Into the Beautiful North(11)

The legendary Garcí a-García, owner of the theater, Aunt Irma’s distant cousin, and the sole rich man of the town, had spent days on the telephone, fighting bad connections and tropical ennui, calling to far Culiacán and Los Mochis, even all the way to Tecuala, searching for a fresh projectionist, his last one having departed to Michigan to pick apples. Apparently, the trade was a dying concern, and he could find no available takers, so Garcí a-García himself was forced to suffer in the sauna-hot booth, tying a rag around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes and stuffing toilet paper into his ears so the rattling whine of the machines didn’t make him deaf.

At the age of sixty-five, Garcí a-García was feeling spent. Tired. And he was so worried about money that he had his wife shut off the air-conditioning unit in his cement-block home across the town square from the theater. She was so appalled by this descent into barbarity that she took his Impala and drove herself to Mazatlán to stay with her cousin.

The Cine Pedro Infante took the place of television for most people in town, so it was Garcí a-García’s endless challenge to maintain a steady flow of double features. He couldn’t afford to let a movie run for a week—in two days’ time, everyone who could pay to see it would have passed through his doors. The movies were an essential lure so he could collect inflated prices for beer, soda, and ham-and-chile tortas at the little stand behind the screen. So what if it turned out the films were of poor quality, whole reels mysteriously spliced out, Chinese subtitles, cat-scratched frames, and underwater sound tracks—a fresh set of titles on the theater marquee meant a lucrative night at the torta stand.

Garcí a-García had a big white house at the end of Avenida Bernal Díaz del Castillo, and its tall metal door—also painted white—boomed like thunder as Irma pounded on it. La Osa fingered a lock of hair behind Nayeli’s ear. “Posture,” she said. Nayeli stood up straighter. The cinema was visible down the way and across the street, dark and melancholy as a haunted house, its steel shutters down and padlocked.

One of García’s five housekeepers answered the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“I am here to see El Se?or,” said Irma.

“One moment.”

She slammed the door.

The door opened.

“He will see you now.”

“Gracias.” Irma swept in and tipped her head slightly to the young woman, who then looked Nayeli’s body up and down, judging her and finding her lacking.

Irma stepped in and Nayeli followed and they were at Garcí a-García’s desk.

“Ah,” he said, putting his cigarette in an ashtray. “My cousin the champion.”

“We are tired of this shit,” Irma informed him.

Nayeli wasn’t sure what was happening; for a moment, she believed Irma was talking about the missing men.

“What shit is that, Irma?” Garcí a-García asked. His Spanish made even that inane comment sound elegant. “?A cual mierda te refieres, Irma?”

“Movies,” she explained.

“Movies?”

“Movies!”

“Ah, movies.”

He spread his hands and leaned back in his chair. Nayeli noticed he had very important looking papers scattered on his desk. Behind his chair, there was a French poster for the movie Bullitt, Estip McQueen with a face like a monkey.

“I am here with my campaign manager, Nayeli Cervantes.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Campaign manager,” he replied, leaning forward and offering his hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Nayeli.”

“Sir.”

“Am I your uncle?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hmm. I must add you to my Christmas list in that case.”

She shook his hand and smiled. She was always smiling. His eyes dropped to her chest—fluttered there as nervously as a moth. His eyes sparkled brightly when he looked back up at her. He tugged her hand a little, and for a brief moment, she thought he’d pull her over the desk.

Oh no, she thought, eso sí que no: That absolutely won’t happen.

“Mucho gusto, se?or,” she said, getting her hand back.

“Smiley girl,” he said to Aunt Irma.

“She is a karateka,” La Osa replied. “Nayeli could karate-kick you to death where you sit.”

“That’s hardly feminine.” He sniffed.

“Perhaps,” Nayeli suggested, “it is time for a new kind of femininity.”

La Osa beamed: that’s my girl!

“After the election,” Irma warned, “I will expect certain employment opportunities for the women of this town.”

“Employment!” He snickered. He laughed out loud. They didn’t. “I already hire women,” Garcí a-García offered lamely.

“Women sell sandwiches and popcorn,” Irma said. “Women take tickets and mop out your toilets. But that’s not where the real money is.”

“Well,” Garcí a-García explained, “the real money goes to management, to the projectionist—”

Irma nodded, smiling benevolently.

“No, wait,” Garcí a-García said.

“You wait,” she replied.