Juan Pablo Villalobos - Quesadillas

‘It was really busy, because the shop had been shut for several days.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Little Rooster’s supporters had occupied the town hall …’

‘Now you’ve blown it. You can’t be from San Miguel. Start again. Where are you from?’

‘La Chona.’

‘Lagos.’

‘I’m from Lagos.’

‘Yeah, I saw your teeth.’

The waiter came back from his excursion empty-handed. He hadn’t lost his defiant attitude, because his failure could be blamed on technical reasons. It was precisely to communicate this kind of news that he wore the little bun: a smart appearance is appreciated when you are making excuses.

‘There’s no orange juice. The juicer’s broken.’

‘Oh, is that right? Well, two Coca-Colas, then.’

‘It’s eight hundred thousand pesos.’

‘For what?’

‘For going to get the juice.’

‘But you didn’t bring shit.’

‘But I went. I fulfilled my side of the deal.’

‘No way. That’s a risk you take in business, my friend, no fucking way.’

The waiter went to avenge his defeat in the kitchen. I was left wondering if he would spit in the quesadillas or mix some of his snot into the melted cheese in the chilaquiles . I wouldn’t eat anything we were served here, in the hypothetical scenario of us one day being brought our food.

‘Why did you leave home?’

‘Because we lived on the hill and it was boring as hell.’

‘That’s a circumstance, not a reason. It’s not valid.’

‘I was hungry, we were poor and I’ve got lots of brothers and sisters.’

‘Very good. How many?’

‘Six.’

‘No. Six isn’t very many. Eleven’s better. How many?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Eleven. Who did you run away with?’

‘I went on my own.’

‘You’re lying. At your age you need someone to give you a push. An older brother.’

‘No, my twin brother.’

‘You have a twin brother?’

‘Uh-huh, but we don’t look alike.’

‘What the fuck do you mean?’

‘We’re pretend twins. We’re twins but we look nothing like each other.’

‘No. That doesn’t work. Don’t fuck me around. What kind of fucking confused story is that? Better make it an older brother.’

Apparently Aristotle had fucked with my life enough now and it was Socrates’ turn, only a Socrates in reverse, one who, instead of drawing the truth out from within you, would present it to you ready-made: this was a proactive Socrates.

The drinks arrived and the waiter opened them in our presence, as if to let us know we shouldn’t worry about this part of the meal, that he was saving the best for later. I held the bottle up to the light, remembering that my grandmother had once swallowed a cockroach while confidently drinking a Coca-Cola. The tie man didn’t bother verifying the quality of his drink, on the surface of which there floated a thin film that grew denser towards the bottom. Actually, this description isn’t valid from a scientific point of view. The position of the film in the liquid depended on its density; at the bottom it was denser than the Coca-Cola and so it was sinking. This was Archimedes’ field, but back then I was yet to be introduced to him. Being such a distinguished person, the tie man had been assigned the cask-aged Coca-Cola, which he began drinking in long gulps.

‘Who did you run away with?’

‘My older brother.’

‘Where were you trying to get to?’

‘Mesa Redonda.’

‘The hill? What for?’

‘To wait for the aliens.’

‘OK, damn it. Do you want to learn or not? Where were you trying to get to?’

‘Learn what?’

‘What do you mean “what”? To speak!’

‘I already know how to speak.’

‘Oh yeah? Well, you speak total shit that’s no good to anyone.’

‘And I can recite poetry too.’

‘Seriously? Go on, then.’

And I began:

‘ Patria, I love you not as myth

but for the communion of your truth

as I love the child peering over the rail

in a blouse buttoned up to her ear-tips

and skirt to her ankle of fine percale … ’

‘You’re fucking kidding me! Let’s just leave it there, shall we? So, where were you trying to get to?’

‘To Disneyland. We wanted to go to Disneyland.’

‘At your age? Don’t lie. Where were you trying to get to?’

‘Poland.’

‘Poland is nowhere. Don’t fuck with me.’

‘To Guadalajara.’

‘That’s more like it! Why?’

‘To live.’

‘To study.’

‘To study.’

‘What did you want to study?’

‘High school.’

‘Don’t be stupid, after that. What do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘A teacher.’

‘And starve to death? Don’t you want to stop being poor? Why not say a doctor.’

‘A doctor, I want to be a doctor.’

‘Very good — but you’re not studying.’

‘No. I left my brother behind and now I have to beg.’

‘Why did you leave him?’

‘We had a fight.’ I pointed at the scar criss-crossing my cheek; the vileness of the gesture brought a few little tears of shame to my eyes.

‘Very good! Now you’re getting it. People love this sort of thing. What was the fight about?’

‘A quesadilla.’

‘What?’

‘We only had money for one quesadilla.’

‘And didn’t you share it, like good brothers?’

‘We beat each other up to see who would get to eat it.’

‘Excellent. Do you want to work for me?’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a politician.’

‘Do you earn money?’

‘What do you think?’

‘My dad says politicians are stupid.’

‘That’s part of the deal, letting people think we’re idiots. Where’s our damn food? That bastard’s fucking with us.’

At the same time as the tie man was preparing to end all relations with the waiter, the supreme creeper blossomed: on the TV a photo of my parents appeared. It was a recent picture, as you could see quite clearly that their sadness had acquired an aristocratic look, as if they’d been sad for generations. The sound on the TV was turned down, but at the bottom of the screen you could read the headline: PARENTS LOSE 7 CHILDREN.

I pressed the red button and picked up the tie man’s Coke to show him the shit he was drinking. The movement was complicated enough in itself: putting my right hand into my pocket to press the button, while at the same time picking up the bottle with my left. There was an additional difficulty: I was the one performing the movements. Our motor coordination might not have been genetic, but my mother was right: it was real, it existed. The Coca-Cola traced a somersault in the air and hit the tie man on his jaw, the creamy dregs splashed on to his lapels, his shirt and — oh, too bad — his tie. I ran out into the street this time without looking back, or forward; I ran across roads without looking, knocking into people as I went, I ran between cars and buses, upsetting bicycles and motorbikes.

I ran as if I were a stray dog fleeing from the blandishments of the town dog-catcher.

‘Tell me the truth.’

This was why I’d come home: to be forced into sincerity. I explained what had happened to me, but to every story I told them, my parents always responded the same way.

‘Tell us the truth.’

I insisted on telling them the same thing once more, with more details, and then they would interrupt me.

‘Don’t tell lies.’

‘Lies?’

‘Lies,’ my father confirmed. ‘If you say that something is what it isn’t or something isn’t what it is, you’re lying.’