From that moment on, the teacher recalled, the tension in the air of Cesárea's room, or the tension that she imagined in the air, faded until it went away. Then she left and didn't see Cesárea again until two weeks later. That was when Cesárea told her that she was leaving Santa Teresa. She had brought the teacher a going-away present, one of the notebooks with black covers, possibly the thinnest of them all. Do you still have it? asked Belano. No, she didn't have it anymore. Her husband had read it and thrown it away. Or it had simply gotten lost. The house she lived in now wasn't the same one she'd been living in then, and small things often get lost in moves. But did you read the notebook? said Belano. Yes, she'd read it. It was mostly notes on the Mexican educational system, some very sensible and others completely inappropriate. Cesárea hated Secretary of Education Vasconcelos, although sometimes her hatred seemed more like love. There was a plan for general literacy, which the teacher could hardly make out because it was so chaotic, followed by reading lists for childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood, lists that were contradictory when they weren't plainly opposed. For example: two of the books on the first children's reading list were La Fontaine and Aesop's Fables. On the second list, La Fontaine disappeared. On the third list there was a popular book about gangster life in the United States, a book that might (though only might) be appropriate for adolescents, but never for children, which in turn vanished from the fourth list, replaced by a collection of medieval tales. Stevenson's Treasure Island and Martí's The Golden Age remained on all the lists, though they were books that the teacher considered most appropriate for adolescents.
After that, it was a long time before the teacher had any news of Cesárea. How long? said Belano. Years, said the teacher. Until one day she saw her again. It was during Santa Teresa's fiesta, when the city filled with peddlers from every corner of the state.
Cesárea was behind a stand selling medicinal herbs. The teacher walked right past her, but since she was with her husband and another couple she was ashamed to say hello. Or maybe it wasn't shame but shyness. And it might not even have been shame or shyness: she simply wasn't sure whether this woman selling herbs could be her old friend. Cesárea didn't recognize her either. She was sitting behind her table, a plank resting on four wooden boxes, and she was talking to a woman about the goods for sale. She had changed physically: now she was fat, hugely fat, and although the teacher didn't see a single gray hair amid the black, she had wrinkles around her eyes and deep circles under them, as if the journey she had made to Santa Teresa, to Santa Teresa's fiesta, had taken her months, even years.
The next day the teacher came back alone and saw her again. Cesárea was standing up and she looked much bigger than the teacher remembered. She must have weighed three hundred pounds and she was wearing an ankle-length gray skirt that accentuated her fatness. Her naked arms were like logs. Her neck had disappeared behind a giant's double chin, but her head was still Cesárea Tinajero's noble head: big, with prominent bones, her skull arched and her forehead wide and smooth. This time the teacher went up to her and said good morning. Cesárea looked at her and didn't recognize her, or pretended not to. It's me, said the teacher, your friend Flora Castañeda. When she heard the name, Cesárea frowned and got up. She moved around the plank of herbs and came up close to the teacher as if she couldn't see her well from a distance. She put her hands (two claws, according to the teacher) on her shoulders and for a few seconds she scrutinized her face. Oh, Cesárea, what a terrible memory you have, said the teacher, to say something. Only then did Cesárea smile (foolishly, according to the teacher) and say of course, how could she forget her. Then they talked for a while, the two of them sitting behind the table, the teacher on a wooden folding chair and Cesárea on a box, as if the two of them were tending the little herb stall together. And although the teacher realized immediately that they had very little to say to each other, she told Cesárea that she had three children now and that she was still working at the school, and remarked on thoroughly unimportant things that had happened in Santa Teresa. And then she thought about asking Cesárea whether she had married and had children, but she couldn't formulate the question because she could see for herself that Cesárea hadn't married and didn't have children, so she just asked her where she lived, and Cesárea said sometimes in Villaviciosa and other times in El Palito. The teacher knew where Villaviciosa was, although she'd never been there, but it was the first time she'd heard of El Palito. She asked her where the town was and Cesárea said that it was in Arizona. Then the teacher laughed. She said she had always suspected that Cesárea would end up living in the United States. And that was all. They parted. The next day the teacher didn't go to the market and she spent her idle hours wondering whether it would be a good idea to invite Cesárea over for lunch. She discussed it with her husband, they fought, she won. The next day, first thing, she went back to the market, but when she got there Cesárea's stall was occupied by a woman selling kerchiefs. She never saw her again.
Belano asked her whether she thought Cesárea was dead. Possibly, said the teacher.
And that was all. Belano and Lima were pensive for hours after the interview. We got rooms at the Hotel Juárez. At dusk the four of us met in Lima and Belano's room and talked about what to do. According to Belano, first we should go to Villaviciosa, then we could decide whether we wanted to go back to Mexico City or on to El Palito. The problem with El Palito was that he couldn't enter the United States. Why not? asked Lupe. Because I'm Chilean, he said. They won't let me in either, said Lupe, and I'm not Chilean. And García Madero won't get in either. Why not me? I said. Does anyone have a passport? said Lupe. No one did, except for Belano. That night Lupe went to the movies. When she got back to the hotel she said that she wasn't going back to Mexico City. So what will you do? said Belano. Live in Sonora or cross over into the United States.
JANUARY 30
Last night they found us. Lupe and I were in our room, fucking, when the door opened and Ulises Lima came in. Get dressed fast, he said, Alberto is in the lobby talking to Arturo. We did as he ordered without saying a word. We put our things in plastic bags and went down to the first floor, trying not to make a sound. We went out the back door. The alley was dark. Let's get the car, said Lima. There wasn't a soul on Avenida Juárez. We walked three blocks from the hotel, to the place where the Impala was parked. Lima was afraid that there would be someone there, but the spot was deserted and we started the car. We passed the Hotel Juárez. Part of the lobby and the lit-up window of the hotel bar were visible from the street. There was Belano, and across from him was Alberto. We didn't see Alberto's policeman friend anywhere. Belano didn't see us either and Lima thought it wasn't a good idea to honk the horn. We drove around the block. The sidekick, Lupe said, had probably gone up to our rooms. Lima shook his head. A yellow light was falling on Belano and Alberto's heads. Belano was talking, but it might just as well have been Alberto. They didn't seem angry. When we drove by again, they'd each lit a cigarette. They were drinking beer and smoking. They looked like friends. Belano was talking: he moved his left hand as if he was tracing a castle or the silhouette of a woman. Alberto never took his eyes off him and sometimes he smiled. Honk the horn, I said. We drove around the block once more. When the Hotel Juárez appeared again, Belano looked out the window and Alberto lifted a can of Tecate to his lips. A man and a woman were arguing at the main entrance to the hotel. Alberto's policeman friend was watching them, leaning on the hood of a car some thirty feet away. Lima honked the horn three times and slowed down. Belano had already seen us. He turned around, got up close to Alberto, and said something. Alberto grabbed him by the shirt. Belano pushed him and went running. By the time he reached the hotel door the cop was heading toward him and reaching into his jacket. Lima honked the horn three more times and stopped the Impala sixty feet from the Hotel Juárez. The policeman pulled out a gun and Belano kept running. Lupe opened the car door. Alberto appeared on the sidewalk outside the hotel with a gun in his hand. I had been hoping he was carrying the knife. As Belano got into the car, Lima took off and we sped away along the dimly lit streets of Santa Teresa. Somehow we ended up heading in the direction of Villaviciosa, which we thought was a good sign. By around three in the morning we were completely lost. We got out of the car to stretch our legs. There wasn't a single light anywhere. I'd never seen so many stars in the sky.