Yuri Herrera: Signs Preceding the End of the World

On the other side of the mountains was the truck Chucho had told her about. She went up to it, opened the passenger door and said Are you Aitch’s man? The driver jumped out of his skin then tried to recover his hard-boiled slouch, upped his nose as if to say S’right, and finally jerked his head to signal Get in.

On the way the driver turned to look at her every little while, as though hoping she’d try to talk to him so he could refuse, but Makina had no interest in the challenge; she should have been exhausted but what she felt was an overwhelming impatience. She turned to the window to look out without seeing. If she didn’t get back soon, what would become of all those people who had no way of communicating with their kith and kin? She had to get back, because Cora was counting on her; and what about the switchboard, how would it look and feel without her? Ay, the guilt, reducing reality to a clenched fist with set hours.

The city was an edgy arrangement of cement particles and yellow paint. Signs prohibiting things thronged the streets, leading citizens to see themselves as ever protected, safe, friendly, innocent, proud, and intermittently bewildered, blithe, and buoyant; salt of the only earth worth knowing. They flourished in supermarkets, cornucopias where you could have more than everyone else or something different or a newer brand or a loaf of bread a little bigger than everyone else’s. Makina just dented cans and sniffed bottles and thought it best to verse, and it was when she saw the anglogaggle at the self-checkouts that she noticed how miserable they looked in front of those little digital screens, and the way they nearly-nearly jumped every time the machine went bleep! at each item. And how on versing out to the street they sought to make amends for their momentary one-up by becoming wooden again so as not to offend anyone.

Out on the concrete and steel-girder plain, though, she sensed another presence straight off, scattered about like bolts fallen from a window: on street corners, on scaffolding, on sidewalks; fleeting looks of recognition quickly concealed and then evasive. These were her compatriots, her homegrown, armed with work: builders, florists, loaders, drivers; playing it sly so as not to let on to any shared objective, and instead just, just, just: just there to take orders. They were the same as back home but with less whistling, and no begging.

She was seduced by something less clear-cut as she wandered by the restaurants: unfamiliar sweetness and spiciness, concoctions that had never before passed her lips or her nose, rapturous fried feasts. Places serving food that was strange but with something familiar mixed in, something recognizable in the way the dishes were finished off. So she visited the restaurants, too, with the brevity imposed by glaring managers who guessed She’s not here to eat, and it wasn’t until the fourth restaurant that she realized they were here, too, more armed than anyplace else, cooks and helpers and dishwashers, ruling the food at the farthest outposts.

All cooking is Mexican cooking, she said to herself. And then she said Ha. It wasn’t true, but she liked saying it just the same.

The driver jerked up his palms when he saw Makina take out the package from Mr. Aitch. You don’t give nothing to me. Didn’t you know that? He dropped her on a deserted street and said Here’s where they’ll tell you where to take it. Since there was nobody around she ambled through a supermarket and sniffed restaurants. When she returned, a flower store had opened; an old man was sitting at the entrance, resting one hand on a cane and bringing a piece of bread to his mouth with the other. Makina planted herself in front of him. They looked at each other. Again Makina made as if to take the packet out but the old man said Wait, go clean up first and then I’ll take you. With his cane he pointed to a little door at the back of the store. Makina went through it, washed her hands and face; the wound on her ribs was dry and when she rubbed the soap across it hardly even stung. When she versed from the bathroom the old man was standing up. Come with me, he said. See those men? Makina saw two guys in a black ride with silver rims. Cops, wondering who you are, he went on. We’re going to walk till they get sidetracked. They began walking. The car followed close behind, suddenly accelerated and disappeared, but soon returned to follow them at a distance.

I’m taking you to the stadium, the old man said. If they stop trailing us, you hand it over there; meantime I’ll tell you about your kin.

Makina was overcome by foreboding. Is he dead?

No, no, alive and kicking like a mule, he’s fine; you’ll find him changed, but still, he got here ok. Like you, he brought a little something from Mr. Aitch and things got rough, but then he went off on his business.

Do you know where?

The old man said Help me walk. Makina took his arm and the old man smoothly slipped her a piece of paper with his other hand. Address’s right here.

They kept walking. The black car slowed beside them, the occupants eyeballed for a few seconds and took off.

Think it’s safe? Makina asked.

Don’t know, but it’s got to be done.

The stadium loomed before them. So, what do they use that for?

They play, said the old man. Every week the anglos play a game to celebrate who they are. He stopped, raised his cane and fanned the air. One of them whacks it, then sets off like it was a trip around the world, to every one of the bases out there, you know the anglos have bases all over the world, right? Well the one who whacked it runs from one to the next while the others keep taking swings to distract their enemies, and if he doesn’t get caught he makes it home and his people welcome him with open arms and cheering.

Do you like it?

Tsk, me, I’m just passing through.

How long you been here?

Going on fifty years … Here we are.

They were standing at one of the doors to the stadium. The old man gave a whistle, the door opened, the old man said Get it over with, and turned away.

The darkest kid Makina had ever seen in her life pointed to a corridor. She walked down it toward the light. At the end she was instantly overcome by the sight of a vast expanse, two rival visions of beauty: the bottom an immense green diamond rippling in its own reflection; and above, embracing it, tens of thousands of folded black chairs, an obsidian mound barbed with flint, sharp and glimmering.

She was standing there, dazzled, when from other tunnels around her more men emerged, ten or fifteen or thirty all at once, all black but some blacker than others, some sinewy as if they’d grown up in mountain air, others puffy like aquatic animals, many bald but a few with long matted hair down to their waists. All looking at her and walking toward her, calm and cool but with faces that clearly conveyed they were serious motherfuckers.

Don’t let my associates scare you, she suddenly heard behind her, in latin tongue. They’re not such tough sonsofbitches, just had to learn to look like it.

Down the corridor she’d walked, a man limped nearer, his features becoming clearer as he was gradually bathed in light: his blazing blond hair was streaked with orange highlights, he held a cigar in one hand and wore mirrored shades. Makina had never laid eyes on him before but there was no mistaking who he was. Mr. P, the fourth top dog, had fled the Little Town after a turf war with Mr. Aitch and every once in a while you’d hear how one way or another they were goading each other from afar. What had Makina gotten herself into? Did Mr. P think he could mess with Mr. Aitch by messing with her?

You got nothing to fear from me neither, girl, said Mr. P, suspecting her guts were churning. And not because Aitch and I have made peace. We do business, sure, but who says that’s not just another way to eat the dish cold?