Mexico City Noir by Paco Ignacio Taibo II Page B

high school. Later she took embroidery classes, cooking classes.
    Nonetheless, Micaela had never stopped reminding Violeta that she was her servants’ daughter and granddaughter, and that Violeta had an obligation to take care of her until her last day.
    Nobody ever went in that house. I think the last time was when Micaela died, and there were four neighbors there; that wake was pitiful.
    We’d see each other on the park benches, at the Security Commission meetings, at the door, and we’d talk then, but Violeta never asked anybody in, not for coffee or soda or anything. Her relationships all existed outside the front door. The only people who went in were those who lived there.
    At first, she got by with money from a savings account. Later, she pawned some jewels she’d inherited. When she had no other choice, she began to rent rooms. That’s how she made a living. It was always short term, a few months and then adiós .
    The one who lasted the longest was Mikel; he’s been there a year, maybe a little more. Perhaps it’s the house itself that scares them off. It’s totally dark, no light ever goes in, or air for that matter; it stinks of humidity, of old age—and the smell of old age scares young people. The only one who ever went in and out of the house was Mikel.

    Lalo Cohen came to visit. He demanded that I hold his beloved tape player while he smoked nonstop. He made his demand in that way of his—as if he doesn’t have any friends, even though he is, in fact, a friend in the end. He asked that I tell him the same story I told the police and the Public Ministry. Words upon words, minus some of this, that’s what I told the Public Ministry—because the police had already given my statement to the PM. Even though it’s illegal, I don’t plan to protest, I just want this to be over with.

    Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side A.
July 17, 2007
    I got up at 6 in the morning, like I do every day Monday to Friday, and on Saturdays when I have to work. Then I do ten minutes on the treadmill and ten minutes on the stationary bike. Then I bathe, shave, and dress. With my tie still undone I made my way to the dining room for breakfast. Pretty much on automatic pilot, because routines become automatic … or life on automatic pilot creates routines. What do I know? I didn’t smell coffee, or huevos rancheros, or even freshsqueezed orange juice. I thought Violeta was still asleep and I was going to have to make do without breakfast.
    When I got to the dining room, the light was off. Violeta’s asleep , I said to myself, and cursed. I was in a hurry and it was dark; it was 6:30 and, though the bank is only four blocks away, I had to check in by 7 on the dot, otherwise I’d lose my eligibility for the annual punctuality award.
    On my way out, I inadvertently stumbled on a chair and whatever was on it. I hit it with my knee and cried out. I can’t explain it. In an instant everything rushed to my head like a crazy hurricane and I somehow knew it was Violeta. I ran to turn on the light. I saw her and the gasp from hitting my knee was quickly replaced by screams of horror. She was tied to the chair with a cable. I couldn’t bear to look at her and I ran out to the street, scared out of my mind. I paused at the door and my screams turned into a professional mourner’s lament. I don’t know how much time passed, maybe a minute or two … it’s just that in situations like that, minutes become an eternity.
    That’s when Lalo Cohen showed up; he’s a neighbor who goes running in the park every morning at the same time. He’s like Kant—according to legend, people would set their watches when Kant went out for a walk.
    “What’s the matter, Mikel?” Lalo asked. I tried to answer. But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, choking on my sobs and shaking all over; I couldn’t get a single word out.
    I started to scream. Lalo plastered his hand over my face. That is, he slapped me so hard my head rattled, and I’m