Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
the story a dozen times. When she finished, she placed her hand on mine and smiled. “How is it at the university?”
She was crazy. Ever since my grandfather died, she’d been forgetting things and talking of the old days as if they were happening right now. That’s why we ended up moving into her house. We used to live in a big house near the highway, but she refused to move in with us so my father sold it and we moved in with her. Her house was just like a lot of the other houses near the plaza: old with thick walls and small rooms, a patio in the center and iron bars on the windows. It wasn’t bad. Gaby and I had our own bedrooms, but we had to share the bathroom with Abuela. The living room and dining room were connected through a big archway where all the family stuff like pictures of my first communion, Gaby’s quinceañera, my parent’s wedding photos, and an old black and white picture of my grandfather with his big mustache were displayed with my grandmother’s collection of porcelain saints and a big pink conch shell sculpture my mother bought as a souvenir from one of our vacation trips to Acapulco.
Abuela always refused to eat. She only drank coffee with milk and sugar. Most of the time she asked to be excused so she could return to her room. And the only time she ever left the house was on Sundays when we went to church. I liked her because she laughed. In her old age she’d discovered a secret joke that made her happy. I hoped that when I got old, I’d find the same joke because most of the old people I knew were always cranky and mean.
“I didn’t tell Papá that I had already met Dorian,” Abuela went on. “He was taking photographs on the malecón.”
Dorian was my grandfather. He started the bakery, Panadería La Esperanza, which now belonged to my parents, and where Gaby and I worked whenever we weren’t in school.
My mother sighed and rolled her eyes. She tapped her fingers against the table: Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I was with Isis,” Abuela went on. “We had just had a nice café at La Parroquia and were taking a stroll along the Plaza de Armas. It was a beautiful afternoon. The military band was playing in the gazebo. When we came to the malecón we saw Dorian with his big camera on a wooden tripod. The boy who was helping him was someone Isis knew. His sister worked as a maid at her house.”
“Mamá,” my mother complained. “Please, your food.”
Abuela stared at her plate. “But I’m not hungry.”
“Not again.” Tap. Tap.
Abuela shrugged and turned to Gaby. “I would just like a coffee with a little milk, please.”
“You have to eat something, Mamá. You’re skin and bones. Please.”
“But I am not hungry. A nice little coffee would do me well.”
Tap. Tap. “Jesusa!”
Jesusa came into the dining room. “¿Sí señora?”
“Bring Doña Esperanza a coffee with milk.”
“Liberio,” my father said. “I need you at the panadería for the next couple of days.”
“But I have to—”
“You have to nothing.”
“Papá, I need to shine shoes.”
“The only thing you need to do is be at the bakery. Lucio needs help.”
“But the feria’s coming and—”
“Liberio.” His tone was firm. “I am not asking you. I am telling you. I need you there. I gave Leticia the week off.”
“So? She works at the register. All I ever do is clean.”
“Don’t talk back to me.”
Jesusa came out of the kitchen with a cup of café con leche.
Abuela’s eyes followed the cup as if it were filled with gold.
“You’re the man of the house,” my father said. “You need to take your responsibilities seriously. You need to spend more time helping around here instead of hanging out with that Esteban, shining shoes like a common street boy. You’re not poor.”
“But I need to make money. El Hijo del Santo’s going to wrestle—”
“Please, Liberio,” my mother said. “Do as your father tells you.”
“Maybe if you paid us—”
“¡Ya basta!” My father slammed his spoon against the table. “The panadería puts the food on our table and the clothes on our backs. You’re doing your part, Liberio, and that’s final.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Life is not fair.” He waved his finger. “It’s about time you realized that.”
“But Papá—”
“End of conversation.”
“He was taking a photograph of one of the large freighters,” Abuela said.
Gaby grinned. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to make me feel better or rubbing it in.
“He allowed us to look through the camera,” Abuela went on. “We had to cover our heads with a black cloth. The image appeared on the glass. It was very clear, but it was upside down.”
My mother actually smiled. “How’s your coffee, Mamá?”
Abuela glanced at her cup, at my mother, and then her eyes wandered around as if she’d been pulled out of a dream. “Good. It’s always good.”
My mother reached across the table and placed her hand over hers. “I’m glad.”
After my parents left the table, I looked at Gaby. “What’s their problem?”
She shrugged and turned to the living room. She had her priorities. Her telenovela was going to start.
Later that night, I was lying in my bed reading Super Luchas, my favorite wrestling magazine, when I heard my parents in the living room. I slipped out and tiptoed to the end of the hallway. My father was sitting in the big chair where he always sat. My mother was standing, leaning against the couch.
“I don’t understand, why her?” my father said.
“That girl was a tramp, Alfonso.”
“Por favor, Carmen, don’t call her that.”
“I’m not saying she got what she deserved. It’s a terrible tragedy. But—”
“But what?”
“Quiet down, you’re going to wake up the children.”
He lowered his voice. “Rocío Morales was a human being. She was a lovely girl. She did not deserve the judgment of the community. And certainly not this—”
Rocío was Leticia’s cousin and the daughter of Ignacio Morales. She was real pretty. She always dressed like a model in a magazine and smelled of perfume. My mother never liked her, probably because she didn’t go to mass and hung out at the cantinas, La Gloria and even El Gallo de Oro.
“Leticia said she was seeing a man from Michoacán.”
“That’s impossible,” my father said.
“Oh, and how would you know?”
“No, no. I don’t. I just thought she was seeing someone else.”
“She probably was. I’m sure she slept with half the town.”
“Enough, Carmen. Besides, I don’t see how all this is connected.”
“Alfonso, you need to wise up, mi amor. What happened to Enrique Quintanilla was not just any crime. Enrique was too much of an activist. Did you think we would be immune forever? The whole country is infected.”