“You must try the chiles en nogada,” Mr. de la Garza says, with endearing boyish eagerness. Like most of the bank’s Mexican clientele, he clearly considers it important to be a good host.
They both order the chiles en nogada and Gusano Rojo mezcal, and when Mr. de la Garza offers her a cigarette, she accepts. His fingertips are stained yellow, though the teeth below his dark mustache are strong and white.
“I only smoke in DF,” Lore admits with a laugh, taking her first drag. God, that feels good. A burning path back into herself.
“What a coincidence,” says Mr. de la Garza. “Me too.”
They laugh and toast when the mezcal arrives, and an hour passes before they even begin to talk business. Mr. de la Garza speaks of his company with an owner’s pride, the same pride in Fabian’s voice, the same pride she grew up hearing in her father’s voice. She hears something else, too: worry.
“You’re wise to consider depositing in a U.S. bank right now,” Lore says, swirling the last bites of her stuffed pepper in creamy sauce. “We’re predicting an annual devaluation of thirty percent next year. I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better.”
“U.S. banks are in trouble, though.” Mr. de la Garza pushes away his plate and reaches for his pack of cigarettes. He offers it to Lore, and she accepts. “Am I right?”
He’s referring, of course, to Mexico’s debt. As of last year, Mexico would need more than $8 billion a year to make its interest payments to U.S. banks. Thirteen of the biggest banks have $60 billion—almost half their total capital—to lose if Mexico collapses, and if Mexico collapses, the rest of Latin America will follow, toppling the whole international financial system.
“You must know we’re not a big bank,” Lore says. “We’re a community bank, a border bank—forty percent of our deposits come from Mexican nationals. Should the peso continue to fall while the dollar holds steady, your hundred thousand will multiply significantly in value. It’s a low-risk, stable investment in your business—and you don’t need to worry about us going down with the big boys.”
“Mmm.” Mr. de la Garza studies her thoughtfully.
Lore takes a sip of her second cocktail. “But if that doesn’t convince you, you also get me as your banker. And what that means is you have someone who cares about your business and who is dedicated to serving you. I think of my customers as family. And family is everything. Don’t you agree?”
Mr. de la Garza leans back in his seat, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. Lore smiles at the waiter who collects their plates with practiced discretion.
“Well, then.” Mr. de la Garza talks around his cigarette, leaning forward to outstretch his right hand. “I still believe in sealing a deal with a handshake.”
Lore takes his hand. “Welcome to the family.”
It’s a short walk from the restaurant to La Opera Bar. Giddy with her success and the glowing beauty of the Zócalo, Lore thinks of Andres’s voice on the hotel phone earlier: “No veo la hora.” Somehow, in Spanish, “I can’t wait” felt true and urgent, as if the waiting might kill him.
She can’t remember the last time she felt such exquisite anticipation, everything around her rendered sharp and luminous—the perfumed swirl of pedestrians, the golden arched windows of the Palace, the neon FELIZ NAVIDAD sign pulsating with early holiday madness. She can hardly catch her breath. Her chest is a music box whose key has been wound again and again and will wind no more.
Last night, she’d asked Fabian on the phone, “When are you coming home?”
Fabian sighed. “I don’t know, Lore. I’m doing my best here.” And he is—he’s bringing in sales, and as of this week, stopped paying himself so he won’t have to let anyone else go so close to the holidays.
“It’s been a month,” she said.
“And it may be another six,” Fabian snapped. “What’s the alternative?”
Lore thought of her parents, the risk they took with the loan, the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE sign on the door. Now she was the one who sighed. “You’re right. I’ll hold down the fort.”
A moment of silence, a bud opening. “Thank you, partner,” Fabian said softly. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I appreciate everything you’re doing. I appreciate you.”
Fabian hadn’t said he appreciated her in so long. Years, maybe. She was like a good soldier, who kept their lives regimented and smooth, and good soldiers don’t get acknowledged until, maybe, their leg gets blown off and they get a medal to pin on their lapel, too little, too late.
That night in the shower, she shaved her legs. She shaved her bikini line. She packed her nicest bra and panties, the black lace she bought at Bealls a few Valentine’s ago. She was only a body performing motions that wouldn’t mean anything unless her mind gave them meaning, and her mind refused to give them meaning. She was a woman shaving in the shower, packing nice underwear. That was all.
You can still turn around, she tells herself as the bar comes into view. Windows like closed eyes, the interior concealed by scarlet curtains. It’s not too late.
She reaches for the door handle.
Inside: red velvet booths, damask wallpaper, ornately carved wooden arches and ceilings. She stands in the doorway, and for a few mortifying seconds she’s sure he stood her up. She almost hopes he did. Then she thinks again of the low sandpaper rub of his voice, and it’s as if she summons him: he lifts an arm from the bar, and she can tell by his smile that he’s been watching her since she walked in.
Here we go, she thinks.
“Hello, Doctor,” she says, trying to keep her voice light as she nears him. He’s wearing dark slacks and a slightly wrinkled linen blazer, though they’re well into fall, and in the dim, his green eyes are all pupil. His hair is tucked haphazardly behind his ears. A shadow of stubble frames his lips, which are as precise as if they’re drawn in felt-tip. His features had faded in her memory. Now they are shockingly vivid.
“Hello, Ms. Crusoe,” he says, and there is that voice, familiar yet strange. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”
“Sorry.” Lore slides against the dark lacquered bar. The lapel of his jacket brushes her chest. “He wanted another drink to celebrate.”
“You got the deal?” Andres’s voice lifts, and Lore laughs, gratified by his excitement.
“Yes, short of seeing the deposit hit the bank.”
Andres smiles. “Can anyone resist you?”
“Not so far,” Lore quips, and she orders a dirty martini, something as glamorous as she wants to feel. “How was a part of your day?” she asks with a small smile.
“Actually,” he says, holding his Scotch, “my daughter—Penelope—she went into the hospital this morning. Appendicitis. You know my dad was a surgeon, so I grew up around hospitals—but when it’s your child in that bed . . .” He shakes his head.
Lore opens her mouth to tell Andres about the car accident she and the cuates were in when they were four—when she saw Gabriel’s head whip to the left in the rearview mirror, certain his neck would be broken when she wrenched open the door—and then realizes what she’s about to do. “I can only imagine,” she says instead, hoping he can hear the feeling in her voice, the way she’d grieved for a million years in those moments before discovering both cuates were okay. “Andres, what are you doing here? You should be with her!”
He smiles, touches her hand. “Thank you, but Rosana is spending the night there. Carlitos is home with his stepfather.”
“I didn’t realize Rosana had remarried.” Lore takes a sip of her martini, enjoying the bitterness. “What do you think of him?”
Andres stares at the mirrored alcove built into the wooden bar, where their reflections hide behind dark bottles. “He’s good to her and my kids. That’s all that matters.”
Men don’t want to talk about their exes—even she, who has only been with one man, understands this—but she needs to know how real this is, how real it could have been, if things were different. (If things were different. Her mind’s careful phrasing.)