5

Years earlier, after high school, Lorenzo had started smoking. The smoke lifted the veil of shyness he felt with others and allowed him to be bolder with women. In truth, he was tortured by the very presence of the opposite sex, because even exchanging looks with women made him blush. On one phenomenal drinking spree, Lorenzo, Diego, Chava, Gabriel, Victor, and Javier ended up in a whorehouse, and Lorenzo was the first to follow the fat woman who approached him.

“Come over here, little one,” she said when they were in her cubicle. “Climb on top of me, come on … Sonny, take your pants off.”

All of a sudden he was completely sober.

“Move it, kid. I don’t have all night.”

His socks had fallen down on top of his shoes, and she slipped off both shoes and socks. Then she opened her legs in the harshest gesture imaginable. “Climb on. Come on, what are you waiting for?”

Terrified, Lorenzo froze.

“Put it in and move, little one.”

Lorenzo came, and she ordered, “Now clean yourself off and hand me some of that paper too.” It was toilet paper. “Hurry up and get yourself out of here.”

Diego would never forget the pain he saw as Lorenzo told him what had happened.

“Listen, Lencho, it’s not so bad. We’ve all gotten stuck with those fucking old broads.”

For years Lorenzo would remember the fat woman, her yellowed eyes ribbed with red veins, her swollen belly, and her spongy legs opening to reveal the horrible treasure. “And the room, Diego. That room, the curtain …”

“Lorenzo, be understanding.”

“It’s disgusting, Diego, just disgusting.”

“But you came, didn’t you? Everything worked, and you came.”

“It’s a phenomenon that I still don’t understand.”

The gang was tortured by the danger of getting syphilis. “The broads,” as they called them, were an obsession. The boys took off after them like wild horses escaping from a barn. Unlike other oversexed boys, who had to take care of matters themselves to control their adrenaline, the gang could turn to Dr. Beristain.

“We’d like to see my father,” Diego greeted the secretary in the doctor’s office, just around the corner from the house on Bucareli.

Sheathed in his white coat, his stethoscope hanging around his neck, Beristain was even more admirable. “Sit down and relax. I’m not going to judge you, as you all say. You, Diego, pull down that screen. I’m going to show you some transparencies. Look here, gentlemen. Here you have a case of gonorrhea. Now this is a form of chancre. Look closely. It’s devouring the penis, precisely in the glans penis.”

No one moved.

“Look at this liver, Diego. You didn’t put the sheet into the projector very well; make it sharper. I want you all to notice, this is a healthy liver, gentlemen, and this one, to the right, is that of an alcoholic. Look carefully. He has cirrhosis.” As he turned on the light, Dr. Beristain kept haranguing. “Your health is your business, whatever your highnesses decide. If you want to die, go ahead right now. I’m not going to restrain you. I’m just pointing things out. Do you wish to have families someday? Take care of yourselves. Do you want to smoke? Finish off your lungs? I have brought you here not to prohibit you from doing these things, as the Marist priests did, but rather to inform you. The choice is yours.”

The silence made accomplices of all of them.

“If something happens to you, don’t keep it to yourself. Come see me immediately.”

Lorenzo lit a Delicados cigarette with the butt of the one he had just finished.

“My dear Lorenzo, what would you say if I took dirt and put it into this watch?” He took out his pocket watch.

“Doctor, I’d say you were a savage … Well, no, no, no, I—it’s just crazy.”

“Well, this watch is nothing compared to what you’re doing to your lungs. Destroying them, sending them straight on the path to pulmonary emphysema. Do you know what it’s like to die from asphyxia?”

Diego turned to his father. “You don’t know who we’re involved with. We could have caught something …”

“I’ll cure you, but don’t you know about prophylactics?”

“It’s just that you lose sensation, Father.”

The gang frequented a brothel called Montparnasse, which they nicknamed Monpiernas, or Mountlegs. To build up their nerve, the future lawyers, who would soon become Secretaries of State, senators, or even president, would meet first at a bar on the corner of Insurgentes and avenida Chapultepec to see who could drink the most. They were all well dressed except for Lorenzo, who could not emulate Mero Bandala, the arbiter elegantiarum, as Diego called him. But Diego could—as the owner of a navy-blue blazer, a Prince of Wales shirt, a London Fog raincoat, and a substantial number of striped shirts, sweaters, and cashmere jackets from Burberry’s.

Of the group, only Pedro Garciadiego, a true dandy, could compete with Diego Beristain. The crease in Garciadiego’s pants fell perfectly; his shoes were gleaming; his hair was smeared with Vaseline, Carlos Gardel style; and his cuff links were gorgeous. Everything, including his umbrella, was name brand. He took great care with his profile, front, three quarters. He practiced posing in front of the mirror. One night an admirer said, “You should be in the display window at El Palacio de Hierro. You’re a mannequin.” The nickname La Pipa—the pipe—suited Pedro because it was what he smoked, and he’d lay his Dunhill tobacco on the table for everyone to see.

Garciadiego drank as much as the rest, but he didn’t hold it as well. On one particularly infamous night, he went to the bathroom, saying, “I’ll be right back.” In the men’s room, he took off his jacket, but he couldn’t hang it up, and it landed at his feet. He wasn’t able to get his pants down, and he wet himself all over and threw up on his jacket. Completely inebriated, he put it back on, left the bathroom, and attempted to sit down at the café table among his friends.

“What is this?” said Chava, alarmed.

Victor, the most compassionate, stopped him.“Don’t sit down, Pipa. Let’s take you home.”

“I’m not taking him in my car,” protested Diego.

“But you brought him,” insisted the easygoing Victor. Accustomed to excess and drunkenness, the waiters laughed. But they’d never seen anyone vomit that badly before.

“We need to get one of those Ford taxis that cost fifty cents per stop,” said Diego as they stepped outside.

“No, there isn’t time. Let’s take him right now,” insisted Victor, who was holding Garciadiego up as he was about to fall.

“Hey you,” said Diego in a commanding voice to the first taxi that came along. “Can you take this gentleman?”

“No.”

“We’ll give you a peso.”

“No.”

“Okay, two pesos.”

“Five, but you have to lay newspapers down on the seat.”

Diego and Lorenzo covered the backseat with paper, and once Victor had Pedro all settled in, he said, “Lie down. Don’t move. We’re going to follow you. You’re not alone.” They pulled out behind the taxi, driving toward the house on the corner of Alvaro Obregón and Orizaba.

They all chipped in to pay the five pesos that had been meant for the Monpiernás whores, and they woke the doorman up. “Listen, we have your young master here, and he’s pretty sick. It isn’t serious. Just don’t tell his parents, and please bring us the hose.”

Victor Ortiz, the only one who dared to touch Garciadiego, leaned him against the huge ash tree in the garden. Diego aimed the hose at his friend’s body. Even the drowsy doorman couldn’t help but smile when the stream of cold water hit Pedro’s face and appeared to wake him up, although not very successfully, because he toppled to the ground like a piece of rotten fruit.

“Take him up to his bedroom.” Diego told the doorman. “You’re in charge. Make sure his parents don’t find out.”

Diego handed him a two-peso tip, at which point the doorman asked, “How did this happen to the young master?”

 

 

The euphoric sensation that Lorenzo felt with the first drink was something he wouldn’t exchange for anything. Being with his buddies in a festive environment made him feel lyrical. My buddies, my chums, how clever! What great people. They shared everything; they were a commune—everything for everyone. He hugged them; their words guaranteed that Mexico would be a great country. They would redeem it. How he loved them. What swell guys—so smart. Chava Zúniga was a prodigy; Diego couldn’t be a better man; Gabriel Iturralde would defend them if necessary. Lorenzo congratulated himself for it all, even the head of foam on the mug of beer. No time was as worthwhile as the hours spent at Montpiernás, the school of life. They danced, and in a little while each disappeared with one of the whores: home, sweet home. Iturralde, the Basque, would ask himself, Is there anything more inviting than a cunt?

The four of them decided to rent a room the size of a closet in the Atenas y Abraham Gonzalez building, which was close to the place where Julio Antonio Mella was assassinated. The gang’s den was better attended than they had expected: “Let me borrow the keys, let me borrow the keys.” “Well, I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight.” “That’s a terrible time.” “It’s the only time she can make it. She starts work at ten.” “Let me have the keys. I want ten at night.” “If you get there early, don’t knock. You wait until I come out.” All of a sudden, a sly one would knock: “No way, man, not a chance, Chava. You’ve destroyed the mood.” Their great passions were subject to circumstances—a ringing bell or a yell that floated up from calle Abraham González.

 

 

Thanks to his ease with words, Chava Zúniga was able to convince the Secretary of State, Oscar Molina Cerecedo, that he was indispensable to the newspaper Milenio, and he immediately persuaded the director that his buddies, budding geniuses, would make a fabulous contribution. Chava had the gift of making people laugh, the grace of irresponsibility. Playful and seductive, he could entertain them for hours.

“What a great street hawker! His words can even rip the calluses off your feet. I’m taking you to the Zócalo to perform.” Lorenzo laughed.

“Little brother, I’m going much further than you, so treat me right,” Chava said. For the present, he had moved ahead of all of them and was distributing the earth’s bounty. In front of Secretary Molina Cerecedo he exaggerated the deplorable financial situation of poets, the horrifying loft where the best Latin American novelist produced his masterpiece, the small, dismal room where the immeasurable genius painted. “Redeem yourself,” Zúniga warned the Secretary, and, amused, the Secretary conceded favors. Chava embellished his private life. The most beautiful women on Earth resided in his empire, and the description of his amorous conquests, which oscillated between challenges and pleas, delighted his listeners. He was a courtier to the very tips of his toes, but he had developed his own style. He distributed his salary among the haberdasher, the tailor, the cobbler, and the jeweler. “But not to women. They pay for my services. I’m an amazing lover. I’m sure that one of them told me that Gabriel Iturralde doesn’t last long. Premature ejaculation, my dear.” From the time he was a child, Zúniga had inspected the size of the penises he observed in the school bathrooms. He would point them out: big, little, tolerable, nonexistent. He never criticized Lorenzo, but he was moved to tears by his friend’s wardrobe.

“Little brother, how can you wear that abominable suit? What woman is going to give you a second look if you’re wearing khaki? Aren’t you aware that fashion is a manifestation of culture? My supreme elegance is revealed in these vertical lines, the blazer, open to the imagination. No, Lencho, you’re very wrong. It’s not just narcissistic merchandise. The camel-hair coat identifies me. It gives me power.”

Gabriel Iturralde, on the other hand, counted only on his pleasant personality, and Victor Ortiz on his kindness and the habit of eating leftovers from his buddies’ plates, although obesity was lying in wait for him.

Zúniga gave them all the opportunity to publish in the newspaper, but the happiness of knowing they were friends continued to be greater than seeing their names in print. With a total lack of envy, Zúniga praised the gang, inflating their attributes. The group’s spirit of camaraderie made him happy, and he shared that same happiness. The editorial room of Milenio, with his great buddies, would be the brain of the country. “Have you seen the modern machinery at the Cable Office, Lorenzo? Since you like science so much, it’ll bowl you over.”

Through their editorials, the gang thought they would direct the government, nourish the nation, and if things didn’t work out, it would be because the leadership hadn’t followed their advice. To be young was to be omnipotent, to belong to Mount Olympus, to run with the torch in your hand. And win.

“How am I going to become a journalist if I’ve never written an article in my life?” Lorenzo asked.

“It’s the easiest thing in the world, Lenchito. The editorial room is swarming with people who have abandoned their studies in all the careers—doctors, lawyers, architects. They all find satisfaction here. Since they haven’t been successful, they’re journalists. Your sense of culture is superior to any of those fiddling with their notebooks here. I’m going to give you an assignment. You interview Bart Jan Bok, the astronomer. Tell him that you’re a reporter from Milenio.”

“But I’m not.”

“Tomorrow you’ll have your credentials, and in a week you’ll stop by to see the cashier.”

Lorenzo had never expected to be so fascinated by Bart Jan Bok; nor had he imagined that the scientist would end the interview by saying, “Young philosopher, thank you for your excellent questions.”

Lorenzo was more gratified by the conduct of this man than by the publication of the interview. On that day he decided, I’m going to learn to write. His drive helped him prolong each day, drawing as many hours as he could from it. There was even enough time to go all the way to Monte de Piedad to pawn Princess Radziwill’s emeralds. The princess was an intimate friend of Aunt Cayetana’s. Every six months Lorenzo took the Russian leather jewelry box, with whatever the princess put in it, to be pawned. Six months later, the princess, a friend of Aunt Tana’s husband, Manuel Romero de Terreros, would give him a bundle of bills to get it back. To show her appreciation, she offered Lorenzo a cup of English tea and unloaded her problems onto him, speaking all the while in French. Her troubles were so different from his own. Incredulous, Lorenzo came to the conclusion that each person had their own hell to deal with.

What am I going to be a lawyer for—to pawn jewels at Monte de Piedad? he asked himself angrily. He hadn’t lost his inexhaustible critical ability to expose the truth, to find the motive for this or that apparently disinterested action. He was observing the spectacle that Chava Zúniga was staging in the newspaper room as if it were a circus performance. As the others were applauding, Lorenzo was watching the ashes scatter and fall.

“Brother!” Zúniga was yelling. “Free yourself of that nihilism. Take off that expression of death. Don’t have such contempt for your fellow man! Be magnanimous, like me.”

Zúniga was as enthralling to Lorenzo as he was to everyone else. “You, Lorenzo, are committing the greatest crime against humanity!”

“What?” he asked, dauntless.

“You’re not happy. Watch me, brother!” He was hanging from the curtains, practicing dance steps. His favorite was to take an invisible woman by the waist and, bending her backward, pretend to kiss her passionately, then break into a tango to the tune of “Don’t devalue humanity; don’t underrate human beings.” Even Lorenzo couldn’t help but laugh.

 

 

No one in the house on Lucerna knew about Lorenzo’s activities. None of them knew what the others were doing. They preferred to float above events, like Don Joaquin, who lived attached to his routine—the drink at the Ritz at one o’clock, the Rosary at seven, bridge on Thursdays, Sunday mass at La Profesa followed by the family meal at Carito Escandón’s.

Aunt Tana asked Lorenzo to accompany Lucía Aramburu y González Palafox home every Thursday night after they played bridge. Of all his aunt’s friends, she was the one with the reddest lips. Her youthful movements made her jump from her seat like a spring. Lorenzo liked to escort her to her house on avenida Insurgentes, and he liked that she called him darling. One night she asked him to come in, and she invited him up to her bedroom. Lorenzo had learned from Cocorito, a waitress he knew quite well, that women were more daring than men. He came to the conclusion that they had an element of craziness in them. They jumped headfirst, ignoring where they were going to land, the poor things. When Lucia said in a singsong voice, “Undress, darling,” and then, at the end, “This is a secret just between you and me, love,” he agreed immediately. How could she think he would be anything but a gentleman? He wouldn’t tell her, either, that the waitress’s breasts were more playful, because hers had fascinated him—two mature, fully ripened pears.

As he returned to his attic on Lucerna, he felt as if he owned the streets. The houses were his partners in crime, and they winked at him. The sidewalks under his nimble feet repeated with every step, “You are the master and lord, master and lord, master and lord.” The apparatus between his legs, aggressive and well formed, had taken that woman, probably quite experienced, to an orgasm. Thanks to that perfect weapon that made him a man, he had a woman under his power who was at least thirty years his senior. Lucía would kneel at his feet. Every bridge game would end in an orgy. What a task he had. He was curious to know what Diego would say when he told him.

Expressing himself through desire was something totally new for Lorenzo. Thursday became the high point of his week. However, the following Thursday, after crossing the five streets that separated the two houses, Lucia said good night without even a glance at his erection.

“Good night, little boy. Sweet dreams.”

The rejection deeply humiliated him, but she continued to intrigue him. Why sometimes yes, and not others? His aunt’s yell, “Lorencito, please come down and walk Lucia home,” became a siren’s song.

Lucia took his arm familiarly, and he would try to guess what would happen. Sometimes she was terribly distant; other times she was wildly passionate.

She possessed him; she mounted him; she became a male goat. He was her object, her lover, and her son at the same time. She rocked him like a child in that flowered canopy bed. The only thing Lucia did not do was walk around the bedroom naked—unlike Cocorito. Her order was Anal—“Don’t turn the lights on”—and the darkness made her more of a promised land, playing hide-and-seek, eluding reality.

He surprised himself one night, screaming, “Lucía, Lucia, don’t ever leave me!” And he asked himself how it was possible that he had never felt anything like this before. Losing himself in Lucia, losing himself over Lucia. He never imagined he’d lose himself over a friend of Cayetana’s, whom he considered practically an old woman. How disrespectful to himself and to them! After being with Lucia, he saw his aunt with different eyes. Who was she? What did she do in her bedroom? Did Don Manuel, so gruff, reach for her at night under the sheet? And what about the good Tila? What did she do when she went back to her village? Women! What an incomprehensible mystery. Dense like swamps. Nevertheless, all he could do was wait feverishly in the attic for his aunt Tana’s yell, opening the doors to paradise with her sharp “Lorencito, do me a favor and accompany Lucia,” to which he threw himself down the stairs and arrived in the living room, cheeks red, which made Dona Cayetana exclaim, “Look at him; he looks like a little apple!”

Lucia, the savage mare—would she sink her teeth into that little apple, or would she send him home without any reward? One night Lorenzo decided to win the game. Lucia had hardly opened the door, saying good night, when he stuck his leg in the way.

“Listen, young man …”

Lorenzo threw himself on her, right there in the hallway, before going up the stairs, and she laughed, delighted, her lips a little swollen, with that slow gesture of a body that prepares to give in. Lorenzo remembered Diego’s advice: “Go for it. They may tell you no, but they’re always grateful.” Fucking old women, fucking Lucia. That night he had her as never before, and he was the one in charge. He did it the way he wanted, and at one point he turned on the light and saw her. Her full breasts had the beauty of fruit—honey trickled harmoniously and sweetly, extending over her entire body. More beautiful than Cocorito, this woman was the Earth itself, with her armpits a little loose and her thighs ready to give in. She covered her face, and he looked at her, enraptured, loving her, without hearing her desperate palpitations. How beautiful, my God, how beautiful. The fact that she didn’t believe him only made her all the more desirable. Fool, little fool, beautiful little fool, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Iztaccíhuatl, Popocatépetl, Pico de Orizaba, Nevado de Toluca, crater of honey and black grapes. No fifty-year-old woman should be ashamed of her body. He would accept it like a long-awaited rain shower. Lucia noticed the surrender in his eyes. This youth was giving her back her self-confidence, although he probably had no one to compare her with. How wonderful. He would become more ardent each day. She would know how to keep the flame going, feed his devotion. Lucia would set the rules. No, no—let him set them. Let herself surrender to the width of his shoulders, to his gift of command, to the hair that curled at the nape of his neck, to the wisdom in his eyes, to his ardor, and, above all, to his audacity, which no one would have suspected. For the first time since her youth, she was not ashamed of her nakedness in front of a man. Lorenzo should have been the first, she thought tenderly. He was the one who deserved to have made the blood run through her thighs. Was she still tight enough? Her lover’s convulsions, his legs that trembled right down to his heels, proved it. He had taken her out of her own body. What a tender and violent man, both at the same time. She had known bold men, but none like this little boy, none. Her esteem for Dona Cayetana de Tena increased.