Carlos Fuentes - The Crystal Frontier

The girlfriends looked at one another, astounded but not wanting to show it, wanting instead to show they approved of Dinorah. To vast applause, their jocks stuffed with money, the Chippendales took a break, losing, one after another, their assembly-line smiles, each one returning, as he stepped off the runway, to his everyday face. A parade of difference: one bored, one contemptuous, this one satisfied, as if everything he did had been admirable and should have earned him an Oscar, that one shooting murderous looks around the corral full of Mexican cows, as if, perhaps, he wished it were another corral, full of Mexican bulls. Frustrated ambition, ruin, fatigue, indifference, cruelty. Evil faces, said Marina without meaning to. Those boys wouldn’t know how to love me, they’re not like my Rolando, whatever his faults may be.

But now came the most beautiful part.

They began to play Mendelssohn’s wedding march, and the first model appeared on the runway, her face covered by a veil of tulle, her hands clutching a bouquet of forget-me-nots, a crown of orange blossoms on her head, her skirt puffed out like that of a queen, like a cloud. The girls let out a collective exclamation, a sigh really, and none of them had any doubt about the person whose face was hidden by the veil: she was one of them, dark-skinned, a Mexican woman — they would have been offended if a gringa had come out in a bridal gown. The boys had to be gringos, but the brides had to be Mexican … Once they did bring out a little blond bride with blue eyes, but in the riot that ensued, the place almost burned down. Now they knew. The parade of bridal gowns featured Mexican girls, it was meant for Mexican girls: five brides in a row, modest and virginal, then one in a mock bridal outfit, a taffeta miniskirt, and at the end a naked bride, wearing only a veil, the flowers in her hands, and high heels, ready for the nuptial bed, ready to give herself. Everyone laughed and shouted, and at the end a little man dressed as a priest appeared and blessed them all, filling them with emotion, with gratitude, with the desire to come back the next Friday to see how many promises had been kept. But there at the exit were Villarreal — Don Leonardo Barroso’s man, the boss’s servant — and Beltrán Herrera — Candelaria’s lover, the union leader, a serene, dark-skinned, graying man with tender eyes, now more tender than ever behind his glasses. His moustache was wet, and he took Candelaria by the arm to whisper something in her ear. Candelaria covered her mouth to keep from screaming or weeping, but she was a solid woman, maternal to the core, intelligent, strong, and discreet. She only told Marina and Rosa Lupe, “Something terrible’s happened.”

“To whom? Where?”

“To Dinorah. Come on, she’s going home as fast as she can.

They hurried into Herrera’s car and Villarreal repeated the story he’d heard in Don Leonardo Barroso’s office, that they were going to tear down Colonia Bellavista to build factories, were going to buy the lots for nothing and sell them for millions. What were the workers going to do? They had enough weapons to prevent an outright looting, to get some notice, to demand that they, too, reap some benefits.

“But the houses aren’t even our own,” said Candelaria.

“We could organize like renters and throw a monkey wrench into the works,” Beltrán Herrera argued.

“Not even the lots are ours, Beltrán.”

“But we’ve got rights. We can refuse to move out until they pay us something comparable to what they’re going to make on this.”

“What they’re going to do is fire all of us women from the plants …”

“Enough is enough,” said Rosa Lupe, though she didn’t really understand what was going on and was speaking just so she wouldn’t seem completely passive and so someone would clarify the anxious question in Marina’s eyes: What happened to Dinorah?

“We appreciate your loyalty,” Herrera said, squeezing Villarreal’s shoulder. Villarreal was at the wheel, his ponytail blowing behind him. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get you into big trouble.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve passed you information, Beltrán,” said the waiter.

“No, but this is something big. We’re going to organize once and for all, spread the word.”

“The girls hardly ever join up.” Villarreal shook his head. “Now, if they were men …”

“What about me?” said Candelaria in a loud voice. “Don’t be so macho, Villarreal.”

Herrera sighed and hugged Candelaria as he looked at the nighttime landscape, the brilliant lights on the American side, the absence of streetlights on the Mexican side. Forests, textiles, mines, he said, fruit, everything disappeared in favor of the factories, all the wealth of Chihuahua, forgotten.

“Wealth that didn’t give us enough to eat or a fifth the number of jobs we have now,” declared Candelaria. “So thanks for your wealth but no thanks!”

“You think the girls will join up?”

Herrera laid his gray head next to Candelaria’s black, shiny one.

“I do.” Candelaria hung her head. “This time they’ll join up as soon as they hear.”

“The house is never clean,” Dinorah was saying from the hard bench in her adobe shack. “I don’t have the time. Just a few hours’ sleep.”

The neighbors had gathered outside, but some went in to console Dinorah. The oldest women were talking about holding a beautiful wake for the child, his flowers, his little white box, the way they did in the old days back in the villages: Candelaria brought candles but could only find a couple of Coca-Cola bottles to use as candlesticks.

The old men came too, the whole neighborhood gathered, and Candelaria’s father, standing in the doorway, wondered out loud if they were right in coming to work in Juárez, where a woman had to leave a child alone, tied like an animal to a table leg. The poor innocent kid, how could he not hurt himself? The old people pointed out that such a thing couldn’t happen in the country — families there always had someone to look after the kids, you didn’t have to tie them up, ropes were for dogs and hogs.

“My father used to tell me,” answered Candelaria’s grandfather, “that we should stay peacefully in our homes, in one place. He would stand just the way I am now, half in and half out, and say, ‘Outside this door, the world ends.’”

He said he was very old and didn’t want to see anything more.

Marina had no idea how to comfort Dinorah. Crying, she listened to Candelaria’s grandfather and felt thankful that in her house there were no memories. She was on her own and it was better to be alone in this life than to put up with the grief suffered by those who had children, like poor Dinorah, her hair a mess, her makeup smeared, her red dress wrinkled and sliding up her thighs, her knees together, her legs splayed, she who was normally so fastidious and coquettish.

Then Marina, seeing the terrible scene of death and weeping and memories, thought it wasn’t true, she wasn’t alone, she had Rolando, even if she shared him with other women. Rolando would do her the favor of taking her to the sea, somewhere, to San Diego in California or Corpus Christi in Texas or even Guaymas in Sonora, he owed it to her, she asked for nothing but to go with Rolando to see the ocean for the first time. After that he could leave her, tell her she was a pain, but he should do her that one small favor …

She left Dinorah’s shack and heard the grandfather talking about a fiesta for the strangled child. To raise everyone’s spirits, he had some liquor brought in, saying, “The good thing about these big jugs is they look full until they’re empty.”

Marina dug around in her handbag until she found the number of Rolando’s cellular phone. What did it matter to her if she got into trouble? This was a life-or-death matter. He had to know that she depended on him for one thing only, to take her to see the ocean, not to say, like Candelaria’s grandfather, that there was nothing more he wanted to see. She dialed the number, but it was busy at first, then went dead. That made her think he had heard her but hadn’t answered so he wouldn’t get her into trouble. Would he hear her when she said, Take me to the ocean, honey, I don’t want to die like Dinorah’s little kid without seeing the ocean — do me that little favor even if afterward we stop seeing each other and we break up.