Carlos Fuentes - The Crystal Frontier

The silence of the telephone disappointed her but it got her stirred up too. Rolando had no business playing around with her. She was making a commitment — why couldn’t he commit himself a little too? She was giving him an out, telling him they could put all the love they felt for each other into one weekend at the beach and then never see each other again if he wanted. But what I won’t stand for anymore is a man’s picking me up like something he’s found thrown out on the street and takes in from pity. I’m never going to allow that again, Rolando. You taught me about life. I didn’t know how much you’d taught me until Dinorah’s little boy died and Candelaria’s grandfather was there, dry and old, uprooted, but as if he’d never die, and I only want to live, really live, this moment, when I’ve saved myself from dying young and don’t want to live to be old. I’m asking you to raise me up to where you are, Rolando; let’s go up together. I’m giving you this chance, sweetheart. I know deep inside that with me you’re rising and you’re going to take me where it’s high and beautiful if you want, Rolando, and if you don’t, we’re both going to be ruined, you’re going to bring us down so we won’t even matter to ourselves.

But Rolando didn’t answer his phone. It was 11:00 p.m. and Marina made her decision.

This time she didn’t stop for an ice-cream soda at the soda fountain; she crossed the bridge, took the bus, and walked the three blocks to the motel. The people at the desk recognized her but were surprised she was there on a Friday.

“Aren’t we free to change our plans if we want?”

“I guess so,” said the receptionist with mixed irony and resignation as he handed her a key.

The place smelled of disinfectant: the halls, the stairs, even the ice and soda machines smelled of something that kills bugs, cleans bathrooms, fumigates cushions. She stopped outside the door of the room she shared with Rolando on Thursdays, wondering if she should knock or put the key in the lock. She was impatient. She inserted the key, opened the door, walked in, and heard the agonized voice of Rolando, the high voice of the gringa. She turned on the light and stood there staring at them naked in the bed.

“You’ve had a good look, now get out,” said her Don Juan.

“I’m sorry. I kept calling you on the cellular phone. Something happened that…”

She saw the phone on the dresser and pointed at it. The gringa looked at both of them and burst out laughing.

“Rolando, did you fool this poor girl?” she said through her giggles as she picked up the phone. “At least you could tell the truth to your sweethearts. It’s okay that you go into banks and office buildings with this thing in your ear or that you talk into it in restaurants and fool half the world, but why fool your girlfriends? Just look at the confusion you cause, honey,” said the gringa as she stood up and started getting dressed.

“Baby, don’t leave now … Just when we were getting along so nicely … This kid isn’t anyone …”

“You can’t let an opportunity go by, can you?” The gringa wiggled into her pantyhose. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back. It’s not so important that I’d break up with you.”

Baby picked up the cellular phone, opened up the back, and showed Marina. “Look. No batteries. It’s never had batteries. It’s just to trick people, like that song: ‘Call me on my cell phone, I look so loose, it makes me look like someone, even with no juice …’”

She tossed it onto the bed and walked out — laughing.

Marina crossed the international bridge back to Ciudad Juárez. Her feet were tired, so she took off her high, pointy shoes. The pavement still held the cold tremor of the day. But the sensation in her feet wasn’t the same as when she’d danced freely over the forbidden grass of Don Leonardo Barroso’s assembly plant.

“This city is a disaster built on chaos,” said Barroso to his daughter-in-law, Michelina, as they passed Marina, she on her way back to Juárez, they on their way to a hotel in El Paso. Michelina laughed and kissed the businessman’s ear.

Tell them I’m not here! Tell them I don’t want to see them! Tell them I don’t want to see anyone!”

One day no one came to visit Miss Amy Dunbar. Even the servants, who never lasted long in the old lady’s service, stopped coming to work. Rumors circulated about Miss Dunbar’s difficult nature, her racism, her insults.

“There’s always someone whose need for work is stronger than their pride.”

It wasn’t so. The whole black race, according to Miss Amy, refused to work for her. The last maid, a fifteen-year-old girl named Bathsheba, spent her month in Miss Dunbar’s house weeping. Each time she answered the door, the rarer and rarer visitors first saw a girl bathed in tears, then invariably heard behind her the broken but still acid voice of the crone. “Tell them I’m not in! Tell them I’m not interested in seeing them!”

Miss Amy Dunbar’s nephews knew the old lady would never leave her house in the Chicago suburbs. She said that one migration — leaving the family home in New Orleans and coming north to live with her husband — was enough for a lifetime. Dead was the only way she would leave her stone house facing Lake Michigan and surrounded by forest.

“It won’t be long now,” she told the nephew responsible for paying bills, attending to legal matters, and looking after other things great and small that completely escaped the attention of the little old woman.

What she did not fail to notice was her relative’s tiny sigh of relief as he imagined her dead.

She took no offense. “The problem is that I’m used to living,” she invariably responded. “It’s become a habit,” she would say with a laugh, showing those horse teeth that with age protrude farther and farther in Anglo-Saxon women, although she was only half Anglo-Saxon, the daughter of a Yankee businessman who set himself up in Louisiana to show the languid Southerners how to do business, and a delicate lady of distantly French origin, Lucy Ney. Miss Amy said she was related to Bonaparte’s marshal Ney. Her full name was Amelia Ney Dunbar. Like all the other wellborn ladies of the Delta city, she was called Miss, Miss Amy, with the right to be addressed by both the title of matrimonial maturity and that of a double childhood; they were girls at fifteen and girls again at eighty.

“I’m not suggesting you go to a senior citizens’ residence,” explained her nephew, a lawyer determined to deck himself out with all the clothes and accoutrements he imagined to be his profession’s height of elegance: blue shirts with white collars, red ties, Brooks Brothers suits, oxfords, never loafers on workdays, God forbid! “But if you’re going to stay in this big old house, you’ll need domestic help.” Miss Amy was about to say something nasty, but she bit her tongue. She even showed the whitish tip of that organ. “I hope you make an effort to hold onto your servants, Aunt Amy. The house is huge.”

“It’s that they’ve all left.”

“You’d need at least four people in service here just to take care of you the way it was in the old days.”

“Those were the young days. These are the old days, Archibald. And it wasn’t the staff who left. It was the family. They left me alone.”

“Of course, Aunt Amy. You’re right.”

“As always.”

Archibald nodded.

“We’ve found a Mexican lady willing to work for you.”

“Mexicans are supposed to be lazy.”

“That’s not true. It’s a stereotype.”

“I forbid you to touch my clichés, young man. They’re the shield of my prejudices. And prejudices, as the word itself indicates, are necessary for making judgments. Good judgment, Archibald, good judgment is prejudgment. My convictions are clear, deep rooted, and unshakable. At this point in my life, no one’s going to change them.” She allowed herself a deep, slightly lugubrious breath. “Mexicans are lazy.”