Read Online The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant - Free Book Online

Aztecs. Now, with Santa María and Señor Mezcal by their side who can stop them? Like this, all together, they come up Juárez, filling the street, the sound of them getting louder and the federales getting nervous, looking at each other, not sure where to put their fingers until two of them come forward with their guns by their hips. “This street is closed,” says one. “Go back!”
    It is a dangerous moment. The federales are outnumbered and the people are not stopping. The woman officer is watching César, but she must also watch the calenda and her men. Everyone is watching the monos too because not to watch is impossible. They are giants, six meters tall and very colorful, also very particular because many people make their own how they want. Mister Peanut is my favorite, and when you’re inside that mono loaded with mezcal you are not really you anymore. You are something else because what is the mono really but a kind of spirit—nothing more than empty clothes on a bamboo frame. To such a one the bullet can do no more damage than to a ghost or a cloud. So the monos keep coming, spinning in circles with their long arms flapping and their giant heads nodding this way and that like they are saying hello to everyone in the houses along the street where the shutters are now opening, to the birds in the trees and the stars in the sky, to the radio towers blinking across town on Cerro del Fortín.
    The lady mono with the yellow hair is still in front and her chichis are even more wonderful up close, bouncing around in her red dress, balloons of helium filled with so much love by the mono dancer. At the same time, Benito Juárez—our great hero and liberator, el Mono MaxiMex—is bending over like he is inspecting the two federales below him and asking them some question like, Do you know whose street you’re on?
    In between the monos comes now the mezcal man with his big bottle and who knows where the top is? Over his shoulder is a string bag and in this are some tubes of bamboo about as long as your finger. These are the cups for the mezcal and he is taking some out to offer the federales who are serious men, but they are also young and even la policía can be believers—maybe some are even Zapotec. It is hard to be completely angry in such a situation—after all, the nights in the truck can be so long and boring. But these are thoughts happening inside and their guns are happening outside, still on their hips and pointing into the heart of the calenda. This is how they confront the monos and the mezcal man, who stop now about twenty meters down the block from César and me. From behind are still coming las chinas oaxaqueñas and the musicians, and now everyone is bunching up behind the monos and spreading onto the sidewalks and the air is getting thick and loud with the smoke and music and rockets launching with loud screams that are imitated by some of the men so it sounds like twenty rockets going up at once.
    César is standing by the side of the taxi, watching all this like a man in a trance and I am a couple meters behind him. There is a soft wind blowing and with it comes the smell of smoke and sweat and lilies and mezcal. It is at this moment that Axl Rose, who is still spinning in circles, trips on the sidewalk. He is a tall one and he goes down slow like a big tree falling. When finally he hits the ground, he blocks almost the whole street like a barricade, and his giant papier-mâché bandana rolls away leaving only those crazy eyes made of broken mirror glass staring through a mess of orange yarn. Everyone is cheering for the fallen mono and another rocket goes up. Then, one more time, the lights change—the red man turns into the green man and, very loud, someone starts singing “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”
    This is the signal for César. Juquila has heard him.
    The green man is running and now César is running too—for his