Elisa paused to incline her head toward Atl, in what Domingo thought was a microscopic salute. Then she walked out of the joint without another word.
A waitress came around to ask if they wanted more drinks. Three mariachis were headed to their table, eager for business. Bernardino tossed several bills on the table and grabbed his cane.
“Let’s go. I can’t stand this infernal place. My head feels as though it might burst,” Bernardino said.
Domingo took a final sip of his beer and stood up. Despite the cane, Bernardino moved surprisingly fast, evading drunkards and servers, leaving them behind in a heartbeat. Once outside, Atl and Domingo were able to catch up with him.
“Who’s the right person?” Atl asked. She sounded anxious, and the way she walked next to Bernardino only seemed to reinforce this impression, something about her reminding Domingo of the incessant fluttering of a hummingbird. “You said you knew the right person.”
“Manuel Tejera.”
“Can he get me into Guatemala?”
“If he wants to. He’ll want to after I’ve spoken to him,” Bernardino said firmly.
“Do we go see him now?”
“Yes.”
Atl slowed down for a second, then lost her balance and stumbled. Domingo grabbed her, steadying her. Her eyes seemed glassy and she winced.
“Bernardino, she’s not looking too good. Maybe we should do this tomorrow. Or we can come back together, you and me, while Atl rests.”
“I’m fine,” Atl said, protesting loudly.
“No, you’re not,” Domingo said. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
They evaded a puddle of barf smack in the middle of the sidewalk and Domingo leaned down, closer to her.
“Atl—”
“You can’t send me home for a warm glass of milk,” she said, irritated.
“I’m not trying to be a dick, it’s just I don’t like seeing you in pain,” he said, a hand resting against her shoulder. “Atl, you can trust us. We can do this for you.”
“Make up your mind and tell me if you’re coming or not,” Bernardino warned them.
“I said I’m fine.”
Atl elbowed Domingo away and walked next to Bernardino. He followed them with a sigh.
*
The symbol of the subway station at La Merced was a basket filled with apples, clear commemoration of one of the most famous—or infamous—markets in Mexico City. In the time of the Aztecs it had been home to the House of the Birds and after the Spanish conquest it was the place where authorities determined the prices of grain. It sprawled across dozens of blocks where merchants, prostitutes, and buyers spent their days haggling.
At night the street sellers of La Merced had packed their wares away. The stores were closed. But it was still a lively place, with the prostitutes working the streets. Rows and rows of women in miniskirts, high heels, and pounds of makeup stood texting their friends. When they walked by they looked up for a second at them or flashed them a crimson smile.
Bernardino led them to the doors of a vecindad, which, like most other buildings in this quarter, hailed from the previous century or two. There was no buzzer and Bernardino did not even pull out a key. He simply pushed the door open, and open it did.
The interior patio smelled heavily of dry shrimp, and Domingo realized, looking at crates piled high, that it was because there was quite a lot of shrimp there. La Merced belonged to merchants, and Domingo wasn’t surprised to see someone had decided to store goods in the patio, forcing people to walk around the crates.
The shrimp made him think of the sea, which he’d never seen. He guessed he might see it now, with Atl.
Bernardino led them to a door that had been decorated by attaching dozens of plushies and plastic toys to it. There were naked dolls, plastic figurines without their limbs, and a one-eyed teddy bear. It was creepy as hell, and made Domingo give Atl a worried look. But she stood stoically as Bernardino rapped on the door.
There was a faint movement of the curtains in the window to the left of the door and then an old man opened the door for them. He was gray, this man, as though he’d been placed in the washing machine too many times. Even his lips seemed gray. His T-shirt, of a color that only approximated white, was stained yellow at the neck.
“I didn’t think you left your home anymore,” the old man said. “I thought you’d turned into a regular old hermit.”
“Invite us in,” Bernardino replied.
“I like that about your kind, Bernardino. You are polite. You don’t break windows and storm into a house. Come in, then. Come.”
The apartment was tiny. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were in one spot. A curtain with a pattern of daisies, dangling over a piece of rope, divided the small space. Domingo figured behind the curtain was both the man’s bed and the bathroom.
“You look good.”
“I don’t think I can say the same,” Bernardino said smoothly.