Margarita Wednesdays: Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea (26 page)

“You know the answer to that. And don’t forget, I’m doing you a favor, right?”

In fact, I was breaking one of my own cardinal rules. When I was growing up in a professional salon, the idea of a kitchen beautician just didn’t fly. My mother had always warned me about going down that road. I really hated doing hair in my house.

“You really should open a salon, Deb. I mean it.”

“Not gonna happen. So stop asking. You and Sergio, I swear, you’re going to drive me up a wall.” Sergio had been slyly encouraging me to open a salon practically from the moment we met.

First it was “Teresa used to have a salon.”

“Really.”

Next it was “Her sister is a massage therapist and aesthetician.” What
doesn’t
this family do? I thought. Then it was “Teresa really wants to read your book.” So I gave Sergio a copy in Spanish. Two weeks later he said, “Teresa really wants to meet you.” So meet we did. And she was nice, if not a little shy at the time, but I was beginning to see where Sergio was going with this, and I knew I’d better nip it in the bud before it went any further.

“Sergio,” I told him one day while he was refinishing a table for me, “I have
absolutely no interest in opening a salon here in Mazatlán. As we say in the States, been there, done that. And not gonna do it again. I’m retired.” The truth was, despite my protestations, I did miss a lot about salon life. Just as some people get their warm fuzzies from the taste of a dish their mom used to make, or from hearing a familiar song, my memory senses are triggered by the aroma of perm solution and nail polish remover. I had been trying hard to ignore my destiny, but the funny thing about destiny is that it really doesn’t take too well to being ignored. I’d find myself sitting in a beauty shop, having my hair done or getting a mani-pedi, and the sound of the Mexican girls joking and laughing with each other would bring on a kind of profound homesickness. But it still wasn’t enough to make me want to jump in and do it myself, again.

“So if you’re so opposed to a salon, Deb, what
are
you going to do?” Sharon chimed in as if she were reading my mind. She knew I was antsy, and she assumed, correctly, that eventually I’d need to generate some sort of income. When I first came down to Mazatlán I was so focused on literally getting my house in order that I shoved the thought of working way back into the dusty corners of my brain. Sometimes I’d engage in some wishful thinking that what little money I had might last forever. I’d do the math. I figured that if I only spent, say, three dollars a month, what I had in the bank should last for like a hundred years. Or I’d look at it the other way: I’m good, if I make sure I only
live until around sixty-three. I never was that great with numbers. But there was more to it than just the money. I was too young to retire. I hated playing cards. I wanted to live a normal life in Mexico, and to me, normal meant working. Maybe that’s why I was so attracted to hardworking Sharon.

“I don’t know what to do,” I told her. “I do know that I’m not made for the nine-to-five thing. I tried that once, the prison gig. It’s just not in my blood, I guess.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Sharon laughed. “But that didn’t mean I had to be a Playboy Bunny like my mom. Maybe you should try something different. I’ll bet you could do anything you put your mind to.” Sharon’s words brought back a picture of my mother’s beaming smile as I would twirl clumsily around our living room in my too-tight tutu. “You’re no Pavlova, so get out of the way of the TV,” my dad would growl. “You’ll see,” I’d growl back. We always did have sort of a rocky relationship, especially when I started to have my own opinions, or maybe when I started parroting those of my mom.

But funny enough, in my family, it was my dad who was the dreamer, and my mom who was the doer. Dad was always looking for the next deal. He fancied himself as a mover and shaker, and was a serial risk taker, much to my mom’s dismay. One of his nicknames was Windy, and for good reason. He talked his way into buying bakeries, dress shops, apartment buildings. But it was Mom who always ended up doing all the work. She just wanted security. Like when he bought that bakery. A German bakery. We didn’t have a drop of German blood in us. And of course
he
didn’t know how to bake. So who stayed up all night making bread and doughnuts and turnovers before heading out the door, exhausted and resentful, at 7
A.M.
to do hair? But I have to give my dad credit for always seeming to come out ahead, even if it was thanks to my mom for blocking some of his crazier schemes, and for her willingness to have his back at the ones that did fly. For a cotton picker from Arkansas, I’d say he did pretty damn well.

Between my dad with his big ideas, and my mom’s can-do attitude, my entrepreneurial spirit kicked in at a very young age. By the time I was seven I was melting crayons onto my dad’s discarded beer bottles and selling them as candleholders for ten cents apiece from the side of the road. Sometimes, if I ran out of empties, I’d secretly uncap and pour out whole bottles of my dad’s Budweisers to up my inventory. I’d even sell food from my own house if I could make a profit. Our apples and candy bars would disappear at an alarming rate. A little while later I learned how to knit, and sold scarves to the captive audience at my mom’s salon.

“It’s just really hard for me to even think about doing hair down here!” I shouted to Sharon over the noise of the blow dryer. What I didn’t share with her that day was a notion I had been thinking about, one that had been bubbling up in my brain for the past few weeks, but one that in no way was I ready to act on. It came to me, of course, at a beauty salon. I was getting my hair extensions done, an endless process that requires me to sit still for hours longer than I’ll sit still for anything. I watched with horror as client after client came through for their pedicures, each and every one subjected to poking and prodding from the same wooden pedicure wand. Seven pedicures, all with the same, unsterilized tool. They’d dip it in a little cold water between each job, but that was it. For me, it was appalling. Afghanistan, where even the air you breathe is full of fecal matter, was the harshest environment anywhere for keeping things sanitary, but I made sure we did it. In Mazatlán, I felt like I was playing Russian roulette with my feet every time I sat down in that chair. I’d give anything to get a good, clean pedicure, I thought. And then I sort of laughed out loud a little, because suddenly my mind went back to Afghanistan, where I said the same thing about a good cup of coffee, and ended up opening the Kabul Coffee Shop just so I wouldn’t have to drink Nescafé.

B
UT MY MOST PRESSING TASK
, at that time, was planning Martha’s baby shower. Though the baby (a girl!) wasn’t due for another few months, I just couldn’t wait, so I took the opportunity of the post-holiday calm to claim the date. Of course, in Mexico there really is no such thing as post-holiday calm. There always seems to be another celebration on the horizon. Right after Christmas and New Year’s, we had Kings Day. The Mexican tradition for this day is to share a sweet wreath of bread with candied fruit sprinkled on top and a little plastic baby Jesus baked inside. Now, where I’m from, people are raised to believe we have Jesus in our hearts, but not so much in our cake. My grandmother would have loved this holiday. She had Jesus everywhere in her house, gifts from her fourteen children and millions of grand-, great-grand-, and great-great-grandkids. Pillows, figurines, bedspreads—if Jesus could be printed, sculpted, or cast, Grandma had him in her house. I even made her a paint-by-numbers Jesus one Christmas, which hung proudly over her mantel. But a cake? One bite and you’re choking on the Almighty. It should come with a warning.

Whoever chomps down on the baby Jesus during Kings Day becomes the designated host for the next holiday, Día de la Candelaria, or Candlemas, which falls on February 2, forty days after Christmas. And of course, that year, that person was me. I’ve heard all sorts of interpretations of how this day is celebrated. In the States it’s also the day we call Groundhog Day, because it comes at the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. For Catholics, it’s “Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin.” According to Jewish law a woman was considered unclean for forty days after giving birth, so the custom was to bring a baby to the temple after forty days had passed. That would have been the day Jesus was taken to the temple. In Mexico, the most traditional families have their own Niño Dios, a baby Jesus doll. Some of these dolls have been handed down through generations, and sometimes godparents are even chosen for them. The lucky godparents then become the ones responsible for hosting all the celebrations between Christmas, when the doll is placed in a manger,
and Candlemas, when the doll is presented to the church, dressed head to toe in a brand-new outfit that often costs more than the families’ flesh-and-blood children’s entire wardrobe. In some parts of Mexico they celebrate with bullfights and parades. I chose to go with the simple, yet time-honored, tradition of having people over for tamales.

Just one week later, it was the start of Carnival time in Mazatlán. This being my first Carnival, I was jazzed. But it was clear that it was going to be a challenge finding people to join me for the celebration. There had been a lot of chatter about a threat of violence, something about a rival drug cartel out to make a big statement, to hurt Mazatlán during the city’s biggest holiday celebration. The beach had been completely blocked off, and there was a rumor spreading that a major cache of weapons had been found in a cave.

“Be careful, Debbie,” said Analisa as she declined my invitation to the parade.

“Cuidado,” warned Martha after she demanded that Noah stay home.

The last parade, on Sunday, was scheduled to come down toward Centro, my neighborhood, right past Olas Altas. Denis and I, along with a handful of friends, got to the patio in front of the Hotel Belmar early, to grab a front-row seat right up against the little cement wall that separates the café from the road. Though the sidewalks were soon lined with people peering with anticipation down the wide, empty street, everyone was commenting on the fact that it was way less crowded than usual. We watched as the federal police stood guard by the temporary gates that had been set up, patting down the men and searching through the women’s purses. The marines were already stationed down by the water, their huge boats patrolling back and forth along the shoreline. But apparently the parade wasn’t going to start before dark, so we settled in for a long afternoon. Lucky for me, I could easily pass the time with a little tableside bargaining, thanks to the army of eager vendors who were out that day. One Oaxacan woman, with an adorable pigtailed baby strapped to her back, an
infectious laugh, and perfect English, became my pal that day as she passed back and forth tempting me to buy. Carmelita was a pro, and soon I had yet another new purse I probably didn’t need.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the sun finally melted into the Pacific, that we first heard the bottle rockets that, fortunately, I had been warned were simply a signal that things were getting under way. I could see the lights sparkling in the distance as the floats approached. The first one arrived, a spectacular rolling temple in the moonlight. Everyone oohed and aahed at the revelers on board as they passed, with their brightly feathered headdresses and shimmering jewels. Then came the second float, a twisted, giant sea creature with fiery eyes, even more magnificent than the first. Then nothing. Everyone was straining and squinting into the distance to spy the next float heading down the Malecón, but you could have shot a cannon down the street and not hit a soul. “What’s going on?” I asked nobody in particular. Nobody answered. The crowd became eerily quiet.

Then, all of a sudden, I turned to see a wall of people thundering toward us. Parents were grabbing their babies, strollers were flying through the air, street vendors were flinging their wares right and left. It was raining jewelry and cotton candy all around us. Everyone was running, screaming, diving under the tables on the patio, and pushing their way into the restaurants. It was just like one of those old horror movies where the monster or giant wave is coming. Sheer terror. But I had no idea what everyone was running from. The stampede seemed to be a mile long, and it wasn’t ending. The only thing I could imagine was that there had to be an army of gunmen, shooting wildly into the crowd, behind it all.

By now I could see boatloads of people pressed shoulder to shoulder against the restaurants’ plate glass windows. “Get behind the wall! Dive! Dive!” I shouted to my friends. But the ground beneath our table was already crammed with more panicky people. “Get down!” I
yelled at Denis as I pushed his head toward the pavement. “Everyone duck! Keep your heads down!” I shouted from my own spot flat on the cement. “Just wait this out. Don’t move!”

After a couple of minutes, the commotion seemed to end. All we could hear were crying children. It wasn’t long before more rumors started to fly, fueled by the cell phones that were lighting up all around us. The one that seemed to be gaining the most momentum was that the Carnival Queen had been shot.

By now, all the floats were coming through, but without a soul on them. As I stood and brushed the dust off my skirt, I found myself next to a familiar-looking woman frantically dialing her phone.

“Mi bebé! Mis hijos!” She was sobbing.

It was my purse lady, Carmelita. “Where are they? Dónde?” I knew a desperate mother when I saw one.

She turned her tear-streaked face toward me. “They are lost! My son and daughter were with their aunt, and I tried to find them, and the baby was pulled from my hand!”

I turned to search the street around me. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion, as if hours were passing instead of minutes. As Carmelita desperately combed the sidewalks calling out her kids’ names, I heard someone knocking on the restaurant window behind me. A man inside pointed to a woman standing next to him, who was cradling the pigtailed toddler safe in her arms. I gathered up the baby and stayed put right in the place where Carmelita had left me, where, thankfully, she eventually returned, with the rest of her family in tow.