Maria Elena
The dogs and I go for our morning walk. A cat corpse, skinny, orange-striped, lies in the alley next to the Horla cafe, a dried trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Victor is working in the cafe and makes me a latte. On my way home, an emaciated brown dog, with dreadlocked fur, scratching at fleas, runs from me. I dump kibble on the sidewalk and walk away. He waits until my dogs and I are at a safe distance, and then cautiously begins to eat, lifting his head every few seconds to scan the surroundings. Under the lamp-post with the shattered glass, where the pigeons nest, a tiny, naked body lies broken on the concrete, purple lids closed over eyes that will never open, soft yellow skin at the corners of the beak. Sitting on the sidewalk in front of the pizzeria, a sullen girl stares blankly while she sharpens the knife used to cut the pizza. She does this by rubbing the blade against the edge of the sidewalk.
Black-clad federales crammed into the back of a police truck speed by; the men clutch the roll bar with one hand, their automatic rifles with the other. Their faces are covered with black ski masks. In the bed of a white pick-up truck, a freshly slaughtered pig jounces flaccidly when the truck hits a speed bump.
Back home, at my apartment, a handsome silver-haired Mexican man lives next door; our back gardens connect. I have never seen his wife. Sometimes he brings me poetry he has written. He complains about Mexicans who do not speak Spanish in a grammatically correct way–the use of double negatives is a particular pet peeve. He asks me to come over today, to look at one of his apartments—“In case you have a friend who is looking for a place to rent.” He takes me inside his house, shows me the antique oven that belonged to his wife’s grandmother. It sits in the middle of the living room. He opens it, and reveals a supply of tequila and mezcal, which makes me laugh (still no sign of the wife). He tells me that way back when all these apartments were part of a hacienda, slaves were kept on the floor below us. Back outside, he picks a bag of lemons for me, while his tied up, skinny dog barks, desperate for attention. Inside a cramped coop by the lemon tree are the wife’s chickens, a moth-eaten rooster who crows mournfully, and a hen whose back is nothing but bare skin.
The view from my patio: a neighbour’s rooftop with a line of flapping laundry, a pack of chihuahuas who bark incessantly, and one large duck who likes to chase pigeons. One day, the duck is gone.
A black dog, a lactating bitch, follows my three dogs and me when we go on our afternoon walk. I stop at the carniceria and buy a rib of beef and throw it to her. She grabs it, rushes off with her treasure. In the tunnels which riddle the city like a bizarre rabbit warren, it is dark. There is a coffee roaster at the entrance to the tunnel between my apartment and el centro. When the beans are being roasted, the tunnel fills with coffee smoke.
Also in the tunnels: rats. The sidewalks are narrow and irregular, barely room for two people to pass. A couple with a stroller approach from the opposite direction. I have my three leashed dogs. A rat is between the stroller and me, and he can’t decide which way to go. Suddenly, he chooses to run towards me. I scream and one dog grabs the rat and tosses it in the air. It bounces off my leg, hits the sidewalk, and runs toward a sewer grate, pausing to glare at us before scurrying out of sight.
“Disculpe,” a woman says, when I pause for a moment at the other end of the tunnel, blinking in the sunlight. I cannot tell how old she is. Maybe 35, maybe 65. She holds an empty box of eyedrops out for me to see. She asks for money to buy more eyedrops. I give it to her. Now, whenever I see her, she asks for money. I have plenty of money, so I give her what I have in my pockets. I feel embarrassed, but I’m not sure if I am embarrassed for myself or for her. Maybe for the world in general. She has no front teeth and dresses in rags and sits by the dumpster. Sometimes we talk. She tells me that she has four children and smiles when she tells me their names. Her name, she says, is Maria Elena.
