Under One Sky

Chapter 25

25

AUGUST 2018, XALAPA, MEXICO

‘Sorry to interrupt, Cintia, but will you take a photo of me please?’

The woman from the ground-floor perfumeria sits at a small square table with a colourful stripy cloth over it, slurping the soup of the day from the comida corrida while she catches up on celebrity gossip. She puts down her spoon and dabs her deep burgundy lips.

‘Sorry, Hector, how rude of me. I was in another world.’ Cintia closes her magazine, feeling terrible that she hadn’t been her usual chatty self.

Since Lupe’s boy started working at the top-floor restaurant of Lazaro’s, Cintia has liked their chats. He’s made manic weekend shifts much more enjoyable. In fact, most of the women who work in Lazaro’s now eschew a torta and a can of Boing in Parque Juárez on their lunch break for the comida corrida in the department store’s restaurant. But the room was so busy when Cintia came on her lunch break she took the last available table and, not wanting to disturb Hector, picked up a copy of Vanidades another diner had left behind .

‘Of course I can take a photo.’

‘No, don’t apologise, guapa , you’re OK,’ says Hector in a reassuring tone. ‘I’ve been super busy, it’s crazy today. That’s the last chicken you’ve got there,’ he says, sliding the pollo a la Veracruzana across the colourful cloth, lining it up for when Cintia is ready for her next course. Hector places his phone on the table next to her soup spoon.

‘You’re not a fan of the selfie, Hector? My girls are always taking selfies, my grandkids too.’

Hector laughs. ‘A selfie is no good today. I need my entire body in it please, guapa , shoes and all.’

Cintia looks Hector up and down appreciatively.

‘I’ll do my best!’ She gives a cheeky smile and narrows her eyes to focus on his phone screen. ‘Is this to show Pilar? You certainly do look the part.’

Hector stands taller and straightens his buttons. His white short-sleeved shirt is perfectly pressed and doesn’t have a single splash of red tomato and onion Veracruzana sauce on it, despite the bustling service. The creases of his Lazaro’s grey strides point proudly towards the camera, hems resting on the polished brown shoes he wore on his wedding day. He smooths a white cloth on the bend of his left arm and raises a black circular tray out to the side with his right hand.

‘Something like that.’ Hector smiles, feeling bad that he asked Cintia to take a photo of him so he can send it on for a joke. Cintia is a proud woman.

She rises from her chair and bends at an awkward angle. Her grey pencil skirt strains under her hips. Her hair is heavy and immoveable thanks to hairspray.

‘OK, smile.’

I am on the inside .

‘Three, two, one…’ Cintia stops abruptly. ‘Hector, you look so serious!’

‘Sorry,’ says the austere waiter, trying not to look so formal.

Hector’s eyes connect with the lens on his camera phone, flirtatious and playful.

‘That’s better. Three, two, one… ay qué guapo .’ Cintia hands Hector the phone.

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ she says with a quick flick of her hair as she sits back down and straightens the magazine. Crispy curls don’t move.

The lunchtime rush has ended. Hector puts the last rice pudding aside in the fridge for Cintia, and Lazaro’s restaurant, with its colourful papel picado strung across the ceiling above their heads, is about to close for the day. No one eats dinner in Xalapa; it’s all about lunch and the comida corrida : small plates comprising a four-course set menu, served with red salsa, crispy triangular totopos and a large glass of Jamaica – hibiscus water from a lime-infused jug. When the lunch has all been served and the chairs have been stacked in the restaurant’s entrance to indicate it’s closed, Hector will throw a grey jacket over his white shirt and walk across to the homes department, selling towels and toilet brushes to men and women who look about as bored as he feels.

This is Hector’s third weekend working at Lazaro’s to try to boost his income; to cover the shortfall of Pilar’s lost teacher’s salary. He hasn’t had a pay cheque yet, but when he does he knows that weekends in Lazaro’s won’t be enough. He will need to do something else as well. But he doesn’t want to get an evening job in a bar; he can’t go back there. He can’t serve his wife micheladas and mezcal while she’s drinking away their rent money. It would be enough to turn him back to booze. And there aren’t any days left in the week for Hector to take a third job.

Hector had encouraged Pilar to go for the job at Lazaro’s, but José Luis, the third generation of Lazaros to manage the family-run store, wasn’t so keen. José Luis had seen Pilar on nights out. He wouldn’t mind if he saw Hector propping up a bar, or slurring and shouting obscenities at cantina staff, but he doesn’t think women should behave like that, and Pilar isn’t the kind of woman he wants associated with the Lazaro’s name, whatever her heritage. José Luis knew Hector; he was happy to take him on. When he told his father that Hector was the new Saturday assistant, he waited for the story of Lupe Herrera again, to hear about what a terrible day it was when they realised why she hadn’t come in to work.

Cintia closes her magazine and makes a start on the tepid chicken. ‘How’s that strange brother of yours getting on?’ she asks as Hector walks back in from the kitchen. She heaps a spoonful of tomato and coriander salsa from the withering pot on the table and regrets not coming to lunch earlier.

‘Brother?’ Hector thinks back to the tumbling Beetle; how he clung on to the brother he never got to meet. ‘I don’t know about that.’ Hector shrugs as he folds tomorrow’s napkins and puts them under the counter that divides the kitchen from the dining area.

‘I remember when you two were little. Running amok in the toy department! He wore that funny shirt with the frills on it. He did look a picture!’ Cintia chuckles. ‘He had this angry little face…’ Cintia tries to compose herself and not show her mouthful of chicken as she laughs.

‘I don’t really see him, he’s a busy man.’

‘He must be doing well for himself. I saw him in a huge Dodge the other day. ’

‘I don’t know,’ Hector says. ‘I don’t even know where he lives now. I heard he moved out to a ranch.’

‘A ranch? Sister Virginia was in the perfumeria last week, she said he was hanging around the Villa Infantil.’

Hector’s cheeks flush pink and he gives Cintia a confused smile. ‘The villa? I don’t think so. I was there this week fixing the boiler. There were lots of little kids, definitely not a big ugly one like Benny.’

‘Well, I didn’t think it could be right. No one drives a car like that without having a palace to match. And I doubt Benny’s much of a handyman to have around the place.’

Hector shakes his head and remembers the axe.

‘No, no, I don’t think he is.’ Hector feels an uncomfortable taste rise in his mouth. ‘I’ll go get your rice pudding.’

As he walks to the kitchen with a feeling of foreboding, he remembers the dapper photo of him in his uniform on his phone and how much it will make Cecilie smile – that smile – to see he too has sold out and broken their pact.