The Black Minutes

10
Statement of Ramón Cabrera, AKA El Macetón

If you want to know what happened, keep quiet. I’m not going to start where you want or list the facts like you’re used to. I’m going to tell it just like I lived it, in the same order that everything happened, which is the only order I can deal with. Later, if you act right, I’ll give you a surprise. Yeah, I know I’m not in psychoanalysis, I know telling a story isn’t the same as confessing and you only want to hear the dark parts of the story; the dark parts are always what interests you most. Why do you have to be so morbid? I was about to die, I passed through a series of life-or-death trials, I found something that could change my life . . . and that’s not important to you: the only thing you want to know is if I slept with the social service girls and, above all, where I was at that time. I’m really sorry: I’m not going to start there. If you want to know what happened, keep quiet and listen to what I’m going to tell you.
No, I can’t walk, everything hurts: my leg, my chest, my neck, my ribs—more than anything else, my ribs. That’s why I’m going to sit on this sofa, in front of a TV that’s turned off. If I’m willing to tell you everything, it’s because I want to know what’s going to happen to us. Now be quiet, and don’t interrupt me.
It didn’t happen the way they said on the radio, in the press, or on the TV news. I didn’t want to get mixed up in the case, I want that to be clear. I’m like Rangel that way. Have you heard that name? Vicente Rangel, we know him better as El Músico. You don’t know him? I think you do.
It all started with the case, remember? The case they put me in charge of. I didn’t want to take it but I felt like I had to. I never look back, each person’s past is private, just theirs, nobody else’s. But I couldn’t drop the case when I found out he was involved. That’s why I kept investigating, even after they took the case away from me. That’s why I insisted, and they sent me to the hospital.
They say I woke up a day after the accident. When I woke up I was numb all over, and it took me a while to understand where I was. Everything hurt, it was hard to move, I was more asleep than awake, like coming out of a long hibernation. The first thing I felt when I was born again was that the world had become incomprehensible, they’d translated it into another language, which isn’t strange if you think about what happened to me. Mr. Obregón’s son tried to run me over. I got away by the skin of my teeth. I was luckier than him.
I remember a mockingbird hiding in the pine trees was singing and singing and never stopped. Anyone else would have enjoyed the sound of the bird, but not me, I was trying to sleep. Damn. I said to myself, f*cking stupid bird, we’ll see if they make him shut up. I tried to get up to throw a rock at it, but the neck brace prevented me and I woke up.
The first thing I saw was Fatwolf. What bullshit, I said to myself, I’m unconscious for twelve hours and the first thing I see is Fatwolf; that doesn’t make you want to live again. Excuse me, I said to him, but I’m going back to sleep. Don’t f*ck around, Cabrera, we found El Chaneque dead and you’re the suspect. What happened?
He told me that every Friday at 6 P.M. Agent Rufino Chávez Martínez, better known as El Chaneque, would go to a bar in Ciudad Madera where he’d usually spend a few thousand pesos. The waiters would greet him with total respect. Come in, sir, come in, your table’s ready. He’d ask for a bottle of whiskey, the best they had in stock. Since he knew what he wanted, the manager purchased a wide variety of bottles, imported from overseas. What do you have today, Totoro? I have a Scottish whiskey, aged in oak barrels. Or some bottles from Northern Ireland that are twelve years old.
El Chaneque would bring a girl with him, rarely the same one, and let her drink until eight o’clock; then he’d ask for the check. It was fun, and then they’d stay at the Subibaja Motel, aka the Seesaw Motel. Everyone knew his routine; El Chaneque was a creature of habit.
According to the waiters, El Chaneque arrived just like any other Friday with that week’s girl, sat down at his table, and, before Mr. Totoro could approach to greet him, one of the waiters served him two tequilas. Just one second, I didn’t order anything, the agent reproached him. The man at that table sent them to you, sir, and he pointed to a guy in a palm hat, sitting behind a column in the darkest corner of the bar. They say El Chaneque didn’t drink from the glass, unlike the bar girl, who gulped her free drink immediately. To your health, mi amor. At the far end of the bar, the guy with the palm hat also raised his glass. What’s going on, mi rey, asked the girl, you’re going to let me drink all by myself? El Chaneque cut her off with a halting gesture as the man left the bar, leaving two bills on the table.
Good afternoon, Licenciado, the manager greeted him, it’s so good to see you! They just delivered a few bottles from. ...
I’ll be right back, said El Chaneque, get the girl whatever she wants. The girl ordered a crab stew and three tequilas. At seven, she thought: He’s taking so long, and at eight she realized he wasn’t coming back.
So confess, f*cking Macetón, tell me you did it and tell me why.
You’re full of shit, f*cking Fatwolf! I asked him what time it all happened, the fat ass told me, and I shouted: How could I kill him if I was unconscious! They ran me over at that same time. Honestly, you’re full of shit, you f*cker.
Well, OK, Macetón, but you’re the main suspect for some people. Everybody says you’re not doing so good at work, that the chief is trying to fire you, that you messed with El Chaneque and argued with him in front of everybody.
We argued? Damn, you’re really beating around the bush: the a*shole almost killed me.
They’re also saying you’re not getting along with your wife.
That’s my business, I told him, and hers. Am I under arrest?
What do you mean under arrest, you’re under protection. The state attorney general ordered us to take care of you until things calmed down. There are a lot of people who want you dead, starting with Mr. Obregón. And you know who you have to thank for your protection? Don Rubén Blanco, who’s positive they tried to kill you because you were investigating his son’s death. He worked his connections and they sent me to take care of you. Well, you didn’t take such good care of me at headquarters, jerk. Chávez almost broke my leg. Yeah, I already heard you got into it with El Chaneque. . . . Your old lady’s in the hall, you wanna see her?
Hell, yeah, I said, of course I do.
You were cold and distant and I told you: Okay, thanks a lot. Look I’m really tired.
You don’t want me to stay?
No. You were acting really strange the last few days, almost like you were happy I didn’t go back to work. That’s the impression you gave me, don’t argue. Then they brought breakfast: just some mush and a juice. You left.
Can I get you anything? The nurse asked. A glass of water, I said, a really big glass. I’m dying of thirst.
The next person to get there was the Bedouin, which was completely pointless, because we’ve never gotten along well. When he saw my neck brace, he said: F*cking Macetón, that’s a good look for you. Before he could move, I grabbed the glass of water and emptied it on his shirt. The Bedouin didn’t react. He just dried off his shirt and said good-bye.
I had other visitors that afternoon. Ramírez, who was proud of my exploits, and Columba, the kid with glasses. Ramírez said, Congratulations, maestro, you started a revolution. The attorney general says he’s going to talk with you, that he needs someone like you in the chief’s office. Finally they’re going to recognize your work.
What? What are you talking about?
Nothing, Ramón, just that you’re their candidate to take over the shop.
The kid with glasses looked at me like he admired me. I knew you didn’t have anything to do with killing El Chaneque, he told me. We always knew you were an honorable guy, even though they did find your fingerprints at the scene of the crime.
Look, kid, my fingerprints are my own business, don’t bother me with that.
Whatever you say. And Ramírez and the kid couldn’t stop smiling. Damn, I thought, first I fight with my old lady and then I become a hero to the young people. Damn, don’t I have all the luck. I had an upsetting premonition: And Rosa Isela? Why isn’t she here, fighting it out with me?
She couldn’t come, said the fat guy, Ramírez, but she sends her best.
She’s going out with Camarena, said the kid. They’re together now.
What? With Camarena? Holy shit, I thought, son of a bitch, he just waited till I was distracted to start flirting with the social service girls. . . . I didn’t pay much attention to what the kid in the glasses was saying till I heard him say he was able to open the disk. What? I was able to open the disk, it was easy.
And so?
Nothing, I found the journalist’s report.
What? Are you sure?
Well, yeah, that’s right, sir, it has his signature.
Hmmm, I said to him, then I lowered my voice, who else knows about this?
Just me and Ramírez, he answered like he was confused.
OK, you and Ramírez can’t say a word about this. Can you print the document?
Here it is—he handed me a huge stack of papers, printed and spiral bound—I thought you’d be interested.
Why’d you bring him that right now? Ramírez asked, he needs to relax.
Don’t f*cking worry about that, I said. Damnit, give me that, Ramírez, and you, give it here. Thanks, I told them, and don’t tell anybody, especially not Fatwolf; this is between you and me. I got rid of them immediately and started reading.
It took me all night to read the manuscript, and I didn’t stop even though my whole body was hurting. If Fatwolf or the nurses knocked on the door, I’d hide it away. When I finished, I said to myself: Wow, so that’s what happened. No wonder the chief is so mean, and no wonder they went after Bernardo. These were serious allegations. What do I do? Do I take these allegations literally or do I read them like a novel? Damnit, they’re really intense. Goddamn that Fritz! Why didn’t he tell me he knew the whole deal? And what about me? F*cking reporter, I said to myself, didn’t even mention me! He didn’t put down one goddamn word about yours truly. I was there, too, I was already working there when this stuff happened, but he didn’t mention me. It’s true, nobody ever notices the pacifists.
I read the whole tome and I still had two questions: What happened with the killer? And what happened to Rangel? It was like there was another part missing. Where’s the last part? I thought about it the whole night at the hospital and came to a conclusion: the second part doesn’t exist because he was about to write it. The reporter was going to interview another person to find out the end of the story. And in the journalist’s planner, there was just one word: Xilitla. And a name: Vicente Rangel.
The idea didn’t come to me when I saw the planner, or when I found out the journalist was writing an article about the seventies. But when I went to the newspaper library and when I talked to René Luz, I had no doubt....
Fatwolf wasn’t very good at protecting me. Two times when I got up to go to the bathroom, I stuck my head out to see him and both times I found him nodding off. What a brave bodyguard they gave me, I thought, but it was all the same to me: it was actually better for me. I waited until he fell asleep and said to myself: I’ve gotta act fast, I can’t lose any time, so I left the hospital and, pushing myself to my limits, I found an empty taxi. It was about a hundred degrees outside, perfect weather for breeding rattlesnakes.
I went to get clothes at my house. I got dressed, called a cab to go to the bus station, and went to Xilitla. I slept in a hotel and the next day I started to show the newspaper clipping to people. Soon, very soon, a boy charged me five pesos to show me the way to a place along the highway and he left me there. I had my pistol with me, just in case. According to the description of the person who killed El Chaneque, I thought it might be the accountant, Práxedes, the tracker for the Paracuán cartel, or maybe not.
Gun in hand, I crossed the street and only saw a small rusted trailer with a plastic table and beach chairs out front. A car from the seventies was on its side, abandoned to its fate. You wouldn’t have thought anyone lived there, if it weren’t for a battery-powered radio playing the blues. There was a hammock tied between two cypress trees, and a soccer ball. A neon-colored frog croaked in the lake. I tried to move forward and stepped on a mass of dried leaves. Immediately, I heard someone cock their gun. Hold still or I’ll fire, a gravelly voice yelled, who’s out there? No problem, I threw my gun on the ground, I’m not looking for trouble. You better not be, the person yelled, I’ve got a happy trigger finger. A shotgun was pointing at my stomach from inside the trailer.
What are you looking for? I’m looking for Vicente Rangel, I told him.
A man who looked to be about forty-something, wearing cowboy boots, with a long mustache, stepped out to look me over. He was the same guy as in the old clippings. Neither one of us said a word until the radio put on a Rigo Tovar song. I said, What a good song, and he said, It’s shit. Then we started to talk. F*cking Macetón, he said, how long’s it been? Twenty years? he said. They tell me you’re still working with those guys. That’s right, I told him, you got good information.
We talked for two hours. Then I understood why you got nervous when I was looking for some guy named Vicente Rangel, why you were so irritable then. They’d already told me you knew him, but I refused to believe it until I read the manuscript. My fears were confirmed.
I always imagined that something happened between you two, when you working for El Mercurio. I know you’ve seen him recently. You ran into each other by chance in the city, when he came back, and you don’t know what to do. That’s normal, he was an important person in your life.
I know you’re going to leave; I know you’re going to leave and I’ll never see you. I’ll have to make do with the social service girls—that is, if there’s still time, if I can still find one who likes real coffee. If you’d like to know, that person who you’re so worried about is waiting. I promised him I’d pass on his message and I’d respect your reaction. There’s a sense of ethics, or there should be a sense of ethics, between honorable coworkers, between people who tried to do their job well. In the end, I’ve been with you since he disappeared.
Ever since we met, you’ve only had eyes for Rangel. When he went missing, you went to Mexico City for a while, and I missed you. If you ask if I went out with other girls, I did. I had to distract myself somehow, but I did miss you. I knew you’d come to the port all of a sudden, you’d stay a few days and then you’d go back. That’s why, when I found you two years ago at that gas station, I didn’t have to think about it at all. I went for you, and you know the rest.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with me. I might stay, accept the attorney general’s offer, in which case I would have to be very careful, Mr. Obregón is dangerous. I might leave, live peacefully somewhere else. But things are going to heat up, there’s no doubt about that. There’ll be problems in Paracuán.
Now, my love, you have to decide: you can stay or you can leave, you have the right to do whatever you want. Thanks for hearing me out. I just ask you for one thing: if you leave, give me the remote for the TV. It’s the least you can do for a pacifist.



Postscript

This is a work of fiction about an imaginary murder and an imaginary city, so any similarity or relationship to reality is courtesy of you, kind reader. Besides a novelist, a singer, and a detective who appear in the story with their real names and do things they never did in real life—though without a doubt they could have done them—the rest of the characters emerged out of a question heard in a dream. My novel is a response to that question and, at the same time, a saludo to the following people: Bernardo Atxaga; Ana Berta and Alejandro Magallanes; José Javier Coz; Jis, Trino, Alejandro, and Evelyn Morales; Rogelio Flores Manríquez; Federico Campbell; élmer Mendoza; David Toscana; Eduardo Parra and Claudia Guillén; Horacio Castellanos and Silvia Duarte for the old man and the trip to Poland; Carlos Reygadas; Mónica Paterna; Raúl Zambrano and Sophie Gewinner; Guillermo Fadanelli; Luis Albores; Elia Martínez; Adela and Claude Heller; Rogelio Amor Tejada; Ricardo Yá?ez; Daniel Sada; Karina Simpson; Rogelio Villarreal; Pedro Meyer; Adriana Díaz Enciso; Freddy Domínguez; Paulina Del Paso; Alicia Heredia; Juan José Villela; Coral Bracho and Marcelo Uribe; Claude Fell; André Gabastou and the members of the Paris Workshop, specifically Jorge Harmodio, Miguel Tapia, Cynthia Rosas, Iván Salinas, and Lucía Raphael. I am indebted to each of them, just as I am to Luis and Mónica Cuevas Lara; Ignacio Herrerías Cuevas and Ignacio Herrerías Montoya; Rosario Heredia Tejada; Gely and Luis Galindo; Taty and Armando Grijalva; Héctor and Andrea Rosas; Sálvador, Pablo, Rosa María, and Modesto Barragán; Silvia Molina; Juan Villoro; Sergio Pitol; Francisco Toledo; Guillermo Quijas; Claudina López; Agar and Leonardo da Jandra; Guita Schyfter; Hugo Hiriart; Guillermo Sheridan; Joaquín and Alicia Lavado; Ulises and Paty Corona; Tedi López Mills and álvaro Uribe; Gerardo Lammers; Carlos Carrera; Francisco Barrenechea; Jorge Lestrade; Florence Olivier; Amelia Hinojosa; Svetlana Doubin; and Erika and Néstor Pérez Castillo.
For their interest and faith in my novel, Andrew Robinton, Lauren Wein, Amy Hundley, Morgan Entrekin, Christilla Vasserot, Dominique Bourgois, Junot Díaz, Mario Mu?oz, Sara and Oswaldo Zavala, Aura Estrada, Miguel Aguilar, Claudio López, and Braulio Peralta share my gratitude with the first generous readers of the manuscript: Sylvia Pasternac, Luis Camarena, Valerie Mejer, Jorge Volpi, Vesta Herrerías, Augusto Cruz, and Francisco Goldman, who were the most critical friends and the most supportive critics, and to whom I owe the urge to write and rewrite this story.