You aren’t going to believe it, you’ll just say I’m an idiot, but when I was younger I used to dream about being able to fly, being invisible, and watching movies at home. They used to tell me: Wait until we have television. It’s just like having your very own little movie theater in your room. Now that I’m grown up, I can laugh at all that. But of course now we have television, and I know that nobody can fly except in an airplane and that the potion to make you invisible hasn’t been discovered yet.
I remember the very first time. They put a television set in the Regalos Nietos Gift Shop window and there were crowds of people on the corner of Juárez and Letrán trying to get a glimpse of the little figures. They only showed documentaries: hunting dogs, skiers, Hawaiian beaches, polar bears, supersonic airplanes.
Who am I talking to anyway? I guess no one will ever read this diary. I got it as a Christmas present, and I haven’t wanted to write in it at all. Keeping a diary is for girls, I think, and I’ve even teased my sister because she keeps one and writes all kinds of corny stuff in it: “Dear Diary, today I waited all day for Gabriel to call but he never did,” and things like that. And it’s a very short step from here to little perfumed envelopes, and the guys at school would laugh their heads off if they knew I was going in for these kinds of sissy things.
Our teacher, Mr. Castañeda, suggested that we keep a diary. That’s why I even agreed to accept this little green notebook. At least it doesn’t suck up all the ink like the ones we have at school. According to Castañeda, a diary teaches us how to think more clearly because when we write, we put things in order, and then as time passes it’s interesting to see what we were once like, what we did, what we thought about, how much we’ve changed.
By the way, he gave me an “A” on my composition about the tree, and he had a poem I wrote for Mother’s Day published in the high-school newspaper. Nobody in the class is better than me in composition and dictation. I make mistakes but I have the best spelling and punctuation. I’m also good at history, civics, and English, but I’m a dope when it comes to physics, math, and drawing. I don’t think there’s anybody else in my whole class who has read all—well, almost all—of The Treasury of Youth, and all of Salgari and a lot of Jules Verne’s and Dumas’s novels. I would read more but Aceves told us we shouldn’t read too much because it ruins your eyesight and makes you weak-willed (?) Who can figure these teachers out? One says one thing and the other says exactly the opposite.
It’s funny to watch how the letters come together in little groups and things appear that you never thought of saying. I now promise to write down everything that happens to me. I would be very embarrassed if anybody saw this notebook. I’m going to hide it away among my father’s papers. No one will find it there (I hope).
I haven’t written here for a few months. From now on I’ll try to write every day or at least once a week. My silence can be explained by the fact that we moved to Veracruz because my father was put in charge of that military zone. I’m still not used to the heat, I’m not sleeping very well, and to tell you the truth, school has been really hard for me. I don’t have any friends in my class, and my friends in Mexico City don’t write. The hardest thing was saying good-bye to Marta. I hope she keeps her promise and talks her family into bringing her here for vacation. The house we rented isn’t very big, but it’s right on the Malecón and it has a garden where I read and study when the sun isn’t too hot. I love Veracruz. The only bad part about it (besides the heat) is that there are very few movie theaters and they don’t have television yet.
I swim much better now and I’ve already learned how to drive. Durán, my father’s new assistant, taught me how. And another thing: Every week there will be a wrestling match at the Díaz Mirón Movie Theater. I’ll get permission to go if my grades improve.
Today I met Ana Luisa, a friend of my sisters’, the daughter of the woman who makes their clothes. She lives right around the corner and works in The Yardage Paradise. I was very shy. Then I tried to seem very sure of myself and ended up saying a lot of stupid things.
After school, I stayed downtown and waited until Ana Luisa got off work. I walked down another block and got on her streetcar, the Villa del Mar por Bravo. It didn’t turn out to be such a good move because she was with her friends from the store. I couldn’t bring myself to go up to her, but I said, “Hi,” and she was very friendly. What’s going to happen? Mystery.
Quarter exams. They flunked me in chemistry and trigonometry. Luckily my mother agreed to sign the report card and not say anything to my father.
Yesterday, in Independencia, Pablo introduced me to a boy with glasses. Then he said, “You see? That guy went out with that girl you like.” He didn’t go into details and I didn’t dare ask.
I drove from Villa del Mar to Mocambo. Durán says I’m pretty good. He’s a cool guy even though he’s twenty-five years old. A cop stopped us and said it was because he thought I looked too young. Durán let him go right ahead and ask us for the license and learner’s permit and threaten to throw us into the clink. Then Durán told him who the car belonged to and who I was and the problem was solved without having to pay him a cent.
No sign of Ana Luisa for days. Seems like she had to go to Xalapa with her family. I keep going by her house but it’s always closed up.
I went to the movies with Durán. His girlfriend met us there. I liked her. She’s nice. She’s pretty even though she is a little fat and has some gold teeth. Her name is Candelaria and she works in Los Portales Pharmacy. We took her home and on our way back I told Durán about Ana Luisa. He said, “You should have told me sooner. I’m going to help you out. The four of us can go out together.”
I haven’t written because nothing important has happened. Ana Luisa still hasn’t come back. How could I have fallen in love with her when I don’t even know her?
Candelaria and Durán invited me to go out for ice cream. She asked me about Ana Luisa. Durán told her the whole story and then some. And now what?
Something incredible happened to me today on my way home from school: I saw a dead person for the first time. Of course I’d seen pictures in La Tarde, but it’s not the same at all, no way. There were a lot of people around and the ambulance hadn’t arrived yet. Someone had covered his face with a pillowcase. Then some children pulled it off and I was horrified when I saw the gash in his chest, his mouth, and his open eyes. Worst of all was the blood that ran through the streets. Real thick, it was disgusting. The murder weapon was one of those tools they use to open coconuts. They’re really more like double-edged knives with a wedge right down the middle that’s used to gouge out the fruit. The victim was a long-shoreman or a fisherman, I’m not quite sure. He had eight children and was killed by the lover of the woman who sells tamales in the alleyway out of jealousy. The murderer escaped. I hope they catch him. They say he was very drunk. The strangest thing about it is to think that people would kill each other for such an ugly, old woman. I thought only young people fell in love. And no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about the body, that gruesome wound, the blood splattered all over, even on the walls. I don’t know how my father did it during the Revolution, even though he told me that after a while you get used to seeing dead bodies.
She’s back. She came over to the house. I said, “Hi,” but I didn’t know what else to say to her. Then she went out with my sisters. How can I approach her?
On Sunday they’re going to go to the movies and maybe afterward to the Zócalo. I think I’ll just show up there. Maricarmen asked me if I liked Ana Luisa. And, like a coward, I said, “Are you kidding? There are lots of girls a hundred times prettier than her.”
I went to the Zócalo at six-thirty. I saw Pablo and some other guys from school, and I hung around with them. A while later Ana Luisa and my sisters arrived. I invited them to have ice cream at the Yucatán. We talked about movies and about Veracruz. Ana Luisa wants to live in Mexico City. Durán came by in the big car, and we took her home. Right after she got out, Nena and Maricarmen started making fun of me. Sometimes I really hate my sisters. The worst part was when Maricarmen said, “Don’t get any smart ideas, kiddo, because Ana Luisa already has a boyfriend, he’s just not around right now.”
After thinking it over for a long time, I decided to wait for Ana Luisa at the streetcar stop in the afternoon. When she got out with her friends, I greeted her and handed her a little piece of paper:
Ana Luisa:
I’m madly in love with you. I must talk to you alone. Tomorrow I will come meet you just like today. Please give me your answer on a piece of paper as I have done. Tell me when and where we can meet or, if you’d rather, that you just want me to leave you alone.
Jorge
Afterward I thought I blew it with that last sentence, but it was already too late. I have no idea what her answer will be. She’ll probably tell me to go to hell.
I was restless all day, thinking about what Ana Luisa would say. But it turned out to be very different from what I had expected:
Jorge, I cant understand how your in love with me so lets talk. Well meet on Sunday at noon at the chairs in villadelmar
Ana Luisa
Durán: “See what I mean? I told you it would be a cinch. Now listen to my advice and don’t go blow it on Sunday.”
Maricarmen: “What’s the matter with you? Why are you so happy?”
The worst thing is that I didn’t study at all.
I got there fifteen minutes early. I rented a chair and began reading one of Nena’s books, Philosophical Digest, just so that Ana Luisa would see me with it. I couldn’t concentrate at all. I was a nervous wreck. The clock struck twelve and no Ana Luisa. Then twelve-thirty and still nothing. I thought she wasn’t going to show up. Just when I had finally talked myself into leaving, she appeared.
“Sorry. I couldn’t get away.”
“Get away? From whom?”
“What do you mean, who from? From my mother.”
“Did you get my note?”
“Of course. And I answered it. That’s why we’re here.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right. What an idiot I am . . . So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About what I said to you.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Give me some time. Let me think about it.”
“You’ve already had plenty of time. Make up your mind.”
“But like I told you, I don’t hardly know you.”
“I don’t know you either and you see . . .”
“What?”
“. . . I’m in love with you.”
I turned bright red. I thought Ana Luisa was going to laugh. But she didn’t say anything. She just smiled and took my hand. We walked silently along the Malecón toward the Fraccionamiento Reforma. I was happy even though I was a little worried that someone from home would see us. Suddenly Ana Luisa spoke. “Well, I guess I should admit that I like you pretty much too.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“But there’s one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re younger than me.”
“No, I’m not (I think) and even if I were, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Really?”
“Of course not.”
I’d love to write down everything that happened today. But Maricarmen is wandering around, and it would be a disaster if she saw me writing. I’m going to hide this book away on the very top shelf of the closet. I’m very happy and everything turned out a thousand times better than I’d ever expected.
For a whole week we’ve been meeting on the Malecón in the evenings. I haven’t written anything because I’m afraid someone will read it (my sisters are gossips and they’ll blab everything), but I feel like if I stop writing altogether nothing of anything that’s happening now will remain. I don’t even have a picture of Ana Luisa. She doesn’t want to give me one because she says that if they find it they’ll tell her mother and
Yesterday I had to stop because my father walked in. I told him I was doing my history homework and he believed me. He seems very nervous. In the southern part of the state there are problems with peasants who refuse to vacate some land the government wants in order to build another dam for the hydroelectric project. If things don’t sort themselves out he’s going to have to go there in person. I was talking about it with my mother today. She said that since the army is an army of the people it shouldn’t shoot at the people. I don’t know very much about my father; we almost never talk; but one time he told me that he used to be very poor and had gotten involved in the Revolution about a million years ago when he was around my age.
A horrible day. Ana Luisa went to Xalapa again. She promised to write to me at Durán’s girlfriend’s house. At school, things are going from bad to worse. And to think that in elementary school I was one of the best students. . . .
Durán took me out on the highway to practice. I drove from Mocambo to Boca del Río. Candelaria came with us and she promised me that as soon as Ana Luisa got back she would ask her mother for permission to go out with her and then the four of us could go out together.
Candelaria called me and said she had received a letter from Ana Luisa and she would give it to Durán to give to me. I told her I would rather stop by and pick it up myself. But it’s Sunday and I couldn’t think of any excuse for leaving the house and so I have had to sit around all day dying of anxiety.
Dear Jorge, Sorry I didnt rite you but I havent had any time and Ive had tons of problems and I dont have a second alone, just imagine that rite when we arrived my ant told my dad everything about me going out with you and who nows what else she told him. When she left my dad caled me in and told me what she told him and I told him it wasnt true that we went out but with your sisters and dont you think for a minute he beleved me.
Jorge the days seem like years without seeing you I always think about you at nite I go to sleep thinking about you I want you always by my side but theres no way what can we do???
Jorge hurry up and rite, send it to general delivery to LUISA BERROCAL, theyll give me the letter cos ive got id with that name.
Well so long Jorge. Im sending you lots a kisses and I love you and wont forget you
Ana Luisa
Now that I’ve copied the letter down word for word, I’ll try writing a rough draft of my answer right here:
My love (no, better:) Dear Ana Luisa (no, that sounds too cold) My beloved and unforgettable Ana Luisa (too corny) My dear (not strong enough) My dearest Ana Luisa (that’s okay, I guess):
You can’t imagine the great joy your long-awaited letter gave me (doesn’t sound great but anyways, here goes). Nor can you imagine how much I miss you and how much I need to see you. Now I know for certain that I am deeply in love with you.
Even so, I must be truthful and tell you that there were three very strange things in your letter:
First: I thought that the woman you live with is your mother and now you say that she’s your aunt. (On top of that, you never told me your father was in Xalapa.)
Second: Why can’t you come back? Why do you have to go to Xalapa all the time? I am very concerned about all these things and I beg you to please clear things up.
Third: I’m sending this to General Delivery and to the name you mentioned, but to tell you the truth, I don’t understand how you can have identification under a name other than your own. You’ll explain this to me too, won’t you?
There’s nothing around here to tell you about because everything is awful without you. Come back soon. I send you lots of kisses with my deepest love,
Jorge
The beginning and end sound a lot like the letters Gabriel sends to Maricarmen (I’ve read them all without her knowing, of course), but I think that overall, it will do. I’m going to copy it out onto my stationery and give it to Durán to mail.
In a year from now, where will I be? What will have happened? And in ten?
I got home today with a split lip and a bloody nose, but I won the fight. While I was leaving school, I had it out with Oscar (he’s Adelina’s brother, that fat girl who badmouths just about everybody, even her own mother, and she’s Nena’s best friend) because he said I had been seen making out with Ana Luisa and that I was making a fool of myself because she gets it on with everybody. I don’t believe it and I won’t let anyone talk like that. The worst part is that what with the letter and now this, there are already too many mysteries and doubts. I had to say I got into a fight because they were criticizing my father for how he was dealing with the problem of the peasants.
Thank god it worked itself out. I’m not sure exactly how, but my father won’t have to intervene directly. I’m still waiting for a letter from Ana Luisa. I went to the movies again with Candelaria and Durán. We saw Symphony in Paris and Singing in the Rain.
Nobody comes near me at school. Seems like ever since that thing with Oscar, they’re afraid to talk to me or maybe they’re just giving me the silent treatment. Even Pablo, who was almost my best friend, tries to make sure the others don’t see us together too much.
I couldn’t stand it any longer so I told Candelaria and Durán all about the mysteries surrounding Ana Luisa. She said that she knew all about it but hadn’t mentioned anything because she hadn’t wanted to disillusion me; that if she was willing to talk now it was so I would know what to expect. The reason Ana Luisa goes to Xalapa is that her father and the woman he lives with—because her real mother ran away with another man right after Ana Luisa was born—are trying to marry her off to a guy there who she had a relationship with. It was pretty obvious what kind of relationship she was talking about. But they can’t make him marry her legally or by force because he’s the governor’s nephew, and if they turn against her, there won’t be any hope at all.
I acted like I was completely indifferent in front of Candelaria and Durán, but inside I feel like I’m going to explode.
Dearest Ana Luisa,
Did you get my letter? Why don’t you answer it? I must see you and talk to you because some very strange things are going on around here. I beg you to please come back as soon as possible or at least answer me. Even just a note. Do it now, don’t put it off until later. I send you many kisses, I miss you more and more every day, and I love you always,
Jorge
I never should have confided in Durán. He treats me differently now and takes a lot of liberties he never used to. Anyway . . .
It seems like this thing with Ana Luisa is making me get into fights with everybody. Nobody at school talks to me anymore, but they keep looking at me like I’m some kind of freak. And, what’s going on in Xalapa? Why doesn’t Ana Luisa write? Could what Candelaria said be true? Couldn’t she have made it all up out of jealousy?
The telephone rang while I was reading King Solomon’s Mines. It was Ana Luisa. She just got back from Xalapa today. She very quickly said to me, “Thank you for writing. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Meet me after work. Now hand the phone over to Nena so no one will get suspicious.” The whole rest of the day and the night are going to be pure misery because I’m dying to see her.
Where to begin? Well, Durán didn’t want to lend me the car because my father would have gotten mad at him if he had found out, so he suggested that the four of us go out together. He said he would pick Candelaria up, then come to school to get me, and then we’d all stop by The Yardage Paradise for Ana Luisa. Candelaria works near her so she was going to tell her about the arrangements. And that’s just what we did.
Ana Luisa was waiting for us at the corner. She didn’t seem to care that I hadn’t come alone. She greeted Candelaria as if she had known her for years, climbed into the back seat and, without caring if everybody saw, she gave me a kiss.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “I can stay out until eight.”
“Anywhere, just for a drive,” Durán answered. “How does Antón Lizardo sound?”
“It’s too far away,” Ana Luisa responded.
“Yeah, but they might see us if we go anywhere else,” Candelaria added.
“Oh, what are you talking about? It’s not like we’re going to be doing, oh, I don’t know what!” Ana Luisa said.
“Now, now, my child, you musn’t have evil thoughts,” Durán immediately responded, with a voice like a Mexican movie actor. “It’s just that if they happen to see us and the General finds out, they’ll send me to the firing squad for playing the part of his dear little boy’s love counselor.”
The girls laughed but I didn’t. I didn’t like Durán’s tone of voice. But what could I do? He was doing me a favor and I was totally at his mercy.
Durán went back to Independencia and then drove straight along Díaz Mirón until we got to the Boca del Río and Alvarado Highway. We went right past the La Boticaria Barracks. Durán looked at me through the rearview mirror and warned me, “You’d better duck, kiddo, ’cause if anyone sees you, it’s bang-bang.”
Now I really had to pretend to laugh, because if I had shown how mad I was I would have made a total fool of myself. But I couldn’t stand being treated like a little kid just so he could show off in front of the girls.
I was sitting about a foot away from Ana Luisa. I looked at her but didn’t dare move any closer or open my mouth. After writing her those letters, I didn’t know what to say or how to talk to her in front of other people. Durán, on the other hand, was driving like a madman, and Candelaria was practically sitting on his lap, and every once in a while he looked back at us through the rearview mirror.
Ana Luisa seemed to be very amused by the whole situation. She smiled, but she didn’t say anything either. Then finally she said, loud enough for the others to hear, “Come closer. I don’t bite.”
I didn’t like that little comment, but I took advantage of the opportunity to move closer to her, put my arm around her, hold her hand, and kiss her on the mouth. I tried to do it silently, but there was a smack anyway. Durán turned around and said, “That’s the way, my children, excellent. Carry on.”
He sounded like such a moron, I felt like saying, “What’s it your business anyway, you son-of-a-bitch?” But I controlled myself because if I’d gotten into a fight with him it would have ruined everything, and the most important thing was that Ana Luisa and I were going to be, at least almost, alone together.
It must have been about six-thirty when we got to the beach. We went way past where the fishermen keep their nets and boats. We got out of the car, and the two girls went ahead to look at something in the sand, and Durán turned to me and said under his breath, “If you don’t get it on with her now, you really are a stupid ass. That girl’s already been around so much she’s almost worn out . . .”
I couldn’t control myself any longer. That was the last straw and he’d never spoken to me like that before so I said, “I’d shut my mouth if I were you. What the fuck business is it of yours anyway?”
He didn’t say a word. He and Candelaria went back to the car. Ana Luisa and I walked away along the edge of the water holding hands. Then we sat down on a log at the foot of the sand dunes.
“I want to ask you a few questions,” I said.
“I don’t feel like talking. And anyway, haven’t you been dying to be alone with me? Well, here I am, now’s your chance, let’s not waste any time.”
“Okay, but I’d like to know . . .”
“Oh boy, you’ve probably been hearing all kinds of stupid gossip. Just don’t pay any attention to it. What? Don’t you love me? Don’t you trust me?”
“I adore you,” and I hugged her and kissed her on the mouth. My tongue touched hers, I pulled her very close to me and began caressing her.
“I love you, I love you, you’re fantastic,” she said in a tone of voice I had never heard her use before.
And before I knew it, it was already dark and we were rolling around in the sand. I put my hand under her blouse, I touched her legs, and I was about to take off her skirt (boy, if anyone sees this notebook, I’m in deep trouble, but I have to write down everything that happened today) when suddenly a bright light shone right into our eyes.
I thought: It’s one of Durán’s jokes. But it wasn’t. The car was parked a long way away and the lights were off. It was a school bus on its way to the beach. I have no idea what they were going to do there at that time of day. Maybe they were going to look for sea urchins for an experiment or something. Who knows!
We quickly got up and walked along the edge of the water holding hands as if nothing had happened. The bus parked near us and a whole bunch of little girls in gray uniforms and two nuns got off. They gave us such nasty, dirty looks that we had to go back to the car and try to brush off the sand that was all over us, even in our ears. Candelaria was brushing her hair, and Durán was hitching up his pants.
“Those stupid bitches came and spoiled the party,” he said.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” I suggested.
“No, it’s too late. We’d better get back,” Ana Luisa said.
“Yeah, we really should. Just think what would happen if your Dad caught us,” Durán added.
“What about it?”
“He’ll get really pissed off, raise a big stink, and the four of us would never be able to go out together again.”
Durán’s attitude had changed. It was a good thing I had had the guts to stop him when I did. The return trip was kind of sad. Nobody spoke. But I had my arms around Ana Luisa, and I touched her everywhere without caring if they saw us. We dropped her off around the corner from her house. She left without saying when we would see each other again.
Right after Candelaria got out, Durán took me to a bathroom in a restaurant. I washed my face and brushed my hair. I put white powder on my lips—they were so swollen!—and lotion in my hair. I didn’t know Durán always carried those things around with him in the glove compartment.
Of course there was a big row when we got back. Durán came through though. He said that he had been giving me a driving lesson and we had had a flat tire. I’ve written a lot and I’m exhausted. I can’t go on anymore.
Unlike yesterday, today was horrible. I was out of it in class. Then my mother said, “I know you’re going out with that girl. I’m just warning you, she’s bad news.” I’d like to know how she found out.
Ana Luisa and I met at seven-thirty. She was very affectionate to me and begged me to promise her that we wouldn’t go out with Durán and Candelaria anymore. The problem is that I can’t get the car any other way. I didn’t have the guts to question her about what Candelaria had told me. It would be awful if Ana Luisa thought I didn’t trust her. She told me that my sisters had been very rude to her. That shows that at home everyone knows everything . . . But I wouldn’t leave Ana Luisa for anything in the world.
I was a total idiot in class again today. I’m even getting worse in the subjects I used to be good at. It’s going to be a disaster when my father sees my grades. I can’t study or read or concentrate, and I’m always thinking about Ana Luisa and stuff like that.
Why is it that Ana Luisa always asks me questions and never wants to tell me anything about herself or her family? It seems like she’s ashamed of her father, who has one of those cars with loudspeakers and drives all over the state selling corn-removal ointment, hair dye, and medicine for malaria and worms. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of work. I’m the one who should be ashamed of my father, who has made his living killing people. But she doesn’t like him very much because he’s never home and, since she’s an only child, he put her to work when she was very young. Ana Luisa would like to go back to school. She’s very intelligent, it’s just that she only went to the fourth grade, so she only reads comic books. She knows Cancionero Picot by heart, she listens to radio soap operas, and she adores Pedro Infante and Libertad Lamarque movies. I make fun of her sometimes because of her taste, but I think that’s wrong because it’s not her fault if she was never taught anything different. At least I defended her the other day when Adelina laughed at her because they went to see Ambition That Kills and Ana Luisa didn’t understand it because she didn’t have time to read the subtitles in Spanish. (Ana Luisa told me her version of Quo Vadis?, and it’s enough to make you want to cry.) Ana Luisa’s lack of education is a problem, but it can be dealt with, and anyway she has many other qualities that make up for it. What right do I have to criticize her? I love her and that’s all that matters.
A horrible day. Ana Luisa went to Xalapa again. There was a storm, and the streets and the garden of the house were flooded. I got into a fight with Nena because she said, “Hey, why don’t you get yourself a decent girlfriend and stop making a spectacle of yourself with that chick who makes it with everybody.” Fortunately nobody else was around, but I’m sure Nena is going to tell my mother that I swore at her, and she and Adelina will make fun of me because I said I was proud of Ana Luisa and that I loved her a lot.
I was so sad on Sunday when I woke up, I didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed. I pretended I had a headache and a sore throat so I could spend hours and hours thinking about what Ana Luisa was doing and when she would return from Xalapa. The worst part was when my mother rubbed my chest with anti-inflammatory cream and I almost vomited.
Complete humiliation. The principal sent for me. He said my grades keep plummeting and that my behavior in and out of school is scandalous. If I don’t shape up, he will speak to my father and recommend that I be sent off to military school. Then that damn sissy creep proceeded to give me a full-length sermon to the effect that I was too young to be running around with women because they will only be my ruin and turn me into a “human rag.” Does that son-of-a-bitch really think I haven’t seen his eyes pop out of his head when he looks at girls’ legs? I kept my cool, glued my eyes on the floor, and repeated again and again, being the kiss-ass that I am, “Yes sir, Mr. Principal, I promise it will never happen again.” And to top it off, he gave me a few slaps on the back with the greasy palm of his hand and said, “You’re made out of the right stuff, son. We all make mistakes. I’m sure you will soon be back on the right track. Go on now, go back to class.” So, I guess the whole world knows about Ana Luisa and me and everybody, absolutely everybody, is against us. What the hell do they care?! Oh, if I could I would burn down the whole damn school and kill all those jerks who only teach us bullshit.
Everything’s still the same. I miss Ana Luisa. What’s she going to do? When will she return? Why doesn’t she write?
Things are going from bad to worse. We went to eat at Boca del Río: the whole family and a really beautiful friend of Nena and Maricarmen named Yolanda, and they kept making insinuations, saying that Gilberto (Yolanda’s brother, a real jerk who’s buddy-buddy with Pablo) is always going out with housemaids instead of getting interested in the girls at his school. “I guess those servant girls must have their own special charms,” Maricarmen said, looking me straight in the eye. “Because I can assure you that Gilberto isn’t the only one we know who runs after that kind of girl.”
I wanted to throw my hot soup in her face. Luckily, my mother changed the subject. Maricarmen forgets that her dear Gabriel is a poor slob even though he does have a lot of money, and the only boyfriend Nena’s been able to get is a lowly captain. What they’d really like to do is get me hooked up with Adelina. What a nightmare! I’d rather die than put up with that elephant!
My father hasn’t been home for three days. My mother cries all day. I asked Maricarmen what’s going on. She said, “Don’t butt into things that are none of your business.”
My father returned. He said he went to Xalapa to work some things out with the governor. Durán went with him and knows the whole truth, but he won’t tell me anything. Maybe he saw Ana Luisa? No, that’s impossible. I don’t even have her address.
I’ve been saved by a miracle. When the mailman came, I was home alone. When I picked up the mail I noticed an envelope without a return address. I opened it even though it was addressed to my father and could have turned out to be just a regular letter. But my intuition didn’t fail me: it was an anonymous letter, composed with letters cut out of El Dictamen, and sloppily glued onto the paper. It said:
ONE, TWO, THREE. TESTING, TESTING. THE UPSTANDING CITIZENS OF VERACRUZ ARE SCANDALIZED BY YOU AND YOUR SON’S BEHAVIOR. IF THIS IS WHAT THE BOY IS DOING NOW, WHAT WILL HE DO WHEN HE GROWS UP? SEND HIM OFF TO A REFORM SCHOOL AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. DON’T LET HIM FOLLOW IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS. HERE WE ARE ALL DECENT HARD-WORKING PEOPLE. WHY DO THEY ALWAYS SEND US PEOPLE LIKE YOU FROM MEXICO CITY? WE REFUSE TO ACCEPT CORRUPT FAMILIES LIKE YOURS. LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON. WE ARE WATCHING. WE WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. THE WALLS ARE LISTENING. EVERYTHING IS KNOWN. NO CRIME GOES UNPUNISHED. HE WHO SWIMS IN SIN SHALL SINK IN SIN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? SHAPE UP OR SHIP OUT.
I’m going to burn it right now and bury the ashes in the garden. I’d never before seen a real anonymous letter. I thought they only existed in Mexican movies. I can’t imagine who could have sent it. It couldn’t have been any of my classmates or any of my sisters’ friends. (I’ve heard that Adelina sends anonymous letters, but I don’t think she would dare send one to my father.) None of them would have the patience to cut out all those letters and then spend hours sticking them onto paper. Anyway, there are some words in it that nobody I know would use. It sounds like the way the principal talks, and he listens to radio soap operas; but how can he talk in the name of the upstanding citizens of Veracruz when he isn’t even from here. He wouldn’t want to get mixed up like that with my father anyway. He knows my father would be perfectly capable of putting a bullet through his brains. And even though I do hate him, I don’t think he would stoop so low as to send an anonymous letter.
I keep going over it in my head and I still can’t believe it. Maybe I’m mistaken and have interpreted everything in the wrong way. Who knows? What happened is that I went to see if Candelaria had received a letter from Ana Luisa for me. I’d never seen her without Durán, and since the pharmacy was full of people she called me over to one end of the counter, gave me all kinds of insinuating looks, and said, “You take things too seriously. You should have fun and enjoy yourself and stop being so old-fashioned. When do you want to sit down and talk things over? I have some good advice to give you.”
“Whenever you want. Let’s find out when it’s good for Durán.”
“No, don’t say anything to him. Don’t even tell him we’ve talked. It’s better if we just meet alone, the two of us. What do you think?”
“Well, you know, I mean, I don’t know . . . you’re his girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but we’re not glued to each other. What’s wrong with you and me seeing each other? I really like you, you know that? Durán’s an okay guy but he’s kind of a slob. Not like you. You’re so refined and good-looking, not a roughneck like him.”
“Well, listen, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think. This all makes me very sad.”
“Sad. Why sad? Just remember, my dear, that after all is said and done, Durán works for you, he is your servant, ser-vant. I know, you think he’s your friend, but you wouldn’t believe all the things he says about you and your family. He says that you’re a spoiled brat and a dummy on top of it; that your father is a tyrant and a thief who makes money off everything, including the troops’ grub, and that he spends it all on women; and that your sisters are loose . . .”
Candelaria would have kept on bad-mouthing Durán but the owner called to her and told her not to talk to people during work. We said good-bye.
“Call me here or come by my house. You know where to find me. I don’t have a telephone.”
What should I do? Should I call her or not? NO. Why get myself messed up in more problems? And anyway, I could never betray Ana Luisa and Durán like that.
How are you? Why don’t you write? I miss you very much. I need you. Come back soon. I have to see you. I send you many kisses and all my love.
Jorge
I had just finished writing that out on a post card (and putting it in an envelope) when Durán arrived, very mysteriously, and handed me a letter Candelaria had given him in the morning. It seemed to me like they’d steamed it open and then closed it again with glue or paste. I shouldn’t be so distrustful. I’ll copy it here word for word:
Dear Jorge, I’m sory I havent writen very much but Im taking care of my father, he took sick all of a sudden but thank god its nothing serius, hell be ok real soon, then Ill came back.
Jorge Im very sad without you, I think youll forget about me and look at other girls who wont cause you so many problems like me.
But you beter not because I love you very much you cant imagine how much, Im dying to see you hopfuly real soon. Good by Jorge, I send many kisses and my love thats always for you and love me too
Ana Luisa
Well, I don’t know what to think. And anyway, how could Ana Luisa know that she’s caused me so many problems?
This was bound to happen sooner or later: Somebody told my father the whole story. Who could it have been? Nena swears it wasn’t her, and so does Maricarmen. I believe her because she is, at least, honest and straightforward. So, could it have been someone from school? I don’t think so.
This was much worse than with the principal. He said that as long as he is supporting me, my duty is to study and obey, that afterward when I’m working and earning my own money I can have thousands of women; but that this is the worst thing to do and he’s telling me from his own personal experience (wow!).
My father might be a general or whatever else, but he sure doesn’t understand what’s going on. He told me that from now on and until he gives further orders, I can’t go anywhere without being accompanied and chaperoned by Durán (!).
A little while ago I snuck out of the house from the roof to go spy on Ana Luisa’s house just like I do every night, and I saw her get out of a brand new Packard (I know that car) with the woman she lives with. They didn’t see me because I hid around the corner. I’m dying of curiosity to find out who that middle-aged guy is who dropped them off. He helped them with their bags and kissed Ana Luisa on the cheek when he said good-bye. But he didn’t go into the house.
I feel so desperate not being able to talk to her! I hope she sends me a message tomorrow through Candelaria. I would love to go pick her up or at least call her at work and talk to her, but she forbade me to because she said they yell at her and then take it out of her paycheck.
Now here’s another very strange thing: If the owner of the store is so strict, how is it that he lets her miss so much work? Why doesn’t he just fire her and hire somebody else? I’ve never known anyone as mysterious as Ana Luisa.
This is what I least expected. Ana Luisa left a little pink envelope with Candelaria for Durán to give to me:
Dear Jorge, I got your card, thanks. I hope that what Im going to tell you doesnt bother you because it makes me real sad but theres no other way and I think its the best for both of us.
It looks like we arent going to keep seeing each other Jorge like we have been until now I know youll understand and wont ask for explanashons cause I couldn’t give you any. Jorge Ive always been sinceer with you Ive really loved you, youll never really know how much. Itll be very hard to forget you and I just hope your not going to suffer like Im suffering and that you can forget me. Im sending you a last kiss with all my love.
Ana Luisa
I went numb all over. Then I locked myself in my room and started crying like a two-year-old. Now I’m trying to calm down and am making a great effort to write in this book. I can’t believe it, I can’t stand the idea that I’ll never see Ana Luisa again. It’s horrible, it’s terrible, and I don’t know what to think. I just don’t know, I don’t understand anything.
I spent a hellish night. Durán took me to school in the jeep and we didn’t speak, but I’m absolutely positive he already knows and maybe even saw the letter because it was in an unsealed envelope. Candelaria didn’t have the delicacy to close it.
After school, I hung out around where Ana Luisa works—or used to work. I saw her friends, but not her. I went to talk to them, but they said she hasn’t been at the store, and they don’t think she’ll ever come back. I felt like going to her house, but on what pretext? I don’t care if I make a fool of myself, I just want to see her one last time.
My mother came into my room without knocking and found me crying (at my age). She asked me what was going on, and I gave her an edited version of the story. Instead of scolding me, she told me not to worry, that she had known about it all along and hadn’t put a stop to it because she had wanted it to be a learning experience for me; that things like that have happened or will happen to everybody, and I shouldn’t make too big a deal out of it. Soon I would find a girl from a family like ours who could be my real girlfriend and who doesn’t have as bad a reputation as Ana Luisa.
This time I didn’t even put up a fight like I used to. I didn’t even try to defend her. Poor Ana Luisa! Everybody wants to hurt her. Now I realize that I never really knew anything about her. I don’t think I could fall in love with anybody else . . . And what if everything changes and Ana Luisa comes and tells me she thought it over, reconsidered, and regrets what she has done? No, that’s foolishness, it isn’t going to happen and it doesn’t do me any good to have those kinds of illusions.
Days, weeks without writing anything in this book. Why should I? There’s no point to it. If somebody sees it, they’ll just make fun of me.
I had a very sad dream that was absolutely vivid. We were in Mexico City. Ana Luisa had agreed to meet me at La Bella Italia so I could see her one last time, because she was going away and was never going to come back. We were supposed to meet at twelve. I took a streetcar and it stopped because there wasn’t enough light; then a truck came by and crashed into it. I started running along a tree-lined street—Amsterdam? Álvaro Obregón? Mazatlán?—until my legs started hurting and I had to sit down on a bench. At that moment, Nena appeared arm-in-arm with Durán. “We’re on our way to church to get married,” she said. “And you, where are you going in such a hurry? Don’t tell me you’re going to see Ana Luisa.” I said no, that I was going to a soccer game, and they kept chatting with me, and I was desperate to get away. Finally I started running again, and I came across a funeral procession. On the corner there was a woman in mourning. It was my mother and she began to scold me. “They’re about to bury your father and instead of mourning him at the cemetery, you’re running off to meet that slut.” I said I was sorry and kept running. When I got to La Bella Italia it was exactly twelve o’clock, but Ana Luisa wasn’t there. Candelaria appeared as a waitress with an apron. She told me that Ana Luisa had waited for me for a long time, but that she had to go away forever and hadn’t said where she was going . . .
Two months without seeing her, six weeks since I received her last letter. Instead of forgetting her, I feel like I love her more than ever. And I don’t care if that sounds corny.
I wrote her a poem, but it was so bad I tore it up. What is she doing? Where is she and who is she with? I go by her house every night. It’s always locked up. Did she go back to Xalapa? Did she go to Mexico City?
The saddest part of all is that I’m beginning to resign myself to the situation. I guess that sooner or later this thing with Ana Luisa had to come to an end, since at my age I wasn’t going to marry her or anything like that. Anyway, since we stopped seeing each other, everything seems so peaceful. People at school talk to me, they treat me better at home, I can study, I’m reading a lot, and as far as I know, no more anonymous letters have come to the house. But I wouldn’t care if everything went back to the way it was, or even worse, as long as I could be near Ana Luisa.
I’m worried about Ana Luisa. It hurts me that I can’t do anything for her. I guess things aren’t going so well for her and her life is going to be awful and it’s not even her fault. But then again, when you really think about it and look carefully at the people you know or have heard about, everybody’s life is always pretty awful.
The things we had left behind in Mexico City have arrived and they included a trunk where my mother keeps the photographs. Instead of studying or reading, I spent hours looking through them. It’s difficult for me to accept the fact that I am the same person as that child who appears in those photos from so many years ago. One day, I am going to be as old as my parents and then all of this I’ve been through, this whole story with Ana Luisa, will seem unbelievable and even sadder than it does now. I don’t understand why life is the way it is. But then again, I can’t imagine how it could be any different.
It’s twelve-thirty. I didn’t go to school. Today is my father’s birthday. The governor, the mayor, and I don’t know who else, are coming over. Instead of Eusebio preparing the food like he does every day, a special cook has been hired. I’m not going to eat a single bite of anything. I don’t think I’m ever going to eat again. I’m so dumb that at my age I still hadn’t realized the connection between death and suffering and the food we eat. I watched the cook killing the animals, and I was horrified. The most disgusting thing was the way the turtles die or maybe it’s the poor lobsters that flop around desperately in the pot of boiling water. We should eat only bread, vegetables, and fruit. But do you really think they don’t feel anything when you bite into them and chew them up?
Yolanda came by to say good-bye to my sisters because she’s going to study in Switzerland. And Gilberto is being sent off to a military academy in Illinois. His father became a millionaire during this government that’s now on its way out. So have a lot of other people we know. If most people in Mexico are so poor, where do they get it all? How do some of them manage to steal so much?
Yolanda told us that a few days ago Adelina tried to commit suicide. She stuck her head in the oven and turned on the gas. She changed her mind when she started feeling sick and ran outside, but she vomited all over the living room before she fainted.
Adelina had left a note behind: She blamed her suicide on her mother and her brother and the captain gave Oscar a beating. Poor captain! He loves Adelina so much and he doesn’t even realize that his daughter is a monster.
Nena, Maricarmen, and I laughed our heads off while Yolanda was telling the story and acting out Adelina’s tragedy. Then I felt guilty: It’s wrong to derive pleasure from another’s misfortune, no matter how much I hate Oscar and Adelina and even though I am almost positive she was the one who sent the anonymous letter and carefully planned it out so that we would blame it on the principal.
I don’t understand myself. The other day, I felt great compassion while I watched the cook killing the animals, and today I had great fun stepping on crabs at the beach. Not the big ones that live in the rocks; the little gray sand crabs. They would run around madly looking for their holes and I would crush them furiously and just for the fun of it. Then I thought that in some ways we are all like crabs and when we least expect it, someone or something comes along and crushes us.
I haven’t gone out with Candelaria and Durán, and I didn’t even know if they were still seeing each other. Durán and I don’t talk much. I feel like somehow I have betrayed someone who (except for the day at Antón Lizardo) has been good to me. I think he knows something about that conversation in the pharmacy because he hasn’t made any effort to talk to me or go swimming with me or take me out driving.
Anyway, I’m saying all this because today I ran into Candelaria on the streetcar, and I decided to invite her for a soda at the Yucatán so I could talk to her about Ana Luisa. We had just sat down when Candelaria asked me about her.
“You mean you really don’t know? I can’t believe it. Well, she broke up with me, she told me to get lost.”
“You’re kidding! I didn’t know anything about it.”
“But, how is that possible? She left the letter with you.”
“I didn’t read it, of course, I’m very discreet . . . What an idiot, what a fool, when is she going to find someone else like you?”
“What are you talking about? I’m a nobody.”
“You are you, and I already told you what I think about you.”
Silence. I blush. I take a sip of my tamarind drink. Candelaria watches me; she enjoys making things tough for me.
“I can tell you one thing. Your mistake was treating her like a decent girl and not like what she really is.”
“Listen, she’s never done anything to you. You have no reason to talk that way about her.”
“Well, will you look at him. After she cheats on you and throws you away like an old rag, you still stick up for her. Oh, my dear boy, you are either very good or very stupid. If only everyone were like you. That’s why I like you, that’s why . . . But you don’t want to have anything to do with me . . .”
“It’s just that . . . I don’t know, I mean . . . No, let’s wait until after my exams. I have to study a lot. As soon as that’s all over, we’ll talk.”
“And why not right now?”
“My parents are waiting for me to eat at La Parroquia. Anyway, you have to get back to the pharmacy.”
“Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”
“It’s better if we see each other next week, don’t you think? But please, don’t say anything to Durán.”
“Relax, he won’t hear a word. Anyway, I’m sick and tired of Durán. I don’t know how to get rid of him. He’s a big pain and he thinks he’s the eighth wonder of the world. He’s just got a big mouth, that’s all.”
Before anything else could happen, I paid the bill, said good-bye, repeated that my parents were waiting for me, and promised her that I would go visit her at her house. Instead of feeling happy, the conversation made me sad. Everything is so unfair: the girl I love rejects me, and I reject the girl who loves me. Maybe I’m just deceiving myself by believing it’s this way. Could what Candelaria says be true? Maybe she just wants to use me to get back at Durán?
I haven’t written anything here for a long time, but now I’m going to make up for all the days I left blank. Something terrible just happened to me. It will be better if I try to tell it more or less in order. Since there’s no school tomorrow and my grades have gotten a lot better, I asked for permission to go to the wrestling match. They said okay, but only if I went with Durán and, believe it or not, that is what ended up saving me.
We managed to buy scalped fifth-row tickets. The preliminaries were boring: all unknown fighters. But the star attraction was a fight between Bill Montenegro—my idol—and El Verdugo Rojo—the villain I hate most in the world.
Even though the referee was against him from the start, Bill had the advantage all through the first round and won it by letting go a few perfect flying kicks and then a double nelson. In the second round, El Verdugo used all of his dirty tricks and gave Montenegro a good kicking. By the third and last round, everybody in the audience was against the dimwit except Durán, who took his side—I think—just to spite me.
Montenegro fell outside the ring and banged his head. El Verdugo picked him up by his hair, held him in a headlock, and bashed him against the ring posts until he split his head wide open. Then, covered in blood, Bill turned on him and, with a combination of scissor kicks and butts, he got back at his enemy by throwing him outside the ring. They were hitting each other in the aisle right next to me. The referee forced them back into the ring because the audience was starting to interfere and take sides with Montenegro.
But Bill’s downfall began with his return to the ring. His masked opponent threw him against the post again and opened up his wound. I got furious seeing him bleeding so much, and since the referee didn’t pay any attention to all the protests, I threw the corn-on-the-cob I was eating and it hit El Verdugo Rojo on the head.
Everybody who realized what I’d done applauded me. But then the villain grabbed the corn and started scratching at Bill’s eyes with such fury it was a miracle he didn’t scratch them out. The same people who had just been applauding, started swearing at me, and then things got worse when El Verdugo knocked Bill out completely with a break.
The audience threw pillows and paper cups at El Verdugo. They took Montenegro away, half-dead, to the infirmary. Then some guys came over and wanted to beat me up. They were shouting that it was all my fault that Bill lost. There were about twenty of them, and it seemed like they were going to lynch me. I was terrified. They had already gone so far as to break up some chairs when Durán pulled out his pistol and shouted, “If you want him, you’re going to have to deal with me first, you sons-of-bitches.”
I don’t know what would have happened if the police hadn’t arrived and pushed their way through the crowd. Durán showed them his ID and explained the situation, told them who I was, in other words, who my father was, and we were escorted out by the policemen and followed by angry glares.
As we got into the jeep, Durán gave them fifty pesos and then said to me, “You can pay me back later. The most important thing is that the boss doesn’t find out about this.” And then he told me that what I had done was an act of supreme idiocy, that you always have to think of yourself first and never take sides. I didn’t answer because at that moment all at once I was beginning to feel afraid. What a night!
I’m writing in this book for the last time. Frankly, I don’t see any point in only writing about disasters. But I’ll keep it so I can read it many years from now. Hopefully, someday I’ll be able to laugh at it all. Everything that happened today seems so unbelievable and hurt me so much that I feel kind of like I’ve been anesthetized and like I’m seeing everything through a pane of glass.
All on my own, I went out looking for the catastrophe, as usual. There weren’t any classes today and I don’t know why or how, but I got it into my head to go to Mocambo. Alone, of course, since I don’t have any friends at school, and since today was Durán’s day off and my father was staying home in bed, he lent him the jeep. I couldn’t get the big car because my mother and Nena and Maricarmen went to Tlacotalpan to a festival for poor children.
I got on the bus in Villa del Mar and sat down on the sunny side. It was terribly hot and when I got off, I went to get a drink at a stand on the beach. I sat down, ordered a Coca-Cola with lemon sherbet and started to read The Twenty-fifth Hour (whenever I go anywhere alone, I always bring a book or a magazine).
My book was so interesting that at first I didn’t even notice how smashed the two guys were who were sitting at the table in front of me. They had already drunk about one hundred Cuba libres, and they were slurring their words and hugging each other. When I finally looked up, I was shocked: It was Bill Montenegro and El Verdugo Rojo (without his mask, but I recognized his muscles). So, it turns out that wrestling is just a big put-on, and the same people who are mortal enemies in the ring are best buddies in their private lives!
They didn’t even bother to look around to see the fool who almost got killed because of them. I felt like telling off Montenegro, but he was on the verge of passing out and they would have killed me if I had started to tell them off.
I left the stand and decided that I would never again go to another one of those farces or buy another sports magazine in my whole life. But the best was yet to come. I went into the pine grove to drop off my clothes and my book before going into the water. Just as I was taking off my pants, Ana Luisa and Durán, in bathing suits and holding hands, walked past me.
They kept right on going without seeing me. Near the shore, Ana Luisa lay down on the sand and Durán, right out there in the open in front of everybody, started to rub tanning oil on her legs and back and on the way gave her kisses on her neck and mouth.
I was shaking, but I couldn’t move. It seemed like the end of a bad movie or a nightmare. Because it’s impossible for so many things to happen on this earth, at least not all at once. It was unbelievable, but true. There, just a few steps away from me, were Ana Luisa and Durán making out in public, and Bill Montenegro and El Verdugo Rojo were back there at the drink stand.
I had to leave. If I didn’t, I would have only added ridicule to fear and disillusionment. Just walk away: What else could I do? Fight with Durán, knowing he’d finish me off by the count of three? I couldn’t tell Ana Luisa off: She had told me very clearly that she didn’t want anything more to do with me, and once that was said, she was free. How could I feel betrayed by her, by Durán, by Montenegro? Ana Luisa didn’t ask me to fall in love with her, and Montenegro didn’t ask me to “defend” him from El Verdugo Rojo. It isn’t anybody’s fault that I didn’t know that everything is just a show, a big farce.
I said all these things to myself to give me courage. Because I have never felt so bad in all my life, so humiliated, stupid, like such a coward. Then I thought of a quick revenge. With my last ten pesos, I paid for a taxi and went to Candelaria’s house.
I knocked on the door because there was no bell. No one answered. I was about to leave when suddenly a shutter opened and a man’s head appeared in the window. He had a mustache and was all sweaty, and his hair was a mess. I guess it was her stepfather, and he shouted at me in the rudest possible voice, “What do you want, kid?”
Like an idiot, I said, “Excuse me . . . Is Candelaria home?”
“No, she’s not. What do you want her for?”
“No, nothing. Excuse, me . . . I mean . . . yes . . . look, sir . . . I have a message for her from Durán . . . her boyfriend. Well, it doesn’t matter, I’ll talk to her tomorrow at the pharmacy.”
The old grouch slammed the shutter angrily, and the whole windowframe shook. That supposed revenge of mine sure was a stupid move. I thought that if I stayed outside today, I would be crushed by a meteor or a tidal wave would wash me away or something like that. I walked home feeling like crying, but I controlled myself, and I felt like telling everything and everybody to go to hell and I wanted to write it all down and save it to see if one day in the future all of this that is so tragic now will seem like a comedy . . . But who knows. If, according to my mother, what I’m living now “is the happiest period of my life,” what must the others be like, goddamn it.