Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
my mother’s voice as she sang her favorite Luis Miguel songs.
I didn’t get it. Sickness, death, suffering, they happened to other people. We were healthy, law-abiding people. We believed in God. We went to mass on Sundays. We were good, He took care of us. My parents never did anything to hurt anyone. They didn’t deserve this. None of us did. It wasn’t fair.
Deep down, I had this feeling that I would come back from school and find them at home, joking and laughing as if nothing had happened. Like it was all a bad dream. But every time I felt sure of it, Gaby broke the trance and reminded me that something horrible was happening to us.
“I’m going to have to take care of the bakery,” she said.
“What about me?”
“You’ll have to help after school.”
We were sitting in the living room. Behind Gaby, I could see my parents’ wedding photograph on the wall, the image of my mother staring at me, smiling.
“Every day?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
I leaned my head back on the couch and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to keep seeing that picture of my mother. I kept hearing her soft voice telling me everything was going to be fine, that life was a long road and all we had to do was learn to avoid the potholes. But when I opened my eyes and saw her picture, her eyes, her smile, it made me angry. I wanted her here, in the flesh.
We had spoken with the Federal Police headquarters in Toluca and checked the hospitals. We had made I don’t know how many declarations, but no one had any record of them, not by name or description, dead or alive. It was as if the earth had swallowed them up, car and all. If this was a dream, I told myself, I will open my eyes and everything will be back to the way it was.
It wasn’t.
“Are you listening to me, Liberio? This is important.”
“Gaby,” I said. The ugly truth crawled like a rat up my throat. “I’m scared.”
She tilted her head to the side. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes turned narrow. She put her arms around me and held me like she never had, the way my mother always did. Her perfume smelled just like hers, her hair against the side of my face, her earring pressing painfully against my cheek.
I took a deep breath and held it. Mamá, Mamá, I thought over and over as if I might have some magical power. But nothing happened. I was in the same place with the same horrible truth. Why was this happening to us?
“Señorita Gaby,” Jesusa’s voice interrupted our sobs. She stood by the archway that separated the dining room from the living room, a big plastic bag in her hand. “Viviana from across the street dropped off this bag of tamales. She said if we need anything to please knock on her door.”
They had all been doing that. All our friends and neighbors had been stopping by the house, bringing food, giving us advice, telling us everything was going to work out. They offered untangible help, as if their words could change things, bring back my parents. But we were lost. Helpless.
Gaby nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. And for a moment there was this strange heavy silence that seemed to press all the emptiness forward.
“What should I do with them?” Jesusa asked.
“I don’t know.” Gaby’s face twisted with terror. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jesusa set the bag down and placed her hands on Gaby’s shoulder. “We’re going to be fine, señorita,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”
But we weren’t fine. Too many days had passed. Something bad had happened, and no one could deny it, not Jesusa, not Father Gregorio or even Pineda. The not-knowing twisted my insides. If they’d had an accident, I wanted to know. If they were dead, I wanted to give them a mass and bury them in the cemetery next to my grandfather. I wanted to know that they were there. Not knowing just fed that helpless feeling like I was falling into a dark empty hole.
I worked at the panadería every day after school. On Saturday afternoon after closing, I fetched my shoeshine box and met Mosca at the Minitienda and we went to the plaza. It was just starting to get dark. Peasants from the nearby pueblos sat on the iron benches and leaned against the cement planters watching the parade of young people. Everyone was decked out in their best clothes—pressed shirts, cowboy hats—walking around the plaza. The girls moved in small groups, their arms laced together, giggling, the boys marched quickly, their eyes darting around like they were trying to find something.
A boy carrying a long pole with packages of pink cotton candy circled the children playing in the gazebo. The man selling nieve from a pushcart rang his bell. The whole plaza smelled of grilled corn and perfume.
I checked the corners and the area around the benches where most of the shoeshine boys worked. There were only two. The night had promise.
“Why don’t you take the plaza?” Mosca said. He knew the best places to shine shoes. “I’ll take the side streets and the restaurants. Then we’ll hit the cantinas.”
“For real?” We both knew there was more money to be made in the plaza.
“Sure. You need to catch up. I don’t want to go to the wrestling alone.”
Mosca took off toward Los Pinos restaurant. I slung my box over my shoulder and walked around the plaza, my eyes down, scanning the ground looking for shoes to shine. It’s not about dirty shoes because you’ll never find dirty shoes on a Friday or Saturday night. It takes an eye, and it takes experience. You just have to be on the lookout for the expensive shoes. You have to read people, find the person who’s begging for a shine but doesn’t know it yet. Sometimes a guy who’s making the moves on a girl will get his shoes shined just to show off. Insecure guys who walk too fast will get their shoes shined because they want to look like they’re doing something, like they have some place to go. It’s all about personality. When you recognize one, you have to move in with confidence—but not too aggressive. Sometimes you just make eye contact and nod at the shoes. Sometimes you ask if they want a shine. Sometimes, with the right person, you can just set your box down and, almost automatically, they’ll set a boot on your box. No words.
As the evening turned to night, families and old people and most of the peasants trickled away and were replaced by a crowd of young men and women. Lovers embraced on benches. A few conjuntos strolled along, looking for customers. Accordions and guitars filled the gaps of conversations and laughter. Later, after the cantinas closed, it would be men alone or in pairs, drunk, swaying, singing their pain into the night.
I stopped by a group of teenagers hanging around one of the planters. They were passing around a bottle of Anis Mico and getting cocky. I moved on. When I came around the corner across the street from the municipal building, I saw Ximena and Regina with a group of men. Everything about them screamed money: hats, sharp clothes, gold chains and bracelets, boots made of fine skins—shark, snake, caiman. And real Nikes.
I was too close to turn away. I lowered my head and walked quickly, but when I looked up Regina locked eyes with me. “Boli.” She stepped away from the group. “Where you off to?”
“You know, working.”
“No news of your parents?” she asked quietly.
I shook my head.
“I’m really sorry. But I’m sure they’ll turn up soon, no?”
“Sure. I hope so.”
“Is Gaby okay? I’ve tried calling her like a million times.”
“She’s busy with the panadería.”
“Caray, I don’t even know what to say. I can’t imagine—”
I forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
“¡Ey!” It was the same man