humiliation. Back with the hydrophobic, and now more sure of myself, I was the first to speak.
“If you want to kill me, kill me. I don’t intend to say another word until you notify my parents and my lawyer gets here.”
“It’s obvious this faggot spends his days watching gringo cop movies. Let’s see, bring me the penal code and I’ll read him his rights.”
He pulled an issue of Proceso magazine out of his desk and made like he was reading it: “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in court …” As had now become predictable, those around him laughed heartily. None of it did me any good.
Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side A.
July 19, 2007
[I’ve known Ponce de León since I began covering the police beat, what we call la nota roja . We were both novices: he’d just finished up at the Instituto Nacional de Ciencias Penales and I at the School of Mass Communication. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s a man who’s close to the law, opposed to torture, and in favor of a professional police force. He likes investigations, technical stuff, analyzing hair and other clues. In other words, his thing is being a sleuth so he can solve crimes. Nonetheless, at no point do I forget my grandfather Levi’s words: “Fidarsi é bene, ma no fidarsi é meglio.” To that I add my own professional skepticism, and that’s why the tape recorder has become a permanent part of my person, like a prosthetic I can’t take off, and so I hide it or show it depending on the circumstances. We met at El Chisme, where you can still talk without the background music forcing you to scream.]
“Mikel Ortiz is driving me crazy. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath, a total cynic, a con man, or if he just has some terrible problem with his nerves.”
“Ponce, have you lost your mind? Mikel is just a naïve boy from the provinces. A practicing Catholic, serious and responsible both at work and in his private life.”
“Christians are the worst. They hide behind the church. And that fag unsettles me. I’ll tell you something and then you can say what you think. I asked him for some information on the friend who he was allegedly hanging out with on the night of the crime. Initially he only knew her first name, but then he finally gave up her last name and a physical description. With the sketch, we went to the parish where he says he met her. The priests said they’d never seen her before—that is, assuming they’re not also accomplices. Although they did give us a clue. On Michoacán Street, we found the Viterbo family. According to the fag, the chick’s name is Beatriz Viterbo.”
“Beatriz Viterbo? I knew he had a friend, maybe a girlfriend, named Beatriz, but certainly not Viterbo.”
“Yes, my friend, Viterbo. We went to the house and were greeted by a skinny old woman who looked just like the Beatriz in the sketch, but about seventy years older. The lady said she didn’t recognize the girl in the sketch, same as the priests, said she’d never seen her before in her life. But the best was yet to come. We asked her if she knew Beatriz Viterbo. She said of course, that was her aunt who’d died in February 1929, and she remembered her birthday was April 30 and that for years her family would get together on April 30 to celebrate the woman’s birthday. How’s that, huh?”
“You’re messing with me. Do you know who Beatriz Viterbo is?”
“Of course I know: she’s the skinny old woman’s aunt who died in 1929 and—”
[Ponce had a little laughing attack and choked on his tequila. He raised his hands. Red-faced, gagging, he coughed a few times and then kept laughing. This went on for quite awhile. In the meantime, I finished both my tequila and his.]
“She’s the protagonist in ‘The Aleph,’ the only Borges story I’ve ever read—on your recommendation. But I didn’t just read it once: I’ve read it so many times, I know it by heart. And
“If you want to kill me, kill me. I don’t intend to say another word until you notify my parents and my lawyer gets here.”
“It’s obvious this faggot spends his days watching gringo cop movies. Let’s see, bring me the penal code and I’ll read him his rights.”
He pulled an issue of Proceso magazine out of his desk and made like he was reading it: “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in court …” As had now become predictable, those around him laughed heartily. None of it did me any good.
Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side A.
July 19, 2007
[I’ve known Ponce de León since I began covering the police beat, what we call la nota roja . We were both novices: he’d just finished up at the Instituto Nacional de Ciencias Penales and I at the School of Mass Communication. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s a man who’s close to the law, opposed to torture, and in favor of a professional police force. He likes investigations, technical stuff, analyzing hair and other clues. In other words, his thing is being a sleuth so he can solve crimes. Nonetheless, at no point do I forget my grandfather Levi’s words: “Fidarsi é bene, ma no fidarsi é meglio.” To that I add my own professional skepticism, and that’s why the tape recorder has become a permanent part of my person, like a prosthetic I can’t take off, and so I hide it or show it depending on the circumstances. We met at El Chisme, where you can still talk without the background music forcing you to scream.]
“Mikel Ortiz is driving me crazy. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath, a total cynic, a con man, or if he just has some terrible problem with his nerves.”
“Ponce, have you lost your mind? Mikel is just a naïve boy from the provinces. A practicing Catholic, serious and responsible both at work and in his private life.”
“Christians are the worst. They hide behind the church. And that fag unsettles me. I’ll tell you something and then you can say what you think. I asked him for some information on the friend who he was allegedly hanging out with on the night of the crime. Initially he only knew her first name, but then he finally gave up her last name and a physical description. With the sketch, we went to the parish where he says he met her. The priests said they’d never seen her before—that is, assuming they’re not also accomplices. Although they did give us a clue. On Michoacán Street, we found the Viterbo family. According to the fag, the chick’s name is Beatriz Viterbo.”
“Beatriz Viterbo? I knew he had a friend, maybe a girlfriend, named Beatriz, but certainly not Viterbo.”
“Yes, my friend, Viterbo. We went to the house and were greeted by a skinny old woman who looked just like the Beatriz in the sketch, but about seventy years older. The lady said she didn’t recognize the girl in the sketch, same as the priests, said she’d never seen her before in her life. But the best was yet to come. We asked her if she knew Beatriz Viterbo. She said of course, that was her aunt who’d died in February 1929, and she remembered her birthday was April 30 and that for years her family would get together on April 30 to celebrate the woman’s birthday. How’s that, huh?”
“You’re messing with me. Do you know who Beatriz Viterbo is?”
“Of course I know: she’s the skinny old woman’s aunt who died in 1929 and—”
[Ponce had a little laughing attack and choked on his tequila. He raised his hands. Red-faced, gagging, he coughed a few times and then kept laughing. This went on for quite awhile. In the meantime, I finished both my tequila and his.]
“She’s the protagonist in ‘The Aleph,’ the only Borges story I’ve ever read—on your recommendation. But I didn’t just read it once: I’ve read it so many times, I know it by heart. And
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