We got to Tacuba Street at 10 in the morning. There, Don Domitilo Chimal made the delivery of the Judases to someone at the Central Department who paid him with sticky bills that barely added up to a hundred pesos.
We had started on our way home when my father suggested we get some lunch at the Sidralí on the corner of Madero Avenue and Palm Street, then come back and see the burning of the Judases.
“I want to be sure we did a good job!” he said, with such pride we couldn’t have imagined his true intentions.
The lunch was delicious, not just because of the medianoche sandwiches, but because my brother Chema managed to get us some potato pambazos and chorizo in garlic sauce from a vendor outside the Sidralí which we-especially my father-devoured with delight.
“Well, boys,” said Don Domitilo at about 1 in the afternoon, “let’s go see the burning. They must have hung the Judases by now and I wouldn’t want to miss the show for anything in the world.”
Tacuba Street was crowded with folks who, entranced with expectation, gazed at the hanging dummies that would be burst on Saturday. Our father elbowed his way through to a place from where we could see, unobstructed, what was going to happen.
The first one they burned was the Judas with President Alemán’s smiling face. The rockets attached to the sides of its body exploded with a luminous and cheery sputtering that excited the crowd, which immediately shouted and hurled insults, letting loose the resentments that had accumulated as a result of the abuses against the people during his term.
“Stop acting like a beggar, Alemán, you damn thief!” yelled a worker next to us, and everyone around cheered. “Yes, burn, you presidential thief, so you know what it feels like to be fucked over!”
Then the firecrackers inside exploded, the stomach burst, and the dummy was gutted. The applause was deafening.
One by one, the Judases were burned. The people were overjoyed. Although he seemed a bit taciturn, Don Domitilo couldn’t hide the pride he felt when he saw how the dummies he’d made with such care were appreciated. Finally, it was the Samaritana’s turn and I noticed my father turning pale. The Judas began to burn on the outside, just like the others, until it was fully singed. Then it exploded into thousands of bits of newspaper and confetti that floated down on the crowd. But this time the paper was drenched in a sticky red substance, with pieces of raw flesh and bone shards mixed in.
The crowd was horrfied. They shook the bloody bits from their heads and shoulders. Some, mostly women and children, screamed as they ran. Only my father, Don Domitilo Chimal, laughed, then spat: “I told you, puta Matilde!” He was screaming at our mother. “I warned you when I found out you were sleeping with my compadre Melitón that a day would come when I’d tear your heart out! Old cabrona, daughter of the rechingada!”
VIOLETA ISN’T HERE ANYMORE BY MYRIAM LAURINI
Hipódromo
Neighbors Cassette. Side A.
July 16, 2007
[Older people die alone, either from natural causes or because they are killed. The latter happens with such frequency in Mexico City that it is no longer surprising. What does surprise me are these neighbors’ voices in unison, as if they can’t wait for whoever’s talking to finish so they can each tell his or her own story, which made this tape’s transcription that much harder. The following are excerpts of what they said.]
Violeta didn’t like to talk about her past or her origins. She would insinuate certain things to create different stories. Hers was just one of many stories; there wasn’t anything weird about it, nothing particularly moving or vitriolic.
All the neighbors knew her: she was born in that same house. Violeta was part of the neighborhood’s Security Commission. As a member of the commission, she was constantly on alert, so that when she saw strangers or odd movements, she’d call the district police. She got along very well with them; in the summer she gave them lemonade, and coffee in the winter.
When you’re on the commission, you have to reach out to the district to make sure they’ll treat us well. If there was anything scandalous going on in Mexico Park, she’d call the police. If the local representatives allowed music in the park-the kind that rattles your brain-after 10 o’clock at night, she’d call the police.
Violeta watched out for all of us. It wasn’t just about the petty thieves or the lowlifes who could impact our lives materially but also the psychological damage that could be brought on by such loud noise in the park.
What does noise from the park have to do with Violeta’s death?
It’s related to the fact that she had constant contact with the police. They detained Mikel and asked us tons of questions. If she has or had family, it must be distant.
From what I know, her grandmother was very young when they brought her here from a town in Oaxaca during the time of the revolution. She got pregnant by who knows who and had Jovita, and Jovita repeated the cycle and had Violeta; both of them were born in Mexico City. They never went anywhere to see relatives and no relative ever visited them.
They came to live here in 1928. Señorita Micaela already had the grandmother on her staff and the girl, Jovita. The gossips said Violeta was really Micaela’s daughter and that’s why she inherited the house.
If it’s true that she was Micaela’s daughter, then perhaps Violeta might have some first cousins, because Micaela had siblings. According to what my mother told me, the family had money, but for whatever reason, they disowned Micaela and left her with just the house and some rental income. It wasn’t just any house either, but art deco.
Violeta inherited the house but not the money, so she didn’t have any for food or much else. As soon as Micaela died, they cut off the rental income. It was all very dramatic.
But Micaela had paid for Violeta’s schooling as if she were part of the family. She went all the way through high school. Later she took embroidery classes, cooking classes.
Nonetheless, Micaela had never stopped reminding Violeta that she was her servants’ daughter and granddaughter, and that Violeta had an obligation to take care of her until her last day.
Nobody ever went in that house. I think the last time was when Micaela died, and there were four neighbors there; that wake was pitiful.
We’d see each other on the park benches, at the Security Commission meetings, at the door, and we’d talk then, but Violeta never asked anybody in, not for coffee or soda or anything. Her relationships all existed outside the front door. The only people who went in were those who lived there.
At first, she got by with money from a savings account. Later, she pawned some jewels she’d inherited. When she had no other choice, she began to rent rooms. That’s how she made a living. It was always short term, a few months and then adiós.
The one who lasted the longest was Mikel; he’s been there a year, maybe a little more. Perhaps it’s the house itself that scares them off. It’s totally dark, no light ever goes in, or air for that matter; it stinks of humidity, of old age-and the smell of old age scares young people. The only one who ever went in and out of the house was Mikel.
Lalo Cohen came to visit. He demanded that I hold his beloved tape player while he smoked nonstop. He made his demand in that way of his-as if he doesn’t have any friends, even though he is, in fact, a friend in the end. He asked that I tell him the same story I told the police and the Public Ministry. Words upon words, minus some of this, that’s what I told the Public Ministry-because the police had already given my statement to the PM. Even though it’s illegal, I don’t plan to protest, I just want this to be over with.