Mexico City Noir by Paco Ignacio Taibo II

police chief, some general named Mondragón that, to the delight of the locals, would be burned the following day. Dad still needed to finish the Judases for Herod; for the execrable Potiphar; for Lucifer, with his horns and trident; and for the popular Samaritana, who, according to local lore, was even more of a whore than Doña María Conesa, the “White Kitten,” who’d disrobe in any dive near the Capitol, from the Tívoli to the Catacombs.
    We went in and I headed straight to the table where he did the carpentry. Don Domitilo had made the twig frame that corresponded to the Samaritana and which now needed to be covered with newspaper and glue to give it body. But my father shoved me out of the way and, contrary to his usual demeanor, screamed: “Don’t touch it, boy! I’m going to do that Judas from head to toe. Help Chema and Jacinto finish the other dummies.”
    Though his attitude surprised me, I didn’t want to argue with him so I immediately got to painting Lucifer’s huge body in a rabid red and polishing him with a little rag soaked in turpentine and cola.
    We worked all night; by dawn we had finished with the accesories and placed the firecrackers in all the Judases, except the Samaritana, which still needed to have its belly closed, its seams sewn, and a little color added.
    “Go and sleep, boys,” whispered my father, stuck in his task. “I’ll finish this dummy and catch up with you.”
    I fell asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow. The only thing I remember dreaming about was a scene from a vampire film I had just had seen at the Chinese Palace and the moans of a woman begging for mercy.
    I was awoken by my father’s voice ordering me to come with him to bring the Judases downtown. I quickly got dressed and went out where my brothers were lifting the dummies into a covered peddler’s cart that we always used to transport them.
    We got to Tacuba Street at 10 in the morning. There, Don Domitilo Chimal made the delivery of the Judases to someone at the Central Department who paid him with sticky bills that barely added up to a hundred pesos.
    We had started on our way home when my father suggested we get some lunch at the Sidralí on the corner of Madero Avenue and Palm Street, then come back and see the burning of the Judases.
    “I want to be sure we did a good job!” he said, with such pride we couldn’t have imagined his true intentions.
    The lunch was delicious, not just because of the medianoche sandwiches, but because my brother Chema managed to get us some potato pambazos and chorizo in garlic sauce from a vendor outside the Sidralí which we—especially my father—devoured with delight.
    “Well, boys,” said Don Domitilo at about 1 in the afternoon, “let’s go see the burning. They must have hung the Judases by now and I wouldn’t want to miss the show for anything in the world.”
    Tacuba Street was crowded with folks who, entranced with expectation, gazed at the hanging dummies that would be burst on Saturday. Our father elbowed his way through to a place from where we could see, unobstructed, what was going to happen.
    The first one they burned was the Judas with President Alemán’s smiling face. The rockets attached to the sides of its body exploded with a luminous and cheery sputtering that excited the crowd, which immediately shouted and hurled insults, letting loose the resentments that had accumulated as a result of the abuses against the people during his term.
    “Stop acting like a beggar, Alemán, you damn thief!” yelled a worker next to us, and everyone around cheered. “Yes, burn, you presidential thief, so you know what it feels like to be fucked over!”
    Then the firecrackers inside exploded, the stomach burst, and the dummy was gutted. The applause was deafening.
    One by one, the Judases were burned. The people were overjoyed. Although he seemed a bit taciturn, Don Domitilo couldn’t hide the pride he felt when he saw how the dummies he’d made