Into the Beautiful North(12)
“You must be kidding.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Get out!” he cried.
“You get out!”
“This is my house!”
“This is my city!”
Nayeli was thrilled: politics in action!
Irma said, “It could be good for you when I’m in power.”
Garcí a-García took a meditative puff of his cigarette.
“What does this—this—problem have to do with me?”
“We demand, at the very least, a good job as projectionist.”
“I am the projectionist!” he said.
“Train a woman!”
He stared at her.
Aunt Irma leaned over the desk and said, “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Excuse me?” he cried.
“Someday I will be President,” Irma said. “It would be wise for you to get with our program and attend to the needs of the women who now rule this municipality.”
She audaciously grabbed his pack of cigarettes and shook one out for herself and then posed, waiting for him to light it.
Es la Bette Davis, Nayeli thought, having seen this very scene on Irma’s television.
Garcí a-García lit the cigarette.
Irma said, “Do you want to make money or not? Do you wish to benefit from good relations with City Hall?”
The Great Man stared over their heads, calculating. He smoked and thought. He slowly nodded.
It was all over in short order. Irma had already spoken to Nayeli’s mother, and she was ready to be trained for the job of Projectionist of the Pedro Infante. Nayeli watched, amazed, as the two negotiators shook hands.
“One last thing,” Irma said. “As a favor to me.”
“Name it, Champion.”
“I would like to see the cinema reborn with a film festival of my favorite Mexican superstar.”
“Oh, no,” Garcí a-García said, raising his hands as if to deflect a blow.
“This is nonnegotiable. I need the inspiration in these trying times of seeing Mexico’s greatest film star, Yul Brynner!”
“I have told you one hundred times that Yul Brynner is not a Mexican!” García-García cried.
“Are you crazy?” Irma snapped. “I was the bowling champion! I bowled in Mexicali! I bowled in Puerto Vallarta—and I saw his house! Right there in the jungle! On a hill! ?Es Mexicano, Yul Brynner!”
“No, no, no —”
“Besides,” Irma announced, “I saw Taras Bulba, and Yul Brynner spoke perfect Spanish.”
Garcí a-García shook his head.
“It was dubbed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irma said. “Come, Nayeli!” she snapped.
Garcí a-García stared at Nayeli.
“She’s impossible,” he said.
“I am counting on you,” Irma called.
Nayeli waved her fingers at him and walked out.
Election Day dawned brightly—no clouds in the sky at all. Everyone voted, even Garcí a-Garcí a—he shoved his ballot marked in favor of Ernesto James, the old mayor, into the box with manly force, then strode out, lit cigar in his mouth, showing his determination before mounting his bike to wobble home. Election monitors from Escuinapa manned the booths in the Secu Carlos Hubbard school assembly hall. Tacho cooked free ham tortas for all voters, and Nayeli busied herself running sodas to all the eaters. Tacho, no fool, put extra chipotle salsa on the ham and charged elevated prices for the cold drinks. The Fallen Hand made a killing.
It was a parade: María, the projectionist-in-training, accepted a round of applause when she swept into the polling place; Sensei Grey wore his fedora; Aunt Irma voted for herself; Tacho took a quick break from his grill to vote, then spelled Nayeli so she could do her civic duty. Yoloxochitl and La Vampira slouched in, acting bored. Tacho kept his eye on two outside agitators, El Guasas and El Pato, who lurked behind the whitewashed trees in the square. The ubiquitous narco LTD oozed past, followed by a black Cherokee with darkened windows.
It was all over by ten o’clock. The ballots were counted in La Mano Caída. As predicted, Aunt Irma won by a landslide.
Outgoing mayor Ernesto James noted darkly to Garcí a-García that it was women who counted the ballots, but there were not enough men to force a recount. Despairing, he looked at the female rabble gathered in the square and threw up his hands.
Aunt Irma took the podium in the plaza and announced, “What did I tell you!”
Firecrackers. Bottle rockets. Free burro rides for the children. A ninety-eight-year-old soldier from the last battle of the Revolution broke out a bugle and skronked like a dying elephant. Tacho turned up his stereo really loud and played records by El Tri and Café Tacuba.
Irma, the conquering heroine of Tres Camarones, threw her arm around Nayeli’s shoulders. She said, “A new age dawns.”
Chapter Seven
Night.
Mami was asleep—Nayeli could hear her soft, whistling snores coming from her room.
Poor Vampi, Nayeli thought. She was an orphan—her parents had died in one of those events Nayeli thought of as somehow especially Mexican. They had gone south instead of north, seeking work in Jalisco. Their bus driver had fallen asleep, and the bus had plunged off a cliff, killing all the passengers. The driver had survived.