A political thriller in which an independent candidate, threatened by the networks of power and organized crime, confronts corruption and misogynistic violence. A story of resistance, social denunciation, and survival in a country where impunity seems to know no bounds.
At Zenda we present the first two chapters of The Mermaid and the Retiree (Alfaguara), by Élmer Mendoza.
*****
One
Every woman is an invaluable jewel, like Inés Arredondo, who lends her name to this square and fills us with pride. So let’s shake off the dust, dear friends, let’s shed the weight of history that has pushed us into lockers we must tear down. Many have shown that we are capable of anything, and I want to be part of that group that fights and proposes laws that benefit women once and for all. It is necessary and we deserve it. A very meaningful step has been taken with the legislative reforms established by the Olimpia Law, which recognizes digital violence and punishes crimes that violate a person’s sexual privacy using digital means. We celebrate this; yet the horrors we endure, the humiliations we suffer, and the assaults that mark our backs like whips are unimaginable. Are we the majority in the country? Then we must also be adequately represented in Congress, and that is where I intend to go to assert that majority and tell everyone that we will not permit the murderers of women to roam free, that rapists of our daughters should not be allowed to commit their acts and go on as if nothing happened, even mocking their victims. Did you know that something as intimate as sanitary pads was invented by men? What a thing, right?
I love you, friend, clearer than mezcal.
Comadre, I will vote for this girl. She speaks well; now all that remains is for her to deliver if she wins.
We will go after harassers, those wretches who must bear the full weight of the law. We have to build a country where women receive the respect, education, and opportunities we deserve. Ricardo Vigueras says that in Mexico being a woman is like being born with a disability, and surely there are countless Mexicans who believe it. Let’s end that! Let’s prevent being a woman from turning into a curse! That’s it. Those are excuses, not real mischief. I am here because promises aren’t enough for women. Not anymore! We want realities that help us become better, and I will secure them at any cost!
All right, I think this woman is serious!
Night falls. The city is a surreal Andalusian hound. Indifferent applause. Flocks of birds return to their nests. The trees in the square tremble. About thirty women, friends and strangers who have paused, some with strollers, listen to the young woman with light brown hair speaking from the edge of an empty fountain. A measured voice. Half a dozen smokers, kept at a distance, look on at the gathering with derision.
Fucking old hag, she looks like she’s missing a screw.
Pure nonsense.
Minus one who comes as close as possible.
I would do her that favor.
She has a nice backside.
She pulls out a pistol and fires twice at the speaker. Ahh. She places her hands on her belly and collapses forward. Shouts. Blue blouse stained. Grandmother, what is this? Die, you bastard! Son of a whore! The birds take to the air. She never reaches the ground because a sturdy woman at the front stops her descent. Didn’t you say politics was a game? Killer! Faces of astonishment. Catch that bastard! The marked man runs. Surely he killed her. The strollers scatter quickly. Curses. He disappears toward Río Subterráneo.
**
Two
Although his bank account is under the name Camilo Granados, he is known as Néstor del Valle. A good life is a sudden decision.
He sits comfortably, reading in a beige leather armchair, part of a three-piece set. He wears worn jeans, a white T-shirt, a light jacket, and brown slippers. He ponders for a moment after the doorbell rings. It’s Thursday. Who could it be? He receives no visitors, has no close relatives, friends are scattered, and the neighborhood is free of mischievous children. He never expects anyone or orders takeout. A cozy three-bedroom house, with a living room and a kitchen. He has a habit of learning something every day, perhaps that’s why he isn’t easily intrigued. Still, he is attentive, and if someone calls, he will see who it is. Could a migrant be asking for help? They never come here; they prefer the main avenues, where they feel more comfortable and presumably receive better aid. Masks? Few people wear them. In the morning he read that Rubens painted with his blood—could that be true? There must be something in his shadowy drawings, because in The Three Graces or Perseus freeing Andromeda I doubt it; they are dazzling, overpowering works. He recalls Aoki Nyomi as he walks down a five-meter corridor; on one side his bedroom, on the other the living room, up to the dark wooden door that opens. Three elderly ladies, like him, watch him. He notices their smiles beneath their masks. That need brought by the Covid-19 pandemic that some still carry.
Good afternoon, neighbor, sorry to bother you; we live here, on the same street, I’m Magui, she’s Chita.
You can call me Comadre, as everyone does.
Thank you, ladies.
She said it, I’m Chita.
They are hospitable. They display political propaganda with a photo of a young woman; on their blouses they wear buttons with the same photo or with the slogan “Yes we can!”.
We are part of the Carmencita support committee, your left-hand neighbor who aims to become a federal deputy. The one with that pretty bougainvillea.
Néstor del Valle studies the trio of a little over two hundred years of age; with him they would likely total close to three centuries. And yes, I’ve seen the girl sometimes—tall, beautiful, with a perfect figure, perhaps thirty-five, and she sings quite well for a politician.
This afternoon we’re handing out flyers and asking for contributions; you see, campaigns are expensive, and Carmencita doesn’t yet have her party’s backing, which would rather keep her out.
She won’t get it.
Those bastards.
Chita seals the plea and pulls off her mask.
They never tire of placing obstacles in the way of women.
Fine features, an intense gaze.
But look, we won’t abandon her; we were very close to her grandparents, may they rest in peace, and she grew up here, in that house, alongside our own children who left long ago to follow their own paths.
Because of their professions, Comadre, don’t forget it.
You’ve only recently moved into the neighborhood and you don’t stand out much, so perhaps that’s why you don’t recognize her, but she is a remarkable young woman.
She sings beautifully.
Honestly, we’d love to see her in the Chamber of Deputies putting those macho men in their place, those who only bow to the president.
The voice of the master.
Silly fools in masks.
Chita again.
They dress well, wear short hair, discreet makeup and light perfumes. Perhaps you’ve seen one of them when she returns from her morning walks. She knows the girl’s grandmother because they used to greet each other from time to time.
So, dear neighbor, tell us whether we can count on you.
With pleasure, allow me a moment.
Del Valle goes back inside, crosses the hallway where small black figures painted on the wall hang with careful precision. White walls. A television where he occasionally watches films and documentaries. That girl has given me good moments with her singing without meaning to; she deserves my support. He returns two minutes later and places five thousand pesos in a blue toper, as shown by the Mrs. Magui.
Oh, thank you very much, sir, how splendid.
God bless you.
May you have good luck.
Any message for Carmencita?
That she keeps her promises.
We will tell her.
We will mention her name if you tell us what she calls herself.
That’s fine then.
Del Valle closes the door. He can hear the women’s joyful exclamations about the donation and feels good. It isn’t so hard to have a nice moment, even if he has to go back to the ATM to get cash. He returns to his favorite chair, opens a slim photo-book of black paintings like those on the wall, and for a minute studies one of them that fills the page, showing a woman tied by a black line to a stain of the same color. Asian features. He recalls Nyomi’s words before dying: Nothing must damage my work; neither the weather, nor time; perhaps fire could affect it, but nothing else; when you reach me, take it with you so that we may join in the afterlife. He closes it, takes up Sergio Ramírez’s Tongolele no sabía bailar and continues reading. Tongolele still offers no answers. The word pobreza (poverty) hides class contempt. A foolish ideological stance. His phone rings—the number of his bank executive—wanting to speak with Camilo Granados, one of his three names. He does not answer.
Cierra los ojos. Son las seis de la tarde. Los cierra porque ha escuchado dos descargas de AK-47. ¿Las imaginó? No, fueron reales, acaso a doscientos metros. Tal vez en el parque Antonio López Sáenz. Es verdad, reflexiona. Hace tiempo que no hay hora para matar. No es más un ritual. Se coloca el libro en el pecho y se queda quieto. Pone su mente en blanco. Se dice a sí mismo que es un viejo jubilado que vive sin esperar la muerte porque está seguro de que está a la vuelta de la esquina. Por hábito se mantiene activo, cuida su dieta y no abandona su gusto por la lectura, esos viajes maravillosos a otro universo. Quien cuenta los años espera la muerte. No es su caso. Bebe un trago de café frío, reflexiona, cada vez está más seguro de que lo más importante del mundo está dentro de su casa. Su mundo. ¿Es posible que cada quien tenga un mundo? Claro que no, y mis vecinas son una prueba confiable. Una quiere ser diputada y las otras quieren que lo sea. ¿Qué es lo que quiero yo? Medita un momento. Poca cosa, lee un poco, da vuelta a la página y sigue leyendo.
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Author: Élmer Mendoza. Title: The Mermaid and the Retiree. Publisher: Alfaguara. Sales: Todostuslibros.