“He’s my brother,” I insisted.
And he was Monroy’s son.
Sangines looked at me with burning coldness.
“He was Cain.”
Was Cain our brother? I wanted to ask Miguel Aparecido in the cell in Aragon and didn’t dare. There was a prohibition in his blue-black gaze. If Jerico was Cain, he and I were not Abel.
“Was he Cain?” I insisted to Sangines.
“He was your brother,” the lawyer Sangines agreed with salutary cruelty, telling me there was no better example than this to teach a probative lesson regarding the futility of rebellion and the cowardice of a response without balls. The winners were the Statesman and the Entrepreneur, like that, capitalized.
Cain and Abel.
I read this with vast, indescribable clarity in the gaze of my brother Miguel. We were not Abel. We hadn’t saved ourselves skillfully from either the curse or the good fortune. We had assumed, without fully realizing it, the responsibility of caring for our brother. Wasn’t Jerico our brother?
“He was Cain,” said Miguel Aparecido.
I didn’t have to ask for explanations. I remembered the curse Jerico had hurled at me from Asunta’s bed, with a murderous look and a disdain revealed by the mask of hatred. Jerico naked on all fours, a captured animal, threatening me-I’m going to kill you, fucking cocksucker-slavering, frustrated. The concentrated hatred of my brother Cain. And my painful doubt: Had the hatred he showed me the last time always been inside Jerico? Did he “patronize” me when we were young, look down on me, despise my independence and my supposed sexual triumph with Asunta?
Was this the end of the story? No. I didn’t know what had happened to Jerico. The question ate through my entire body like a restless acid concentrating in my heart only to flee my soul and remind me, my soul, that it was captive in a body.
I knew Miguel Aparecido’s response before he gave it. It seemed to be the answer agreed on by all of them, by Sangines, by Asunta, by Miguel.
“Where is Jerico? What has happened to Jerico?”
“He’s been put in a safe place,” Miguel Aparecido replied.
In spite of this definitive statement, I knew the story would never end.
I wanted to assuage my own fears by saying: Just like Sara and the Mariachi and Gomas and Siboney? Put in a safe place? All of them imprisoned? All of them at peace?
Then Miguel Aparecido looked at me with a strange mixture of contempt and compassion.
IN SPITE OF this categorical statement, I knew the story never ended.
“The worst one of all is walking around free,” said Miguel Aparecido, and I didn’t want to put a name to anyone I knew, because my spirit could not tolerate more guilt, more shame, more capitulation.
“Who?” I said in haste. “Everything’s in-”
He cut me off with a forgotten name: Jenaro Ruvalcaba.
With an effort the scoundrel I met once during my first visits to the San Juan de Aragon Prison returned to my memory. Licenciado Jenaro Ruvalcaba was a criminal lawyer of scant renown. He received me courteously in his cell. He was agile and blond, about forty years old. He told me the prison population consisted of complaining, stupid people who didn’t know what to do with freedom.
“And how do you manage?”
“I accept what prison gives me.” He shrugged and proceeded to a reasonable analysis of how to behave in prison: Don’t accept visitors who came out of obligation, doubt the fidelity of the conjugal visit…
“Both will betray you,” he shouted suddenly.
“Who?”
“Your wife and her lover.” He stood and put his hands to his head. “Traitors!”
He closed his eyes, pulled at his ears, and attacked me with his fists before the guard hit him with his club on the back of the neck and Ruvalcaba fell, weeping, on the cot.
“He’s free?” I said to Miguel without hiding my terror, for this attorney was a proven menace.
“He’ll never be free,” remarked Miguel Aparecido. “He’s the prisoner of himself.”
Then he told me the following story.
Ruvalcaba did not lack talent. He was shaped by misfortune. A criminal gang kidnapped his father, his mother. They killed his father. They let her go, so she would suffer. The mother was a brave woman, and instead of sitting down to cry, she decided to educate her son Jenaro and give him a career as a criminal attorney so he would defend society against criminals like those who killed his father. Jenaro studied law and became a penologist. Except as he was preparing to defend the law he wanted to be a martyr to the law. He felt equal admiration and revulsion for both his father and those who killed him.
“The old prick, how could he let himself be kidnapped and murdered by that gang…? Fuck me…
“My father was a brave man who let himself be killed so my mother could go free… Fuck me…”
And so between admiration and contempt the divided, schizoid character of Jenaro Ruvalcaba was formed, at once defender and violater of the law: a poisoned fruit constantly fragmenting into inimical pieces.
Miguel said to make a long story short, a division was created in Ruvalcaba’s mind between the forbidden and the permitted, which eventually resolved into a situation worthy of farce. Ruvalcaba sublimated his psychological schism by molesting women. His vice consisted in boarding public transport-the Metro, buses, collective taxis-and harassing women. Don’t ask me why he found in this activity the reconcilation of his contrary tendencies. The fact is his maniacal pleasure was to take the Metro or the bus and first look at women with an intensity that was troubling because more than anything else, it was intrusive. He leaned against the female passengers. He recriminated them if they gave him dirty looks. He put his hands on their hips. He pawed their buttocks. He went straight to the nipple with his fingers. At times it was furtive, at times aggressive. If they reproached him or complained about him, Ruvalcaba would say: “She’s an old flirt. She led me on. I’m a criminal lawyer. I know about these things. Old women in heat! Frustrated old women! Let’s see if anybody will do them a favor!”
Ruvalcaba derived supplementary delight when the women began to defend themselves. Some stuck him with pins, others with hairpins. A few had rings with a cutting edge. All of this excited Ruvalcaba: He saw it as a counterpart to his own actions, a recognition of his own audacity, an involuntary conspiracy between victim and aggressor. The women liked to have their buttocks touched, their pubis rubbed, their breasts caressed. They were his accomplices. His accomplices, he would repeat, excited, my accomplices.
“That was the reason,” Miguel continued, “for his astonishment at the inauguration of what was called ‘pink transport’ only for women. The sign ‘Ladies Only’ excited him in the extreme. Ruvalcaba disguised himself as a woman in order to ride on the Metro with impunity, causing a phenomenal disturbance when, made up and in a blond wig, he put his hand on a fat passenger and a commotion began that led to a free-for-all, a brawl that ended at the Metro stop and the collective turning over of Jenaro Ruvalcaba to the police.”
As the scoundrel was an attorney, he convinced the judge that his disguise had as its object to make certain the law was fully complied with and that women, if threatened, were capable of defending themselves. The judge, because of machista prejudice, pardoned Ruvalcaba, but, feeling like a magistrate in a Cantinflas movie as guided by a play of Lope’s, he ordered him exiled to the western part of the country, where the indiscreet and duplicitous Ruvalcaba lost no time in establishing an association with the owner of an avocado plantation, a front for a drug trafficking operation presided over by Don Avocado himself, who was delighted to count on a shyster as skilled in deceptions as Lic. Jenaro.
From the plantation in Michoacan, Ruvalcaba performed great services for Don Avocado by supervising drug shipments, money laundering, loans, investments in transport, and the constant reconstruction of the plantation so it would continue to be viewed as an emporium of avocado trees and not a rat’s market. Ruvalcaba took care of everything for Don Avocado: buying protection, relationships with Gringo buyers, the loading and unloading of high-speed launches, the acquisition of magnum revolvers and AR-15 assault rifles. He learned to kill. He shot numerous rivals of the drug dealer and developed a special liking for cutting off their heads after killing them.
He did everything until Don Avocado told him things were turning ugly since in this business there were plenty of snitches and especially assholes who wanted to rise at the expense of the powerful man in charge, you know, get out of my way and let me in…
“The upshot, my dear Jenarito, is that they have more on us than an old whore’s fart, and if we want to
