Into the Beautiful North(10)

“We are Mexicans,” Irma informed the fruit seller—needlessly, he felt. “Mexicans eat corn and beans. Did you notice? The Aztec culture gave corn to the world, you little man. We invented it! Mexicans grow beans. How is it, then, that Mexicans cannot afford to buy and eat the corn and beans they grow?”

He would have kicked her out of his stall, but he had manners—his mother would have been deeply offended if he had tossed out this old battle-ax.

He smiled falsely.

“Look here,” he said, pointing to the burlap sacks full of 100 pounds each of pinto beans. “These beans come from California.”

“What!”

He actually flinched away from her.

La Osa took her reading glasses out of her voluminous black purse, and the girls crowded around her. They read the fine print. California, all right. Right there on the bag.

“?Chinga’o!” she said.

“These beans are grown here in Sinaloa,” he said proudly. “The best frijoles in the world! Right near Culiacán. Then they’re sold to the United States. Then they sell them back to us.” He shrugged at the mysterious ways of the world. “It gets expensive.”

Tía Irma took a long time to replace the glasses in the purse.

“That,” she finally proclaimed, “is the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He smiled, hoping she would not strike him with that purse.

“NAFTA,” he said.

Irma stormed out of the stall and spied a Guatemalan woman picking through the spoiled fruit.

“What are you doing?” she snapped.

“Provisions. For the journey north,” the woman replied. She made the mistake of extending her hand and saying, “I have come so far, but I have so far to go. Alms, se?ora. Have mercy.”

“Go back where you came from!” Irma bellowed. “Mexico is for Mexicans.”

The girlfriends were appalled.

“Do you think anyone ever showed mercy to me?”

As the girlfriends followed Aunt Irma, she told them, “These illegals come to Mexico expecting a free ride! Don’t tell me you didn’t have Salvadorans and Hondurans in your school, getting the best education in the world! They take our jobs, too.” She muttered on in her own steamy cloud of indignation. They tuned her out as they marched to the candy seller’s. “What we need is a wall on our southern border.” At least, she continued, the goopy sweet potato and cactus and guava and dulce de leche Mexican candies were made by Mexicans in Mexico and could still be bought by Mexicans in Mexico!

Irma bought mesh bags full of onions, garlic, potatoes. She bought a kilo of dribbly white goat cheese. She scoffed at the coconut milk sellers with their straws poked into cold coconuts. If she wanted a goddamned coconut, she’d hire Tacho to climb a tree! She purchased some candies and melons and limp bunches of cilantro. To hell with Mazatlán’s tortillas—Tía Irma would buy good, hot, fresh tortillas right in Camarones, patted into being by the trusted hands of her comadre Do?a Petra. These damned city slickers used machines to press out tortillas, anyway. Ha! Robot food!

“Can I drive?” Nayeli asked when they had reached the car.

“Oh, God,” Tía Irma grumbled, but she gave her the keys.



I’m lonely, Tía,” Nayeli announced.

Yolo and Vero were asleep again.

The She-Bear scoffed.

“Lonely?” she said. “How can you be lonely with good friends, and… and a good book to read!”

“That’s Yolo,” Nayeli said. “She’s the reader.” She passed a lopsided Ford truck overloaded with cucumbers.

“Blinker,” Irma reminded her. Cucumbers fell from the truck like small green bombs, and the Cadillac slid a little on them as she changed lanes. For a moment, the road smelled like a fresh salad.

“Who will touch my face?” Nayeli asked.

Three children chased white chickens before a small house with an open door.

“Who will bring me flowers?”

“Hmm,” Tía Irma responded.

“I want to see the lights of a city at night.”

“Mazatlán,” La Osa patiently lectured, “is a major city, my dear.”

“I’ve never seen it at night. Only by day. Only to buy groceries.”

“Oh,” said Irma.

“Did no one sing you a serenade when you were young?” asked Nayeli.

“Of course!” Irma replied. “I was gorgeous as hell!”

“Did no one say dashing things to you on the plazuela on Saturday night?”

Tía Irma smiled.

“Well!” she said. “I suppose. El Guero Astengo was quite dapper…. But it was Chavarín, Chava the Magnificent. Well! That was the definition of dashing!”

She trailed off. Stared out the window. Nayeli thought she heard the impossible: Irma sighed.

“Who will do that for me?” Nayeli asked. “There are no serenades in Camarones. Who will dance with me?”

Irma could not answer her.





Chapter Six



The election was mere days away. Some of the women, it must be said, had not yet accepted the idea that a woman could be Municipal President. They had been told that they were moody and flighty and illogical and incapable for so long that they believed these things. It took much cajoling and cursing on Irma’s part to shock them out of their ruts. Nayeli was a driving force among the young of the village—all twenty of them. Nine of the youngsters could vote, and all of these girls were voting for Irma. Those ineligible signed as best they could a statement pledging moral support for Irma’s candidacy, and promised to argue the case to their mothers and grandmothers. As for Irma, she had an argument of her own.