Setting aside what it meant for my father—and what it said about his ability to conceal the truth for years—the letter contained one eloquent and painful omission: Teresa had written that she would “bring Mariana” to live with her, and just that.
True, she did ask after me and sent me kisses, but there was no mention of bringing me to Chiapas.
What had Teresa seen in me that made her decide I wasn’t worthy of that destiny? Did she think that I was too like my father, a violent man, without redeeming features, condemned to live in error, in mediocrity, in Educación?
I folded the letter along the existing crease and, as I did so, inevitably thought of the origami frog with the cryptic message (“the left side”) I’d found in my bedroom. Folding folds, repeating the folds that others had made before me, seemed to be my fate. Teresa had folded that letter in September 1994. She’d put it in an envelope and walked to the post office in San Cristóbal de las Casas. Then, perhaps, she’d returned to the damp apartment with a metal door she’d rented in Santa Lucia or Barrio de Mexicanos, or wherever she’d decided to start her new life.
What had my mother done for the rest of that day? It’s reasonable to suppose that she already had some friends: Zapatista sympathizers she’d met at the National Democratic Convention, indigenous women who had come from other parts of Mexico to learn from the rebels, local journalists who were accustomed to violence and death, and who both expected and feared betrayal by the government.
Sitting at my father’s desk, the red folder open before me, I again felt like a detective, like the small, ten-year-old detective I’d wanted to be that summer. The same detective who had boarded a bus to nowhere, following a slender clue.
There were still a few documents in the folder that I hadn’t looked at. One was my parents’ marriage certificate, issued by Civil Register No. 49, Coyoacán, on April 4, 1978. Teresa’s sprawling signature, my father’s cramped, unclear signature, my grandparents’ names. I put the dog-eared sheet of paper on top of a pile of important documents, next to the two letters.
The last document in the folder was Teresa’s death certificate. I glanced over it distractedly, not intending to devote much time to it. I’d expected to find it in the desk. Just a little longer and I’d have completed my task: finished with that house, that story, that past. Rat and the refuse collector would, between them, remove the odds and ends left scattered about. I’d return to my shared apartment during the time it took Garmendia to sell the house and hand over my share of the inheritance. Now that I was unemployed, I’d have time to look for somewhere else to live. I’d choose one of the urban antipodes to Educación: an apartment in an interesting neighborhood with bookstores, and cafés that weren’t El Jarocho. I’d look for a new job, or perhaps do a master’s degree in something, now that I could afford to. And I didn’t rule out the possibility of changing professions, or even moving to another city. I’d be able to travel abroad. All I had to do was fold that sheet of paper and it would be all over. The wide gash in the summer of ’94 would close, would begin to heal.
I glanced down at the death certificate. The deceased’s details. Name. Sex. The handwriting of the official who had filled in the form, his spelling mistakes. Spouse. Location: San Cristóbal de las Casas. Date of death: September 25, 1994. Not September 23. That’s to say, the day after my father had flown to Chiapas. The day after, not the day before. Cause of death: Asphyxia due to inhalation of propane gas.
9
IT WAS A SLOW PROCESS. At first I behaved as if nothing had happened. After all, it could have been an error, there were a thousand explanations. I finished clearing out my father’s house. I hired a van to transport the double bed and a few other things to my apartment. I called Garmendia and, two days later, gave him the keys to the house in Educación—all three extant sets.
One weekend I took a cab to my sister’s, bringing with me the photographs I wanted to give her. Katia, her wife, laughed at the shots, but Mariana wasn’t really amused. I also attempted to give her half the sum Rat had paid for the furniture, but she insisted I keep it: I’d need it more than she did now that I’d packed in my job.
In a matter of weeks, the house was sold: apparently Educación has become a trendy area, with most of the residents working in the business and retail zones of Coapa.
Throughout the following five months, I got on with my life as if nothing had happened. It could even be said that things improved, at least on the surface. I bought this apartment and moved in. Not having to pay rent was a great weight off my mind: I became a more cheerful person. I found a job in a company that produced educational diagnostic tests that was more lucrative than the Spanish classes. Each weekday morning, I put on a shirt I’d sent to be dry-cleaned and took the Metrobus to the modern building where I worked. I’d spend the day revising the grammar of questions for examinations in such diverse fields as mechatronic engineering and international law. The benefits were
