The Jaguar's Children (6 page)

Thu Apr 5—20:33

 

It is a strange thing—how one day you can be praying no one will find you but on the next you are praying anyone will, and I can tell you it doesn't take long in the dark to stop caring about the money. All we want now is water and light. Like plants. And soon—tomorrow—I think it will be water only—like the algae on these walls. You see then what a decoration our life is, una ilusión—the money, the clothes, the talking, the gods. It is all just a thin layer of paint—gone in a few hours. It is the same that makes a truck red or blue or brown, but underneath is only metal coming from the mountain. In the end, this truck is just a rock driving around pretending for a little while to be a truck. And here we are in the desert, AnniMac, breaking down.

 

Thu Apr 5—20:39

 

All this time I believed César will wake up because how can this be his fate—to stand up at the wrong moment? In school, you could not stop him. He was always thinking and moving faster than the rest of us and when he left I didn't see him again until last week—seven years, más o menos. At home we talk a lot about Fate and God's Will because not a lot of people believe in coincidence. Maybe in el Norte you have a name for it when you come out of the Club KittiLoco drunk with no girl and no money for a taxi but one stops in front of you and you get in anyway just because it's there. Maybe you got a name for it also when the driver says, Where to? And you say, Mártires de Río Blanco. And he says, OK if I go up Suárez? Chapultepec is torn up at Venus.

Well, it's two in the morning after three mezcals and so many beers and what do you care about lost battles or other planets or black holes in the street? But there's something familiar about the taxista's voice and you look in the mirror and even through the glasses you notice his eyes because they are looking right back at you and in that moment there is a connection, a knowing, and you're thinking, I've seen this guy before.

That's when I say, “Cheche?”

His eyes get big and he looks away. So I lean forward over the seat. He's wearing a beard and mustache, but this is like putting a coffee sack on a beautiful girl—some things you can't hide. I'm sure it's César under there and I'm drunk and I say, “¡Vato! What you doing back here? Driving a taxi?”

“You got the wrong guy.”

“The fuck I do! I
know
you, man. You're Cheche Ramírez—from Guelatao. ¡Qué
paso!
”

He pulls over hard and stops, and turns around fast and says to my face, “Listen. You think it's me, but it's not. You know what I'm saying? You did not see me here, and you don't tell anyone. If you do, I'm fucked. And so are you.”

Then he turns back and starts driving again. His words are moving slow through the beer and mezcal like bullets underwater, and I don't look in the mirror again. I put my hands in my pockets because it's cool out and then I remember that all I have besides my phone is a ten-peso coin and that little clay head from my abuelo. It's not enough to pay for a taxi and I wonder if I should tell him this, but I'm having trouble thinking so I say nothing. This is how it is driving down Calle Independencia—no one looking, no one talking. This is how it is when we're hit by the truck.

 

It is the last thing you expect after midnight in Oaxaca because it is quiet then, the streets are empty and you can drive how you like—the traffic signals are there, but red or green, no one is caring so much and to run the red is no sin. This is what César is doing on Independencia near the Zócalo—not fast, just normal. Our misfortune is that there is a truck of federales coming down Juárez at the same time—fast, and they have the green. Well, you can imagine a military Ford 250 hitting a little Nissan Tsuru—it is a disaster for the Nissan. We are mostly OK, but the taxi is not—the front is finished and the engine is not where it is supposed to be. It will never be fixed, but that is only the beginning for César and me.

These federale trucks are a special kind that came to Oaxaca with all our troubles last year. They are painted black like skin so there is no reflection and they have a machine gun standing in the back, the kind that can stop a bus or empty a plaza. The men in these trucks are all in black too—helmets, boots, gloves, and their bodies are thick with the armor. There is only one thing with color and that is the bandolera hanging from the gun, each bullet the size of a dog's dick and shining as bright as the gold in church. Every man in the truck has also his own powerful guns and they are ready to shoot at all times—you can see this by their fingers. Pues, it is the dead hour of the night and we are in it—César with the broken taxi, me in the back with ten pesos, and five federales who can make their own war.

The first problem for us is that we have frightened the federales because it is by this same method that narcos are killing police in Mexico—they block them with a car in some lonely place and then compadres who are hiding shoot them all. So as soon as the truck is stopped, all the men in the back and in the cab are shouting and pointing their guns in different directions—doors, windows, roofs, and one of them is pointing his gun out the window right at César who is only a meter away. In that moment something like ice is pouring through my body and I cannot move, even to open my mouth. I think it is the same for César because he is just sitting there, his hands on the steering wheel like he will never let it go. I can tell you, I never got sober so fast. There is nothing else in the street, no other cars or people, only low buildings because it is a neighborhood sleeping. Some who hear the crash open their shutters to look, but close them right away. No one wants to be a witness to this kind of thing.

By now the federales understand it is an accident, not an ambush, but when they get out of the truck and come over to the taxi they still have their guns to their shoulders ready to shoot. The officer by César signals him with the barrel to get out of the car. César's door won't open anymore so he must leave by the other side. He is moving slow and when he gets out the officer is shouting, “What's in your hand! Drop it!”

Every gun is pointing and I am afraid they're going to shoot us right now, but I hear only the sound of César's keys falling in the street. One of the officers shines a light on them and I see the medallion there. It is the one for Juquila—I know it by the shape. I am still in the back when the first officer turns to me. “Show your hands!” When I get out, he points behind the taxi. “Over there!” My knees are shaking and when I look at César the same officer shouts, “No contact!” So I look at the ground where I can see the taxi bleeding its fluids black and green between the cobblestones. Two federales are now studying the dead taxi and the truck, which has only a flat tire and a broken light. One of them gets back in the truck and picks up the radio. Another puts his rifle over his shoulder and walks over to César who stands with his head turned, trying not to be blinded by the flashlight. The officer pats him down, but he misses César's phone.

“Where's your wallet.”

“Stolen,” mumbles César.

“Really,” says the officer. “Your license too?”

César looks down at his shirt pocket. As the officer reaches in to get it, the officer standing behind him with the flashlight says, “Search the car.” It sounds like a woman talking, but it's hard to know with the helmet and goggles. An officer standing guard comes over to the passenger side of the taxi and starts looking through the glove compartment and under the seats, pulling up the mats.

“César Ramírez Santiago,” says the officer by César, comparing the picture on the license to his face. “All the way from D.F. What brings you down here?” He looks over his shoulder and calls out César's name and license number to his partner in the truck who repeats it into the radio. At that moment, the officer searching the car climbs out and hands something to the man questioning César.

“Stolen?” he says, holding up César's wallet. He opens it, pulls out some bills and puts them in his pocket. “You'll need a bigger reward than that to get it back.” Then he punches César in the stomach and I can hear the air come out. “What's a bullshitter like you doing in Oaxaca? Coming to start more trouble? The strike is finished, maricón. We finished it.” César is bent over with his elbows on his knees. He coughs and mumbles something about his father. “This isn't his taxi,” says the officer. “I thought you said you live in D.F.” César lifts himself up, shakes his head and looks at the ground. The officer pulls some cards from his wallet. “Madre, what's a campesino like you doing at UNAM? I thought you were a taxi driver.” He looks at another card. “And what the hell is
SantaMaize
?”

“Probably fake,” says the officer with the flashlight. I see César look from side to side like he is trying to see where this voice is coming from, but the light is too bright. Female federales are not common, but when this one turns her head I can see the tail of hair coming out of her helmet. “Are you color-blind?” she asks, pretending to study César's squinting eyes. “Or does everyone in D.F. run the lights like you?”

César is standing there like he can't understand what she's saying and I wonder if his head is injured. Then, very soft, he says, “¿Mande?”

“Your eyes,” she says. “Maybe you should have them checked.” Another car turns onto the street, but as soon as the driver sees the federales he turns around and drives away. The woman takes a step forward so she is shoulder to shoulder with the other officer and without a warning she knocks César in the forehead with the flashlight hard enough that his head jerks back. “What are you doing in this taxi!” She puts the light right in his face, she's close enough to kiss him now. “I asked you a question, puto.”

For César the answer will change everything that comes after. But then I didn't know how, and it is why I must tell you about the traffic signals. In Oaxaca there are two kinds, those for cars and those for people. The ones for people are made of many little lights that together make a moving picture of a man—a green man walking, but when the time to walk is almost finished, the green man begins to run, faster and faster until he turns suddenly red and stops, like a man waiting, or maybe if you look at it, like a man lying in the street. In the corner of my eye I can see these signals changing one into the other. I know already César is in some kind of trouble and now it is like a choice he must make—a test—and his answer will decide if he is the green man or the red man.

I hear a siren and I'm holding my breath, wondering what César will say and what the federales will do, when I see the officer with César's wallet turn to look at the truck. His partner in the cab holds up the radio and nods toward César. The officer puts César's wallet into his shirt pocket and reaches for his handcuffs. I can see César shifting his feet, turning his head toward the taxi. At first I think he's looking for me, but he's not, he's looking for his keys with the medallion of Juquila. Maybe he's saying a prayer, I don't know, but in this moment there comes an interceding.

It begins with a screaming sound and then, farther down Juárez, an explosion. All the federales—who do not forget the possibility of an ambush—drop to one knee with their guns up and pointing around. César is too scared to move and so am I when around the corner of Hidalgo, one block down, comes a giant puppet—a lady with enormous chichis and yellow hair, and then another one looking like Benito Juárez, and another with a big bandana and long hair like Axl Rose, and each one is tall as a house and dancing all around. Behind them is the sound of a band starting to play and this comes around the corner too—ten musicians with trumpets and trombones and drums, also a tuba, and they are playing dance music. There is another scream and another explosion and now it is clear it is only the coheteros with their skyrockets for waking the gods. “¡Otra calenda!” shouts the woman federale, and all of them can see it now because this is what is coming up the street—una calenda por Santa María, por la Fiesta de la Anunciación. It was the congregation from a local church so it wasn't a big procession, but along with them and the giant monos and the band and the coheteros are las chinas oaxaqueñas—ladies dancing in their fiesta clothes—long skirts and ribbons in the hair with sexy blusas and red red lips, each one with a big basket on her head filled with flowers and special decorations. But in their baskets are also secret things you cannot see—bricks and stones—because the heavier your basket and the longer you dance, the greater your devotion to the Virgin. My mother does this also, especially por la Virgen de la Soledad. You will not believe what she carries—and for so long because most calendas start at eight or nine at night and don't stop until the morning. In between, they go all over the city in a big circle that finishes only when they come back to the home church. All this time, the monos and the ladies are dancing and the band is playing and the coheteros are sending up rockets like flares from a sinking ship. To you it might look like a party, but really it is the dance of hope in the darkness, our way of saying, “¡Virgen, Santo, DIOS, por favor! We are down HERE! Can't you SEE us? Can't you HEAR us? Please do not FORGET us!”

It is the same what César prays to la Virgen de Juquila by the broken taxi.

But the calenda can't go all night without a little rest and some food, and this is what happened—around the corner from us is where they stopped for some time on Hidalgo with no music or dancing or rockets. Of course they are tired by now, and all along the way there are friends and family, maybe other churches, who know this and feed them tortas con queso y frijoles, also beer and soda, to keep them going. And always there is mezcal.

Maybe you can imagine it—a hundred people, sometimes many more, drinking mezcal and dancing half the night already. Zapotecs have been praying this way for two thousand years, and this is maybe why, when they finish resting, they turn north on Juárez to meet the federales. They can see now what is happening there, and it is a story they know very well—everyone has a brother or a father or an uncle who has troubles with the police. No one likes them, especially this kind—and don't forget these are Zapotecos. Some of their pueblos were never conquered by the Aztecs. Now, with Santa María and Señor Mezcal by their side who can stop them? Like this, all together, they come up Juárez, filling the street, the sound of them getting louder and the federales getting nervous, looking at each other, not sure where to put their fingers until two of them come forward with their guns by their hips. “This street is closed,” says one. “Go back!”