“Why did you run?”
“Because it’s worse if I don’t. It’s dangerous to be near me right now. When we get to the market you must leave.”
Jesucristo—qué demonios—
7
Thu Apr 5—22:08
There was some fighting in the front of the tank. By their accent it is the Nicas who started it. I think they had only one bottle of water for the two of them and when they tried to get some from la Michoacana—the baker—she would not give it. They insulted her then and the baby-face man and his friend said they are also from Michoacán, and they threatened the Nicas. No one can see anything in here, but one of the Nicas followed their voices, punching into the darkness. I heard grunting and swearing and I think the baby-face man or his friend caught the Nica’s arm and did something to it—I heard the sound of wet sticks breaking, and the Nica screamed and cursed for a long time after.
How can Hell be worse than this?
But it is quiet now and I can’t think about them. Only César and the story—
We are going to the part of the city where no tourist wants to go. There are no cafés or pretty plazas around Abastos market, only broken cement and sheet metal, dead cars and sex clubs and shops of Chinese clothes with not a tree in sight. Es una Oaxaca paralela where people like me live when we move to the city. Very hot there in the day. But now it is dark and the night is growing damp and old around us. Even down on the floor of the taxi, which is tight for the two of us, we know where we are. We know it by the smells coming in the windows—yesterday’s chocolate from the mills on Calle Mina—and by the rattle of the wheels crossing the rail lines on Mier y Terán, that wide right turn onto Mercaderes, and the next one, left onto Cosijopi. I can see César smiling to himself.
“You drive like a professional,” he says to the back of the seat.
“Por supuesto,” says his friend. He does not ask us why we are back there hiding. He knows as much as he needs to know. Sometimes these things happen.
In this moment, César told me later, he felt more free than any other time he could remember—floating almost. Who knows what los pinches federales will do to him if they catch him and find out who he is, but thanks be to la Virgen de Juquila bendecida he escaped from those pendejos. It was sooner than he planned, but he knew what he must do.
The taxi stops on the west side of Abastos near the river, what is left of it. It is not even four, but already the first trucks are coming in from the coast with fish and oranges, seashells and coconuts, maybe a special order of turtle eggs hiding in the belly of a tuna, or a crocodile skull with all its teeth. And from the south they come with coffee and mangoes, chocolate, iguanas and velvet huipils, and from the Sierra with calla lilies, beef, pots in all sizes still scarred by the fire that made them, maybe even the skin of a jaguar, and from the north with a saddle for the horse, or a yoke for the plow hecho a mano from the trunk of a tree. Maybe you need an ox to go with it, a burro, a goat, some turkey chicks or birds that sing. Maybe corn, mole, mezcal, vanilla, worms or chapulines—sí, those are grasshoppers, amiga—big or small as you like. The ladies from the pueblos catch them in the grass—my abuelas did this. And if you’re lucky there will be huitlacoche—that fungus in the corn that makes the seed explode—con la bisteca es perfecto. All the things that make Oaxaca famous, you can find them in this market and most other things too, even la última cena—the last supper—not the holy picture for the wall but a poison for the rats. Not even the big box stores in Gringolandia have such things, and the prices are better, but only if you bargain.
Abastos es una paradoja—here you can find anything, but you can also lose anyone, and this is why César comes here. Abastos is the biggest market in the state of Oaxaca and it is a labyrinth—who knows what’s at the center or even where the center is. You can live your whole life in here and some people do. It can be frightening for a güero or a campesino who is not used to so many people and so many things all in one place together. Because every kind of person is here from every tribe—Zapotec, Mixtec, Mazatec, Trique, Huave, Chinanteco—so many different faces and clothes and dialects and so many ancient products—copal, cochineal and bark paper for medicine bundles, herbs and seeds, mushrooms and magic ingredients and witch supplies—mango-color beaks from the toucan and black hands from the monkey. All this you can find next to action figures for the Undertaker and the Blue Demon, or a statue of Santa Muerte, or blades for the fighting cock, and every kind of mezcal. There is magic here for everyone.
For César, it is the magic of disappearing. Because running from the federales is a serious thing. These ones will not forget you, they will hunt you like dogs, and if they can’t find you they will find your family. The taxista pulls into the market, past the delivery trucks, nosing in as deep as he can go under the patchwork roof of plastic and canvas and old Sol and Corona banners. There, he stops with the engine running. “Arriba.”
César lifts his head to see where he is and with his messy hair and careful eyes he looks like he did some mornings at school when he came in late for class. But the moment passes quickly and when he reaches into the top of his sock and pulls out a bill the driver shakes his head. “Next time.”
César pats his shoulder. “Claro, caballero.”
Then he gets out of the taxi and disappears into the maze. I follow him—I’m not sure why exactly, but I know I will need to hide for a while also. “Where are you going?” I ask his back.
“To find a gown for Juquila,” he says without turning around. “She saved me tonight. It is a miracle to get away like that. She saved you too, which is interesting.”
“You think so?”
“Maybe she has a plan for you.”
“What kind of a plan?”
“How should I know?” he said. “You must go away now.”
“Where?”
“That’s not my problem.”
I am running to keep up with him as he twists and turns through the dark market, down tight walkways between covered stalls and tables, ducking to miss things hanging overhead—piñatas and baskets and leather bags, a plastic tricycle, communion dresses. “It wasn’t me driving the taxi,” I say. “And you ran away. They saw both of us. I can’t stay around here now.”
I never knew César to be without an answer, but he was quiet after this, just walking fast and swearing to himself. “Nothing’s open. I’m going to have to wait.”
This is a dangerous thing to do, but César does it because Juquila is a local virgin and he won’t find a gown her size—made only for her—anywhere else in Mexico. When he comes under a light in the market, he notices dust on his right shoulder, the kind that comes from adobe bricks mixed with plaster, and he brushes it away. “Un otro milagro,” he says, shaking his head and crossing himself. Then he looks into a dark corner, finds a table with a cloth over it and crawls under. I crawl under the table next to it. I’m thinking César is bad luck for me, but I don’t know what else to do.
“After you find her gown,” I whisper, “where are you going then?”
“It’s no concern of yours. Now leave me alone.”
I don’t know how he does it, but he’s asleep in five minutes. I can hear him breathing one meter away, deep and steady in the dark, and it makes me more calm.
Sometime after sunrise, I am kicked awake. At first I am confused and afraid, but then I am happy because the foot that is kicking me has no boot on it and belongs to an old lady. But she is not happy and kicks César also. “This is not a hotel,” she says. “Get up.”
“Lo siento, doña,” says César. “I need to buy a gown for the Virgin Juquila.”
“No you don’t,” she says. “You need to go home and sober up. Now get away from here. I’m busy.”
We crawl out from under the tables and are surrounded by flowers—roses, birds of paradise, gladioli and bundles of orchids from the Sierra. The sight of them there so many and so close makes me think of my abuelo and I feel it hard in my chest. All these flower
s we put on his grave. César is already moving away deeper into the market, which is wide awake now. He does not look back but I follow him. I hear him asking for the ladies from Juquila who make special clothes for the Virgin. I smell meat and realize I am hungry when a man in a bloody jacket pushes past me and then César with the leg of a cow on his shoulder. In a moment we are among the butchers. It’s early, so the meat is piled high on the shelves and hanging thick on the hooks—rags of carne asada, strings of sausages round as beads, heavy blankets of tripe, piles of goat heads staring blind over pyramids of chickens with their marigold feet hanging in the walkway. When César passes a juice stand, he buys a liter and takes it with him through the heart of the market and over to the far side, closer to the rail line and el centro. We are in a clothing section now so he asks again for the ladies from Juquila and is sent over to a young Zapoteca in bluejeans and a T-shirt with fake diamonds who is reading a fashion magazine and listening to an MP3 player with tiny headphones.
“Excuse me,” says César. “Is your mother here?”
The girl pulls out one of the headphones. “¿Mande?”
“Your mother, is she here?”
“Who are you?”
“Nobody. I need a gown for Juquilita.”
“Why don’t you say so?”
The girl’s stall is made of light metal bars going up and across all around her, like a giant cage. On every bar are hangers with colored shirts and blouses covered in fine flowers all from sewing. The girl points behind her with her thumb and high in the back is a row of tiny gowns too small even for a baby, covered in a layer of brown dust. “That’s all we got left,” says the girl. “No more until November.”
César chooses the brightest one, light green with gold threads. The girl takes it down with a long pole, gives it a shake and hands it to César. “Quinientos,” she says.
You can buy five shirts for this kind of money, but César doesn’t bother to bargain. He kneels down, pulls some bills from his sock and pays her. Then he folds the gown into his jacket pocket and makes his way back through the market toward the river, making sure to go a different way. It is harder to find a taxi on the back side of the market, but it is dangerous to be near the entrance. Always the police are there. I follow César outside where he is asking people about colectivos going north. I stand apart from him and he ignores me. After some minutes waiting, a minivan comes and he squeezes in the back with three hundred kilos of nuns going to Nochixtlán. I get the last seat behind the driver. I can see that César is angry, but what can he say with all these nuns?
The driver waits to collect the money until he is out of the city traffic and on the highway. This is a difficult moment for me because I have only the ten pesos. I am also hungry like the devil. I am hoping the driver will not notice me with all the nuns, but he does, and after everyone has paid he looks at me in his mirror and raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t he pay for us already?” I say, and point back to César with my thumb. I turn around and César gives me a look like, What the fuck are you doing?
“I would be home sleeping now if it wasn’t for you,” I say. César is furious, but the nuns are turning to look at us and he doesn’t want to attract any more attention.
“Cincuenta y cinco,” says the driver.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say to César.
Without looking at me, César passes the money forward to the driver and then turns his head to the gray rocks and bare brown hills of the Mixteca, a desert compared to our green Sierra.
When we got off in Nochixtlán on the edge of town both of us were watching for federales and police, but there was nothing—only freight trucks and cars. We were deep in the Mixteca, two hours north of el centro, and on the hills around us there was barely a tree. The road here was wide with many holes and little shade and on both sides were tire repair shops with cars and trucks up on jacks or piles of stones with the wheels off. It was only ten in the morning but the wind was hot already and smelled of rubber and garbage and cooking meat. César crossed the road to a taquería and from the lady there he ordered memelitas al pastor, something I wished to eat myself. There were two metal tables with folding chairs around them and this is where César sat and waited in the full sun with no hat. When the lady’s young son brought the memelitas to the table, three of them, I waited until César had eaten one. Then I crossed the road, sat down next to him and thanked him for paying my fare, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Why are you dogging me, man? I have enough trouble as it is.”
“What did you expect me to do,” I said, “wait for another taxi?
César didn’t answer but took a bite of the second memelita. There was sweat on his forehead. On the table was a plate of napkins and two clay dishes of red and green salsa as bright and round as traffic signals. Flies circled, landing on the rims and spoons. When they landed on César’s plate, he didn’t wave them away.
“Do you remember who I am?” I asked.
César was looking south, toward the city. “You’re the chico who borrowed my copy of The Savage Detectives and never gave it back. Tino? Nico?”
“Tito. I still have it.”
“No shit. Slow reader?” He finished the second memelita. They were small and he saw me watching. He looked at the last one and pushed his plate toward me. “And you’re still mooching.”
“In this moment, yes, but I have some money at home. I have been saving it.”
“For what? Taxis and memelitas?”
My mouth was too full to talk so I shook my head. “For university,” I said. “But my father says I should go to el Norte.”
César waved the serving boy over and ordered two Cokes. I pulled out my ten-peso coin and put it on the table, but César ignored it. The boy brought two bottles, opened them and set them in front of us. César took a long drink, then he leaned forward in his chair and looked me in the eyes. It was the first time I saw fear in there and also how tired he was. “I need to leave the country,” he said. “Immediately.”
When I heard this, I felt more worried for César than for myself. “What has happened?” I asked.
“It’s not just the taxi. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I’ll go with you.”
The words surprised me how quick they came. They surprised César too and he sat back in his chair. “Well,” I said, “they saw both of us, didn’t they? And both of us ran.” César dropped his head, swinging it back and forth like a burro trying to find its way under a fence. “You don’t understand,” I said. “My father has been on my ass for years to do this—to go up there. Most of my friends are gone already. It will make him happy to see me go.”
César took another sip of his Coke and rubbed his eyes.
“I could help you,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down. “I don’t think so.”
“My father has a connection.”
“Everybody has a connection.”
“To Don Serafín.”
César made a snorting sound. “Your father knows Don Serafín?”
“He works for him all the time,” I said.
César sat up in his chair. “Can Don Serafín get you a good coyote?”
“If my father asks him, yes.”
Don Serafín is what we call a cacique, a rich and powerful chingón with a lot of property and influence who can make war if he wants. Caciques were here before the Spanish came, and they’re still here. Don Serafín is Zapoteco, but his great-grandfather was half Spanish, un hacendado with a lot of land to the east of el centro. Now his family grows agave there for the mezcal and makes it also. For people like my father, Don Serafín can do many things—find work, loan money, grant favors, offer advice. In return my father gives him loyalty and must do whatever he asks.
“If you’re going to call your father,” said César, “I guess you’ll want to borrow my phone”—he smiled a little bit—“along with my books and money and food?”
“I have my own phone,” I said
.
He laughed then, and it was the first time I heard him do that since we were in school. “Just don’t mention my name.”
When my father answered he was mixing cement. At first he was irritated, and when I told him I was ready to go to el Norte he was surprised. I told him as much of the truth as I could—that I have a small problem with the police, but I swear on the Virgin it wasn’t my fault and this is why I cannot come home to say goodbye. I think he knew I was not saying everything, but he has done this himself and he did not press me. You must understand, to go north is my father’s dream since I was young, and more than anything he wants to believe it will come true, not only for me but for him.
César found a patio with some shade near the bus stop and we waited there with a beer for my father to call back. César never once took out his phone, but when mine played “Back in Black” in the middle of the afternoon he jumped. “Bueno,” my father said. “I have consulted Don Serafín and he has agreed to help us. But you must understand, this is a special favor he is doing, loaning us so much money. You must promise me you will pay it back as quickly as you can, and you cannot forget the interest. It will be bad for me—for the family—if he must come looking for it.”
“I promise, Papá, as soon as I find work. Tío will help me.”
My father was nervous and I could hear it. “He let me sit in his car, Tito. It’s the first time in all these years.”
I have seen Don Serafín’s cars before in el centro. His new one is the BMW 760. In all of Oaxaca there are only two or three like this. For someone like my father it is an honor to sit in such a car, but it is also a burden. The problem with the favor is that there will always come the day when you must repay it. You cannot know when or for what you will be asked, but when it comes from a heavy chingón like Don Serafín it will hurt and you can never say no. I was afraid for my father then and I didn’t know what to say so I asked him what it was like.
“If Pancho Villa was alive today,” he said, “his car would be like this one. Every seat is a throne. And when he called his man Lupo? The car turned into a telephone!”