummingbird’s Daughter, the result of twenty years of research and writing, is a fictionalized retelling of the life of Teresa Urrea, the “Saint of Cabora.”
He is the recipient of a Lannan Literary Award, an American Book Award, a Western States Book Award, and a Colorado Book Award, and he has been inducted into the Latino Literary Hall of Fame.
His nonfiction works include The Devil’s Highway, which was a finalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction; Across the Wire, winner of the Christopher Award; and By the Lake of Sleeping Children.
His poetry has been collected in The Best American Poetry, and a collection of his short fiction, Six Kinds of Sky, won the 2002 ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Award, Editor’s Choice for Fiction.
He teaches creative writing at the University of Illinois in Chicago.
Luis Alberto Urrea, Into the Beautiful North
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