The Jaguar's Children Read online

  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!”

  It is a dangerous moment. The federales are outnumbered and the people are not stopping. The woman officer is watching César, but she must also watch the calenda and her men. Everyone is watching the monos too because not to watch is impossible. They are giants, six meters tall and very colorful, also very particular because many people make their own how they want. Mister Peanut is my favorite, and when you’re inside that mono loaded with mezcal you are not really you anymore. You are something else because what is the mono really but a kind of spirit—nothing more than empty clothes on a bamboo frame. To such a one the bullet can do no more damage than to a ghost or a cloud. So the monos keep coming, spinning in circles with their long arms flapping and their giant heads nodding this way and that like they are saying hello to everyone in the houses along the street where the shutters are now opening, to the birds in the trees and the stars in the sky, to the radio towers blinking across town on Cerro del Fortín.

  The lady mono with the yellow hair is still in front and her chichis are even more wonderful up close, bouncing around in her red dress, balloons of helium filled with so much love by the mono dancer. At the same time, Benito Juárez—our great hero and liberator, el Mono MaxiMex—is bending over like he is inspecting the two federales below him and asking them some question like, Do you know whose street you’re on?

  In between the monos comes now the mezcal man with his big bottle and who knows where the top is? Over his shoulder is a string bag and in this are some tubes of bamboo about as long as your finger. These are the cups for the mezcal and he is taking some out to offer the federales who are serious men, but they are also young and even la policía can be believers—maybe some are even Zapotec. It is hard to be completely angry in such a situation—after all, the nights in the truck can be so long and boring. But these are thoughts happening inside and their guns are happening outside, still on their hips and pointing into the heart of the calenda. This is how they confront the monos and the mezcal man, who stop now about twenty meters down the block from César and me. From behind are still coming las chinas oaxaqueñas and the musicians, and now everyone is bunching up behind the monos and spreading onto the sidewalks and the air is getting thick and loud with the smoke and music and rockets launching with loud screams that are imitated by some of the men so it sounds like twenty rockets going up at once.

  César is standing by the side of the taxi, watching all this like a man in a trance and I am a couple meters behind him. There is a soft wind blowing and with it comes the smell of smoke and sweat and lilies and mezcal. It is at this moment that Axl Rose, who is still spinning in circles, trips on the sidewalk. He is a tall one and he goes down slow like a big tree falling. When finally he hits the ground, he blocks almost the whole street like a barricade, and his giant papier-mâché bandana rolls away leaving only those crazy eyes made of broken mirror glass staring through a mess of orange yarn. Everyone is cheering for the fallen mono and another rocket goes up. Then, one more time, the lights change—the red man turns into the green man and, very loud, someone starts singing “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”

  This is the signal for César. Juquila has heard him.

  The green man is running and now César is running too—for his life—down the sidewalk and into the calenda. The female federale brings up her gun, but there are too many people so she is shouting instead. The two federales in front go after him, but Axl Rose is still rolling around and the mess of bamboo and giant clothes slows them down—only for a moment, but it is sufficient. Everyone is looking at César now, pointing and shouting, and then I am running too, behind the taxi and the truck to the other side of the street and into the crowd. By the time the two federales get through, César is down at the corner and I am past the calenda, maybe twenty meters behind. César takes a last look over his shoulder and one of the federales stops to aim his gun. There is the scream of a rocket and then a shot. There is the puff of smoke as the rocket explodes above the street and a cloud of dust as the bullet hits the adobe wall by César’s shoulder. But César doesn’t notice and he is faster than he looks. Juquila is with him, and around the corner he goes. All the federales are chasing us now, but the band is going crazy, playing many songs at once, and the dancers are getting in their way. The shooter in front turns and sees me on the other side of the street, but fear makes you faster and I make it to
the corner. There is one more shot and then only shouting, music and rockets.

  César is ahead of me running and he seems to know where he is going. He disappears through an open gate, and I follow him—across a courtyard, up a fig tree, over the wall of an abandoned house. I am trying to keep up with him, but he is fast and I am still half a block behind. We make it to Guerrero, heading for Bustamante and the market on 20 de Noviembre. I hear more sirens, but César has wings on his feet and—he told me later he can feel this—Juquila is guarding him with her tiny cloak. Police cars speed past a block away and all the time we are moving—south and west because already César knows where he must go. For ten blocks we travel like this—invisible—until César sees a taxi. I can tell by how he whistles and waves it down that he knows the driver, and he jumps in the back. He’s pulling the door closed when I catch up to him and pull it open again.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he says.

  Well, this is my question also.

  “Get out!” he shouts.

  “No!” I say. “You can’t leave me here!”

  He tries to push me out the door but I grab on to the headrest in front and will not let go and now the driver is shouting, “No fighting in my taxi or you both get out!”

  Well, César wants to get away more than he wants to fight. “¡Abastos!” he says. “¡Pronto! But for God’s sake don’t run any lights.”

  And then we are driving with me closing the door and both of us breathing hard. I turn around to look for the police, but César pushes my head down. After maybe one minute with no sirens César lets out a long breath and looks over at me. “I can’t believe we got away from those chingados.”