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Authors: Paco Ignacio Taibo II
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every case, I told her she was right. But for some reason I didn’t say any of them aloud. I simply held her face and gave her a long, moist kiss. She returned it, and gave me another. I felt like I was in paradise again. Then she pushed me back.
She shook her head sadly. She didn’t understand me. I don’t understand myself either. She turned and walked off down the street. It was the last time I saw her. Years later, I heard she was at Tlatelolco in ’68 when the army shot at student demonstrators. She vanished that night; I never found out what happened to her or her body. That’s why, on nights when I’m a little drunk and get choked up, I imagine she managed to flee from the massacre and take refuge in Guatemala. Maybe she finished her studies and had a daughter who would become a masked hero fighting for justice in our country, just like she’d dreamed.
But I know that can’t be true, because in Mexico, films always have happy endings.
PART II
D EAD M EN W ALKING
BANG!
BY J UAN H ERNÁNDEZ L UNA
Roma
I ’m standing in front of the dark barrel of a gun, which is held by a guy who is watching me very carefully and gesturing unsympathetically. I try to move but the guy makes a sign indicating not to or he’ll have to shoot. I obey without taking my eyes from the barrel.
I’m on the edge of the roof. Down on the street, there’s a parked car with its motor running and lights on. I can’t tell if anybody’s in the car. I stay quiet, waiting for the guy to tell me what to do. My hands aren’t raised, and that worries me, though not too much, because I know that hands in the air don’t correspond to the usual script when there’s a gun involved.
A shot. If the bullet pierces me, I’ll have to try to stop the hemorrhaging, to stabilize my blood pressure. The stupid projectile will probably be dirty, which means it will cause an infection. Wounded, on my back on the roof of this building, it will be difficult to protect my nerves from possible damage; it will be impossible for me to excise the injured parts and save the rest.
Arrrggghhh! Mexico City, such a beautiful, dark sky! About to die, I greet you and watch each elusive red cloud as it floats on the south wind.
Dialogue. Right now there should be dialogue. Threatening phrases that indicate who has the power, and although there’s a gun aimed at me, every word suggests I’m the one with the ace up his sleeve.
I contemplate that “ace up his sleeve” and immediately regret it. You shouldn’t use clichés, even in real life.
The guy is still in front of me. I have no idea how long it’s been. I decide to pull another file from my memory and search for the moment that brought us to this point.
Running. I take quick steps through the street, up some stairs. The neighborhood is totally deserted at this hour, the lights dulled. There are children’s toys scattered on the patio. As I ascend the stairs, I feel somebody after me. The rattle of my feet is echoed by even heavier steps that keep me alert.
There are shouts. An old woman peeks out her window and sees my sweaty face. I want to try to make a joke, to say something like booooooooo , but the noise of the approaching steps forces me to reconsider, and I keep climbing higher.
When we get to the roof, I try to run but there’s nowhere else to go. I turn around and find the guy with the gun who tells me to stop, that it’s best to end this once and for all.
I suppose it is better to end it, but I keep looking at the gun’s barrel and then I see him, and I notice his face, which is scarred by smallpox or acne or one of those damn skin diseases. And then my gaze moves from his damaged face back to the gun barrel.
I reconsider. So it is not a cliff, it is not a ravine, it is not a planet of martyrdom; it is emptiness that fills this four- or five-story building.
From the roof, the smoke of a refinery can be seen to the west of the city. At this hour, it’s possible to discern guardian
She shook her head sadly. She didn’t understand me. I don’t understand myself either. She turned and walked off down the street. It was the last time I saw her. Years later, I heard she was at Tlatelolco in ’68 when the army shot at student demonstrators. She vanished that night; I never found out what happened to her or her body. That’s why, on nights when I’m a little drunk and get choked up, I imagine she managed to flee from the massacre and take refuge in Guatemala. Maybe she finished her studies and had a daughter who would become a masked hero fighting for justice in our country, just like she’d dreamed.
But I know that can’t be true, because in Mexico, films always have happy endings.
PART II
D EAD M EN W ALKING
BANG!
BY J UAN H ERNÁNDEZ L UNA
Roma
I ’m standing in front of the dark barrel of a gun, which is held by a guy who is watching me very carefully and gesturing unsympathetically. I try to move but the guy makes a sign indicating not to or he’ll have to shoot. I obey without taking my eyes from the barrel.
I’m on the edge of the roof. Down on the street, there’s a parked car with its motor running and lights on. I can’t tell if anybody’s in the car. I stay quiet, waiting for the guy to tell me what to do. My hands aren’t raised, and that worries me, though not too much, because I know that hands in the air don’t correspond to the usual script when there’s a gun involved.
A shot. If the bullet pierces me, I’ll have to try to stop the hemorrhaging, to stabilize my blood pressure. The stupid projectile will probably be dirty, which means it will cause an infection. Wounded, on my back on the roof of this building, it will be difficult to protect my nerves from possible damage; it will be impossible for me to excise the injured parts and save the rest.
Arrrggghhh! Mexico City, such a beautiful, dark sky! About to die, I greet you and watch each elusive red cloud as it floats on the south wind.
Dialogue. Right now there should be dialogue. Threatening phrases that indicate who has the power, and although there’s a gun aimed at me, every word suggests I’m the one with the ace up his sleeve.
I contemplate that “ace up his sleeve” and immediately regret it. You shouldn’t use clichés, even in real life.
The guy is still in front of me. I have no idea how long it’s been. I decide to pull another file from my memory and search for the moment that brought us to this point.
Running. I take quick steps through the street, up some stairs. The neighborhood is totally deserted at this hour, the lights dulled. There are children’s toys scattered on the patio. As I ascend the stairs, I feel somebody after me. The rattle of my feet is echoed by even heavier steps that keep me alert.
There are shouts. An old woman peeks out her window and sees my sweaty face. I want to try to make a joke, to say something like booooooooo , but the noise of the approaching steps forces me to reconsider, and I keep climbing higher.
When we get to the roof, I try to run but there’s nowhere else to go. I turn around and find the guy with the gun who tells me to stop, that it’s best to end this once and for all.
I suppose it is better to end it, but I keep looking at the gun’s barrel and then I see him, and I notice his face, which is scarred by smallpox or acne or one of those damn skin diseases. And then my gaze moves from his damaged face back to the gun barrel.
I reconsider. So it is not a cliff, it is not a ravine, it is not a planet of martyrdom; it is emptiness that fills this four- or five-story building.
From the roof, the smoke of a refinery can be seen to the west of the city. At this hour, it’s possible to discern guardian
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