The Shadow of the Shadow (9 page)

THE POET OPENED THE CENTER section of the
newspaper and admired his work. Anonymous by nature, not really
the kind of thing he'd be doing if he had a choice, but there it was
in black and white all the same.

Here's a cure that's guaranteed for that gentleman in need...
Suffering from gonorrhea? Three days, ten pesos.

The competition, Gorreina, had an ad alongside his that was
unmistakably inferior.

In the left-hand column there was another one of his master
works:

Tan lac has successfully cured thousands of Mexicans living in the
USA. Countless Mexicans have seen how their relatives and friends
in the USA have regained health and happiness with Tanlac, the
world-famous cure for all stomach ailments.

He was particularly proud of the ad's semi-religious tone, its
sanctimonious air, emphasized by the kindly face of the old man
in the accompanying picture, drinking Tanlac and feeling like all
the world.

Another one of his best efforts appeared in the bottom lefthand corner, like a variation on a theme:

Chronic case ofgonorrhea? Here's a cure that's guaranteed. You can
trust our humble creed.- sure as a man's word of honor. Only three
days, ten pesos.

He liked this one for its military tone, designed to appeal to
the young officers so susceptible to social diseases.

There were a few more of the offspring of his underemployed
pen scattered here and there across the page:

Mental fatigue? Brain drain? Reach for marvelous Cerebrina
cordials.

Both the jingle and the name of the product in that one were
his own invention.

The poet saw his work, which some fools were starting to refer
to as "marketing," as the ultimate joke, something to while away
the sleepy mornings, to pay for his scrambled eggs, salsa borracha,
and tortillas. A way to mark his passage through the turbulent
streets of Mexico City, a way to survive. Maybe what he liked the
most about it was that in the two years he'd been writing ads for
patent medicines (back pain getting to be too much, threatening your
stability?-he liked this one for its magical, enigmatic strangeness)
no one had been able to get him to pop a single pill into his mouth
(Dr. Lovett's Little Pink Pills guaranteed to return you to health,
whatever your ailment).

In his daily perusal of the medical adverts page in the newspaper, there was something of the contented air of a rural patriarch,
spiced with an ironic but professional sense of satisfaction.

On this particular morning, he worked at his desk with the
window open and the breeze carrying a rainy dampness into the
room. He glanced over the competition and then settled back to
think up a name for the latest product from the laboratories of F.
M. Espinosa and Company, designed to cure feminine maladies,
headaches, weakness, sterility, tumors, liver spots, and other disorders,
etc.

He dipped the point of his pen in the inkwell and without
hesitation started to write:

Saravia Espinosa. Cures all...

THE WOMAN TURNED AROUND and stared."MayIask
why you're following me?" she said.

"My name is Pioquinto Manterola, ma'am, journalist by trade.
And your face..."

They stood in the middle of Alameda Park, in the center of
town. The woman held a yellow parasol against the penetrating
rays of the sun,while the journalist was forced by a sense of chivalry
to doff his English-style cloth cap, exposing his bald dome to the
merciless heat. Nearby a small boy sold fruit-flavored shaved ices
from a cart.

"I certainly hope you realize that the mere fact of being a
reporter doesn't give a man the right to go following a woman all
over town. Why, if that were the case..."

She smiled. Manterola had spotted the Widow Roldan and
a companion walking down the street as he left the newspaper
and he'd followed them to the park. Her friend had left her only a
few minutes earlier, and the journalist had chosen that moment to
close the distance between them.

"Do you want me to stop following you or would you like to
hear my story?" asked Manterola.

The woman smiled again and walked toward one of the
benches near the bandstand.

"Well?" asked the widow once they sat down.

"Excuse me, but I only know your late husband's name. What
may I call you?"

"My name is Margarita. Margarita Herrera."

"Well the story is that I happened to be on the third floor
of the building where I work on the day Colonel Zevada fell out of the window across the street. And it was my good fortune to
happen to see you there at that very moment."

The woman paled momentarily. "Would you be so kind as to
buy me an ice cream? This heat is unbearable."

The journalist nodded and waved to an ice cream man who
stood with his cart about twenty yards away. The widow sat in
silence, staring at the fountain. Manterola observed her calmly.
She'd gained control of herself once again.

A group of charros rode past on horseback. Nearby a rowdy
pack of truant cadets tossed a sack full of papers into the air.

"You were saying, sir, that you'd had the good fortune to..."

"I'm sorry the circumstances were what they were, but I must
say... that the look of distress on your face made a great impression
on me," said the journalist.

"Do you think that I pushed him?"

"I'm a journalist, not a judge, ma'am. I'm not accusing you of
anything. It's just my natural curiosity."

"What else do you know about me?"

"I saw your photograph in the pocket of a trombonist who
died a few days before the incident with Colonel Zevada."

The woman paled again. She tugged nervously at a silk handkerchief embroidered to match her parasol.

She hadn't tasted the ice cream. Now she let it drop to the
ground.

"Senora, if I can be of any help to you in any way...You can
count on my discretion."

The widow stared at him, searching for some sign in the
journalist's face. But her violet eyes probed deeper, until she found
the wound left there by another woman, the wound with its
vulnerable scar tissue.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Pioquinto Manterola."

The sack of papers fell with a loud thud next to their bench,
and for a moment they were surrounded by the riotous cadets.

The widow stood up. When the reporter was about to do the
same, she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

"You'll be hearing from me very soon," she said, and she
walked away twirling her parasol.

Manterola followed her with his eyes. He knew that she'd
found his weak spot, but at least he was aware of it. "I may be
stupid but I'm not blind," he told himself.

THE POET OUGHT TO REMEMBER itwell enough, since
he was my only witness. I brought my hand up to my throat and
undid the rope around my neck.lhen I started to cry. Only, without
making a sound. Like a man who can't talk would cry. Not a sound,
just these big fat tears rolling down my cheeks, and me, that is the
other me, the new me, the survivor, not even trying to stop them.

That's the first thing I remember about myself, about my new
life. That, and the feeling that this new life came complete with
memories of the old one. Those memories were my reward-the
feeling that even though I'd been so close to death I still hadn't
managed to leave behind the baggage I'd meant to take along with
me when I went. That's when I told myself: "If you want to go on
living, then you're just going to have to put up with yourself."

Ever since then I've been easier on myself, more forgiving of
my faults, the master of my own misery, you could say, more tolerant
of this nearly forty-year-old man who keeps on with his stubborn
fight with the minutes and the hours... With this time that's been
graciously loaned to me, or perhaps I should say: returned.