The Savage Detectives Read online

"My zone? What do you know about my zone? And who said I have a pimp?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that a minute ago María said your pimp was the violent type, didn't she?"

  "I don't have a pimp. You think just because I'm talking to you, you have the right to insult me?"

  "Calm down, Lupe. No one's being insulted," said María.

  "This dickhead insulted my man," said Lupe. "If he hears you he'll show you. Little punk. He'll take you down in a second. I bet you wish you could suck my man's dick."

  "Hey, I'm not a homosexual."

  "All of María's friends are faggots, everybody knows that."

  "Lupe, leave my friends alone. When Lupe was sick," María said to me, "Ernesto and I took her to the hospital. It's amazing how quickly some people forget a favor."

  "Ernesto San Epifanio?" I said.

  "Yes," said María.

  "Did he take dance lessons too?"

  "He used to," said María.

  "Oh, Ernesto, I have such good memories of him. I remember he lifted me up all by himself and put me in a taxi. Ernesto is a faggot," Lupe explained to me, "but he's strong."

  "It wasn't Ernesto who got you into the taxi, stupid, it was me," said María.

  "That night I thought I was going to die," said Lupe. "I was fucked up and suddenly I felt sick and I was vomiting blood. Buckets of blood. Deep down, I don't think I would have cared if I did die. I was just remembering my son and my broken promise and the Virgen de Guadalupe. I'd been drinking until the moon came up, little by little, and since I didn't feel good, that dwarf girl you saw gave me some Flexo. That was my big mistake. The cement must have gone bad or I was already sick, but whatever it was, I started to die on a bench on the Plaza San Fernando and that was when my friend here showed up with her partner the faggot angel."

  "Lupe, you have a son?"

  "My son died," said Lupe, fixing me with her gaze.

  "But how old are you, then?"

  Lupe smiled at me. Her smile was big and pretty. "How old do you think I am?"

  I was afraid to guess, and I didn't say anything. María put her arm around Lupe's shoulders. The two of them looked at each other and smiled or winked, I'm not sure which.

  "A year younger than María. Eighteen."

  "We're both Leos," said María.

  "What sign are you?" said Lupe.

  "I don't know. I've never paid much attention to that kind of thing, to tell the truth."

  "Well, then you're the only person in Mexico who doesn't know his own sign," said Lupe.

  "What month were you born, García Madero?" said María.

  "January, the sixth of January."

  "You're a Capricorn, like Ulises Lima."

  "The Ulises Lima?" Lupe said.

  I asked her whether she knew him, afraid they would tell me that Ulises Lima went to the dance school too. For a microsecond, I saw myself dancing on tiptoe in an empty gym. But Lupe said she had only heard about him, that María and Ernesto San Epifanio talked about him a lot.

  Then Lupe started to talk about her dead son. The baby was four months old when he died. He was born sick, and Lupe had promised the Virgin that she would stop working if her son recovered. She kept her promise for the first three months, and according to her the baby seemed to be getting better. But in the fourth month she had to start working again and he died. She said the Virgin took him away because she didn't keep her word. Lupe was living in a building on Paraguay at the time, near the Plaza de Santa Catarina, and she would leave the baby with an old woman who took care of him at night. One morning, when she got back, they told her that her son was dead. And that was it.

  "It isn't your fault," said María. "Don't be superstitious."

  "How can it not be my fault? Who broke her promise? Who said that she was going to change her life and didn't?"

  "Then why didn't the Virgin kill you instead of your son?"

  "The Virgin didn't kill my son," said Lupe. "She took him away, which is a whole different thing. She punished me by leaving me on my own, and she took him away to a better life."

  "Oh, well, if that's how you see it, then what's the problem?"

  "Of course, that solves everything," I said. "And when did you meet each other, before or after the baby?"

  "After," said María, "when this girl here was running wild. Lupe, I think you wanted to die."

  "If it hadn't been for Alberto, I would have called it quits," said Lupe with a sigh.

  "Alberto is your… boyfriend, I guess," I said. "Do you know him?" I asked María, and she nodded her head yes.

  "He's her pimp," said María.

  "But he's got a bigger dick than your little friend," said Lupe.

  "Are you referring to me?" I said.

  María laughed. "Of course she's referring to you, stupid."

  I turned red and then I laughed. María and Lupe laughed too.

  "How big is Alberto?" said María.

  "As big as his knife."

  "And how big is his knife?" said María.

  "Like this."

  "That's ridiculous," I said, although I should have changed the subject. Trying to fix the unfixable, I said: "There aren't any knives that big." I felt worse.

  "Ay, mana, how are you so sure about the knife thing?" said María.

  "He's had the knife since he was fifteen, a hooker from La Bondojo gave it to him, some girl who died."

  "But have you measured his thing with the knife or are you just guessing?"

  "A knife that big gets in the way," I persisted.

  "He measures it. I don't need to measure it, what do I care? He measures it himself and he measures it all the time, once a day at least, to make sure it hasn't gotten any smaller, he says."

  "Is he afraid his weenie will shrink?" said María.

  "Alberto isn't afraid of anything. I'm telling you, he's bad."

  "Then why the knife? Honestly, I don't understand it," said María. "Plus, hasn't he ever cut himself?"

  "A few times, always on purpose. He's good with the knife."

  "Are you telling me that your pimp cuts himself on the penis sometimes for fun?" said María.

  "That's right."

  "I can't believe it."

  "It's the truth. Just every once in a while, it's not like he does it every day. Only when he's nervous. Or fucked up. But the measuring thing he does all the time. He's says it's good for his manhood. He says it's a habit he learned inside."

  "He sounds like a fucking psychopath," said María.

  "You're just too high class, mana. You don't understand. Anyway, what's wrong with it? All these stupid men are always measuring their dicks. Mine does it for real. And with a knife. Also, it's the knife he got from his first girlfriend, who was almost like a mother to him."

  "And is it really that big?"

  María and Lupe laughed. In my mind, Alberto kept growing and getting tougher the more they talked. I had stopped wanting him to show up, or to risk my life for the girls.

  "Once, in Azcapotzalco, there was this blow-job contest in a club, and this one slut always won. No one could get her mouth around all the dicks she could swallow. Then Alberto got up from the table where we were sitting and said wait a minute, I've got some business to take care of. The people who were at our table said that's the way, Alberto, you could tell they knew him. Inside, I was thinking the poor girl was already finished. Alberto stood in the middle of the floor, pulled out his huge dick, stroked it into action, and stuck it in the champion's mouth. She really was tough, and she gave it her best shot. She took it little by little and everyone was gasping in astonishment. Then Alberto grabbed her by the ears and pushed his dick all the way in. No time like the present, he said, and everybody laughed. Even I laughed, although the truth is I felt embarrassed too, and a little bit jealous. For the first few seconds it looked like the girl was going to do it, but then she choked and started to suffocate…"

  "Jesus, your Alberto's a monster," I said.

&n
bsp; "But keep telling the story, what happened next?" said María.

  "Nothing, really. The girl started to hit Alberto, trying to pull away from him, and Alberto started to laugh and say whoah, girl, whoah, like he was riding a bucking bronco, know what I mean?"

  "Of course, like he was in a rodeo," I said.

  "I didn't like that at all, and I shouted let her go, Alberto, you're going to hurt her. But I don't think he even heard me. Meanwhile the girl's face was turning red, her eyes were wide open (she closed them when she gave head), and she pushed at Alberto's thighs, sort of tugging on his pockets and his belt. Of course, it didn't matter, because each time she tried to pull away from Alberto, he yanked her again by the ears to stop her. And he was going to win, you could tell."

  "But why didn't she bite his thing?" said María.

  "Because the party was all his friends. If she had, Alberto would have killed her."

  "Lupe, you're crazy," said María.

  "So are you. Aren't we all?"

  María and Lupe laughed. I wanted to hear the end of the story.

  "Nothing happened," said Lupe. "The girl couldn't take it anymore and she started to puke."

  "And what about Alberto?"

  "He pulled out a little before, right? He realized what was coming and he didn't want to get his pants dirty. So he sort of leaped like a tiger, but backward, and he didn't get a drop on himself. The people at the party were clapping like crazy."

  "And you're in love with this maniac?" said María.

  "In love, like really in love? I don't know. I'm crazy about him, that's for sure. You'd love him too, if you were me."

  "Me? Not in a million years."

  "He's a real man," said Lupe, looking out the window, her gaze lost in the distance, "and that's the truth. And he understands me better than anyone."

  "He exploits you better than anyone, you mean," said María, pushing back and slapping the table with her hands. The blow made the cups jump.

  "Come on, mana, don't be that way."

  "She's right," I said, "don't be that way. It's her life. Let her do what she wants with it."

  "Stay out of this, García Madero. You're looking in from the outside. You don't have a fucking clue what we're talking about."

  "You're looking in from the outside too! For Christ's sake, you live with your parents, and you aren't a whore-sorry, Lupe, no offense."

  "That's okay," said Lupe, "you couldn't offend me if you tried."

  "Shut up, García Madero," said María.

  I obeyed her. For a while the three of us were silent. Then María started to talk about the feminist movement, making reference to Gertrude Stein, Remedios Varo, Leonora Carrington, Alice B. Toklas (tóclamela, said Lupe, but María ignored her), Unica Zürn, Joyce Man-sour, Marianne Moore, and a bunch of other names I don't remember. The feminists of the twentieth century, I guess. She also mentioned Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.

  "She's a Mexican poet," I said.

  "And a nun too. I know that much," said Lupe.

  NOVEMBER 17

  Today I went to the Fonts' house without Pancho. (I can't spend all day following Pancho around.) When I got to the gate, though, I started to feel nervous. I worried that María's father would kick me out, that I wouldn't know how to handle him, that he would attack me. I wasn't brave enough to ring the bell, and for a while I walked around the neighborhood thinking about María, Angélica, Lupe, and poetry. Also, without intending to, I ended up thinking about my aunt and uncle, about my life so far. My old life seemed pleasant and empty, and I knew it would never be that way again. That made me deeply glad. Then I headed back quickly toward the Fonts' house and rang the bell. Mr. Font came to the door and made a gesture as if to say hold on a second, I'm on my way. Then he disappeared, leaving the door ajar. After a while he appeared again, crossing the yard and rolling up his sleeves as he walked, a broad smile on his face. He seemed better, actually. He swung open the gate, saying you're García Madero, aren't you? and shook my hand. I said how are you sir, and he said call me Quim, not sir, in this house we don't stand on ceremony. At first I didn't understand what he wanted me to call him and I said Kim? (I've read Rudyard Kipling), but he said no, Quim, short for Joaquín in Catalan.

  "Okay then, Quim," I said with a smile of relief, even happiness. "My name is Juan."

  "No, I'd better keep calling you García Madero," he said. "That's what everybody calls you."

  Then he walked partway through the yard with me (he had taken my arm). Before he let me go, he said that María had told him what happened yesterday.

  "I appreciate it, García Madero," he said. "There aren't many young men like you. This country is going to hell, and I don't know how we're going to fix it."

  "I just did what anyone would have done," I said, a little tentatively.

  "Even the young people, who in theory are our hope for change, are turning into potheads and sluts. There's no way to solve the problem; revolution is the only answer."

  "I agree completely, Quim," I said.

  "According to my daughter, you behaved like a gentleman."

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "A few of her friends-but there's no point getting into it, you'll meet them," he said. "In some ways, it doesn't bother me. A person has to get to know people from all walks of life. At a certain point you need to steep yourself in reality, no? I think it was Alfonso Reyes who said that. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. But sometimes María goes overboard, wouldn't you say? And I'm not criticizing her for that, for steeping herself in reality, but she should steep herself, not expose herself, don't you think? Because if one steeps oneself too thoroughly, one is at risk of becoming a victim. I don't know whether you follow me."

  "I follow you," I said.

  "A victim of reality, especially if one has friends who are-how to put it-magnetic, wouldn't you say? People who innocently attract trouble or who attract bullies. You're following me, aren't you, García Madero?"

  "Of course."

  "For example, that Lupe, the girl the two of you saw yesterday. I know her too, believe me, she's been here, at my house, eating here and spending a night or two with us. I don't mean to exaggerate, it was just one or two nights, but that girl has problems, doesn't she? She attracts problems. That's what I meant when I was talking about magnetic people."

  "I understand," I said. "Like a magnet."

  "Exactly. And in this case, what the magnet is attracting is something bad, very bad, but since María is so young she doesn't realize and she doesn't see the danger, does she, and what she wants is to help. Help those in need. She never thinks about the risks involved. In short, my poor daughter wants her friend, or her acquaintance, to give up the life she's been leading."

  "I see what you're getting at, sir-I mean Quim."

  "You see what I'm getting at? What am I getting at?"

  "You're talking about Lupe's pimp."

  "Very good, García Madero. You've put your finger on it: Lupe's pimp. Because what is Lupe to him? His means of support, his occupation, his office; in a word, his job. And what does a worker do when he loses his job? Tell me, what does he do."

  "He gets angry?"

  "He gets really angry. And who does he get angry at? The person who did him out of a job, of course. No question about it. He doesn't get angry at his neighbor, though then again maybe he does, but the first person he goes after is the person who lost him his job, naturally. And who's sawing away at the floor under him so that he loses his job? My daughter, of course. So who will he get angry at? My daughter. And meanwhile at her family too, because you know what these people are like. Their revenge is horrific and indiscriminate. There are nights, I swear, when I have terrible dreams"-he laughed a little, looking at the grass, as if remembering his dreams-"that would make the strongest man's hair stand on end. Sometimes I dream that I'm in a city that's Mexico City but at the same time it isn't Mexico City, I mean, it's a strange city, but I recognize it from other dreams-I'm not boring you, am I?"


  "Hardly!"

  "As I was saying, it's a vaguely strange and vaguely familiar city. And I'm wandering endless streets trying to find a hotel or a boardinghouse where they'll take me in. But I can't find anything. All I find is a man pretending to be a deaf-mute. And worst of all is that it's getting late, and I know that when night comes my life won't be worth a thing, will it? I'll be at nature's mercy, as they say. It's a bitch of a dream," he added reflectively.

  "Well, Quim, I'm going to see whether the girls are here."

  "Of course," he said, not letting go of my arm.

  "I'll stop in later on to say goodbye," I said, just to say something.

  "I liked what you did last night, García Madero. I liked that you took care of María and you didn't get horny around those prostitutes."

  "Jesus, Quim, it was just Lupe… And any friends of María's are friends of mine," I said, flushing to the tips of my ears.

  "Well, go see the girls, I think they have another guest. That room is busier than…" He couldn't find the right word and laughed.

  I hurried away from him as fast as I could.

  When I was about to go into the courtyard, I turned around and Quim Font was still there, laughing quietly to himself and looking at the magnolias.

  NOVEMBER 18

  Today I went back to the Fonts' house. Quim came to the gate to let me in and gave me a hug. In the little house I found María, Angélica, and Ernesto San Epifanio. The three of them were sitting on Angélica's bed. When I came in they instinctively drew closer together, as if to prevent me from seeing what they were sharing. I think they were expecting Pancho. When they realized it was me, their faces didn't relax.

  "You should get in the habit of locking the door," said Angélica. "He almost gave me a heart attack."

  Unlike María, Angélica has a very white face, though the underlying skin tone is olive or pink, I'm not sure which, olive, I think, and she's got high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and plumper lips than her sister's. When I saw her, or rather when I saw that she was looking at me (the other times I'd been there she'd never actually looked at me), I felt as if a hand, its fingers long and delicate but very strong, was squeezing my heart. I know Lima and Belano wouldn't approve of that image, but it fits my feelings like a glove.