There were no problems with the police. Community members stopped two domestic disturbances, kept kids from drinking beer, and even caught a bike thief who’d come over from Buenos Aires.
José Daniel Fierro gave the corner a leading role in the last few chapters of his novel; he even violated his own literary sensibilities and ended the story with an over-the-top kitschy description of two teens kissing at dusk at the intersection of Doctor Erasmo and Doctor Monteverde.
Agent Vicente Manterola was arrested in Puebla for raping a queen who was friendly with the local governor. While he was detained, a prisoner who didn’t like how Manterola was looking at him took one of his eyes out with a scrap from an empty soda can.
El Mandarín ended up in North Africa, driving a gypsy cab in Casablanca.
The corner was no longer cursed after the festival. The multicolored pins moved malevolently to other corners of Mexico City.
The owner of the Flor de Gijón retired and, since he’d saved a small fortune, went to live in the country of his birth. The day he left Mexico, he nearly bumped into José Daniel Fierro at the airport, but the writer didn’t recognize him since he was too busy buying duty-free cigarettes.
THE UNSMILING COMEDIAN BY F. G. HAGHENBECK
Condesa
I heard Andrea Rojas’s name the same day I met Cantinflas. She was nice, smart, and had a fine sense of humor. Not Cantinflas. He was like the other stars at Cinelandia:
simply a star.
While President Lyndon B. Johnson prepared to send a man to the moon, I decided to stay for a couple of months in Mexico City. I wanted to do pretty typical things: go to a wrestling match; bet on the bull in a bullfight at Plaza Mexico; drink a bottle of tequila at a bar in Tenampa; and enjoy a banana split at the Roxy. I also wanted to do an atypical thing: take care of my mother while she recovered from surgery. Her convalescence had yanked me out of my half-life as a beatnik bloodhound in Venice Beach. Nothing mattered much to me. Anyway, it’s always pleasant to spend time in the place where I was born. But not a lot of time, because the city is a treacherous lover. Those who love and live here only deal in pain.
Knowing that I was hanging out on my old turf, my exboss recommended me for a local job. Ever since he’d retired, he parceled out work like Santa Claus. I supposed I’d been good that year: it brought me Cantinflas.
The interview was outside the city, in a luxurious subdivision called Jardines del Pedregal de San Ángel, nestled in volcanic rock from an eruption as ancient as my Ford Woody. The house was great. It looked like a giant concrete sandwich with huge windows and austere furniture. The view was glorious; snow-covered volcanoes could be seen through a cactus garden.
I was led to the waiting room. I think it had higher aspirations than just to wait. It could have been a soccer field or a national stadium. I sat in a chair next to several trophies. After reading the plaque on a statuette that said Fortino Mario Alfonso Moreno Reyes, a.k.a. “Cantinflas,” had won the Golden Globe, I got bored. But a loud voice soon stirred me from my reverie.
“I was told you’re good. But I’d like references, Mr. Sunny Pascal.” The voice came from behind a door and then the comedian entered. I found myself before Mexico’s most successful actor. He wasn’t much taller than me. That was something. (In Los Angeles, I was considered Snow White’s lost dwarf.) He was dressed in a loud wine-colored chamois jacket. White turtleneck and dark glasses as big as a windshield. He walked slowly. Carefully. As he got closer, I noticed he must have been about fifty years old, but that recent cosmetic surgery made him seem forty or so. He still had some bandages. His prim face had the look of money: gringo dollars.
“I know you’ve won a lot of awards but, to me, that doesn’t make you an actor,” I responded. My insolence was gratuitous. He didn’t say anything. Instead, there was a pause that hung in the space between us.
“I suppose you’ll need to be paid in dollars,” he pressed me as he sat down in one of the chairs. Somewhere in Denmark, somebody was surely opening a champagne bottle because Cantinflas had bought one of their designs.
“Just like you got paid for Around the World in Eighty Days and Pepe,” I answered even more insolently. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have much of a sense of humor for a comedian.
“Those films were failures. The gringos don’t understand my common man’s sense of humor. Here in Mexico I’m king,” he explained, as he opened a silver case and extracted a cigarette. He offered me one. I declined. I didn’t want to be a walking cliché. I’m the only detective I know who doesn’t smoke. “I will pay for your silence. Carmandy assures me you’re the type who can keep his mouth shut. That’s important because of my reputation.”
“You can trust me. In fact, I knew Doris Day when she was a virgin.” I gave him my most ingenuous smile. He didn’t so much as blink. He was certainly greedy with his humor. He saved it all up for the camera.
“I’ve received some letters. They want money… a lot of money. They say they have information that could hurt me,” he told me as he smoked. It was impossible to see his eyes behind the shades. I was starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Is it true?”
“That’s none of your business. You just follow orders,” he grunted. I stood up. I straightened my black guayabera and turned toward the door. He made a gesture with his hand to stop, so I sat back down. “I’m sorry. I’m used to the barbarians who run this city’s police department.”
“Exactly what do you want me to do, Mr. Moreno?” I asked, trying to sound professional. The beatnik beard and my huaraches weren’t helping.
“Andrea Rojas. Pay her off. Tell her it’s the only time I’ll pay for her silence. The press and the police have already cleared me of any wrongdoing in Myriam’s death,” he groused. He said her name as if he’d stepped in dog shit. Through his dark glasses, he could see from the expression on my face that I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Myriam Roberts, an American model. She killed herself at the Alfer Hotel a couple of years ago. She left a suicide note for me.”
Cantinflas took a piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to me. It was a simple note written in a fine feminine script. It could have been a love letter or a grocery list.
Dear Mario,
Please forget me. You could never love me and I could never understand this place. Be good to yourself. You have been good to me but you could never love me, yet I really loved you. I know you’ll be good to our son.
When I finished reading the letter, I gave it back to him. He folded it carefully and put it back in his jacket pocket, the one over his heart.
“Are you going to tell me the whole story or just the condensed Reader’s Digest version?”
The comedian shrugged his shoulders. “The police questioned me. I’d known her for many years. The boy’s name is Carlos. I adopted him, he’s my son now. I don’t want her to continue threatening my family. Find Rojas, pay her off, and make sure she never bothers me again.”
At the door, a secretary appeared, more stacked than the pyramids at Teotihuacán. Her miniskirt barely contained her, and her beehive practically hit the ceiling. She gave me a bundle of dollars and a letter, assuring my silence.
“Even if you don’t take the job, you’ll have to sign the confidentiality agreement. I don’t want you to sell the story about my cosmetic surgery to Mike Oliver for three tequilas, and I don’t want this house surrounded by bloodsucking photographers.”