I’ll go to the station later. I’d rather get over all this as soon as possible. What’s left for me, which isn’t much, is there”.
“You don’t need to do it. Take a few days off”.
“I’d rather go… and not spend my whole day thinking. It’s been a long year and…”
“It’s been a bad one”, offered the white-haired policeman. “It’s already November”.
“They’ve stolen October from me”.
“When you come to the station, I’ll go with you to report the stolen month. When it comes to months, October is pretty important”.
She smiled. Álvaro got into his car and drove off; meanwhile Cristina sunk back into the fog.
The place grew silent as the two men that buried the boy left in a tiny electric cart, the sort you’d find in a golf course.
In the distance, hidden, camouflaged behind a marbled pantheon, someone was drying her tears. She had watched Cristina from a distance during the funeral. She couldn’t have gone any closer; many would have recognized her and she was dead.
***
In his car, Guzmán wondered whether he should go straight home and into the shower, or stop at Fumadera to buy marijuana. Would it be open by now? It was eleven in the morning and he was due in the police station at three for the evening shift; he had four hours ahead of him and did not feel hungry at all. He turned up the radio.
…I want you to know, your blows
are not going to separate us
my heart is stronger than all that,
death was never in the cards.
I want you to know, your words
are killing me at last…
The ’19 Prius hybrid took the ring road and exited by the Río Becerra.
He stopped at one of the spaces reserved for clients of Fumadera, literally, ‘the smoking area’, a green shop; its logo, two green circles with a dot in their center. It had opened its doors to pot smokers ten years ago and, even with that name, business was thriving. The light on the sign was on and Alvaro’s cannabis supplies were running low. He knew today he would need double the usual to fall asleep. The law allowed one ounce of cannabis per day, but Gaby, the owner of Fumadera –and perhaps the very last of the city’s hippies and an old follower of the ‘flower power’–, sold it to Álvaro in 100-gram bags, and this had been a particularly rough week; he needed it.
“How, Álvaro”, said Gaby as he lifted his hand in what he considered to be the Native American style; his signature greeting. He wore a shabby bandana with camouflage print and had long hair that clashed with his growing baldness.
The smell of marijuana filled the air inside. The shelves were crammed with creams, liquids, cookies, popcorn, sweets and energy bars with a flashy poster announcing the main flavors of their three varieties: sativa, indica and ruderalis.
“How, Gaby”. Álvaro returned the man’s greeting.
“You’ve come early, I was just opening. The usual?” Gaby narrowed his eyes. “You have the look of someone who’s just been to a funeral”.
“Yes, a ten-year-old’s, son of a workmate; leukemia, shit luck”.
“Terrible..”.
“Yes…” Guzmán kept his eyes on the floor, as if a deep hole had suddenly appeared and he could see the coffin rising to the surface. “Give me something strong”.
“I don’t have anything strong enough for what you need, but take ten ounces of indico; I just received it from a farm close to Guadalajara. They say this pot is extremely relaxing; its flowering period lasts seven weeks and this batch is freshly cut”.
“Sedative?”
“Yes, narcotic, and it is very fruity with a touch of wood. If it were wine, it would be a sort of syrah”.
Guzmán smiled.
“Gaby, you’re the best at selling this shit in the entire world. Every time I come here, I feel like I’m at a wine tasting in the Guadalupe valley. To me, this smoke all tastes the same. I’m sorry”. Guzmán took out his credit card and then realized he couldn’t pay with it.
“You know that you have to pay with cash because of some obsolete federal law… You are a policeman, change the laws”.
“I make sure the law is obeyed, but just enough, and I don’t write the laws; if it was up to me, there would only be one law: don’t fuck other people over and children are forbidden to die. Well, those are two laws…”. Álvaro took out a police card with his name and number and put it down on the table. “Add it to my tab, I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll pay you and let you know whether the shit was fruity. If I don’t turn up, make a call and get me arrested for robbery. How!”
He picked up his bag and left. Gaby took his card and left it next to the cash register, as a lucky charm.
As he reached his car, Guzmán felt tempted to roll a joint and smoke it on his way home; he was really craving one. A police car drove past and for a few seconds, the agent held his gaze, studying him, car to car; Guzmán was outside Fumadera and that alone made him suspicious. Guzmán had always been on the brink of becoming a problem; he was an outsider in the brigade and at fifty, he was not willing to change his habits. Nevertheless, today, he would avoid trouble; he would not challenge his fellow policeman. The car drove on, slowly, watchful. He turned the key and started the hybrid engine. He would smoke it at home and relax a little before going to work. Ever since him and his wife got separated, the house had become a calm place, he thought.
A moving van from Álamo was blocking his parking spot; someone was moving into the apartment next door to his. His neighboring spot was occupied by an elegant, faded red BMW X-15 with auto pilot. Guzmán pictured a forty-year-old man from the movie industry, probably going through a divorce. Apartment 17 had been empty for three months, ever since old Robert decided to throw away all his stuff and move back to Mérida. ‘Álvaro, DF is no place for old men like me’ was what he told him.
Guzmán turned back in the alleyway and found an empty spot two streets down; he walked distractedly as he opened his bag of cannabis. He rolled a joint with an expert hand, lit it and inhaled the incandescent weed.
He crossed the street without looking; a car braked and stopped just a few inches away from him.
“Fuck!” Scared, Álvaro had dropped his small bag and the lit joint on the ground.
Inside the vehicle, the driver, a man with a strong build, and a very attractive blonde girl, stared in shock at the man who had so suddenly crossed the road. Carlo Stamas had been driving distractedly, one hand on the wheel, one on Ana Riccoli’s thigh.
Guzmán bent down and picked up his small bag and the joint, which he immediately took to his mouth for a long drag. The couple looked at him, amazed.
“Fucking drug addict!” he heard the man with the shiny shaved head shout from the car.
Guzmán
