been taught to expect of gringos. They’d tutored her in basic English, good English, American colloquialisms included. Everyone said learning English was the key to better jobs in places where the tourists went. Climb the language hierarchy, get fluent, and you could become a hotel clerk or work in a shop where the gringo women purchased beachwear and Mexican clothing they toted back home and wore at garden parties.
At eighteen Luz had taken her things, become a gypsy for a day, and had ridden the bus to Puerto Vallarta. It was said a million tourists a year came to that exotic place and work was available for those who could speak English well. It was also whispered that once in a great while a gringo would take a young Mexican woman back to el Norte with him, back to the good life. From chambermaid at the Sheraton to assistant cook at La Plazita, that was the route for Luz, living those days with five other young women in a hillside shack. She would have stayed longer at the Sheraton, but the assistant manager would not leave her alone, saying if she wasn’t nice to him, she wouldn’t have a job much longer. He was fat and ugly and had thick fingers that touched her when she walked by. La Plazita had a clean kitchen, at least.
The young gringo men who came in groups to Puerto Vallarta had money, more money than she could imagine. If you sat along the Malecón and smiled at them, they sometimes stopped and talked, saying, “Jeez, your English is pretty good,” among other things. They wore T-shirts with obscenities printed on them and other ones saying, “Life Is a·Beach,” a metaphorical word-play Luz didn’t understand at first, and they wore floppy shorts showing off their hairy, muscular legs. But they had paid twenty dollars for a night with a young Mexican woman, a cheap enough price for bragging rights back at Texas A&M.
Twenty dollars had been Luz’s top body-price, since other young women had the same idea. And in Puerto Vallarta a twelve-year-old girl could be rented for only three dollars a night, cash paid directly to the girl’s mother, who handed over the girl or brought her to a specified place. Guaranteed virgins ran a little higher. Danny eventually had told her about a bloated gringo who bragged around Las Noches about being the first to take one of the young girls. The man had laughed when he let everyone know she wasn’t large enough to handle him, how he’d torn her up and sent her back to her mother, who’d then had to find a doctor to staunch the bleeding.
Luz had whored only when she saw a new dress in a shop window or a nice pair of shoes she wanted. Not that it was a question of essential morality by this time, just that the whole business was fairly boring and not very refined, besides. There wasn’t much to it, not all that different from the boy David, You played nice, drank a little something with them, and it was soon finished in one of the little hotels south of the Rio Cuale. It was a practical matter, nothing more. They’d usually leave as soon as they were finished, but Luz would stay in the room all night since it had been paid for and there was hot water and a little privacy of her own for a while. None of them had said anything about taking her to el Norte.
When she was twenty and working at La Plazita, one of the busboys was ill on a Tuesday evening. Along with her work in the kitchen, Luz helped clean tables that night, something she ordinarily was not allowed to do. The gringo who came in was tanned and carried only a little belly, not as tall as some of them—perhaps five ten or so—and he had a pleasant face and nice brown hair hanging just over his shirt collar. She noticed the hair had a few streaks of gray in it.
He’d scratched his chin and ordered enchiladas, thinking she was there to take his order, but only men were allowed to be waiters. Before the waiter came, she whispered that the chiles rellenos were better, so he’d decided on that and asked
At eighteen Luz had taken her things, become a gypsy for a day, and had ridden the bus to Puerto Vallarta. It was said a million tourists a year came to that exotic place and work was available for those who could speak English well. It was also whispered that once in a great while a gringo would take a young Mexican woman back to el Norte with him, back to the good life. From chambermaid at the Sheraton to assistant cook at La Plazita, that was the route for Luz, living those days with five other young women in a hillside shack. She would have stayed longer at the Sheraton, but the assistant manager would not leave her alone, saying if she wasn’t nice to him, she wouldn’t have a job much longer. He was fat and ugly and had thick fingers that touched her when she walked by. La Plazita had a clean kitchen, at least.
The young gringo men who came in groups to Puerto Vallarta had money, more money than she could imagine. If you sat along the Malecón and smiled at them, they sometimes stopped and talked, saying, “Jeez, your English is pretty good,” among other things. They wore T-shirts with obscenities printed on them and other ones saying, “Life Is a·Beach,” a metaphorical word-play Luz didn’t understand at first, and they wore floppy shorts showing off their hairy, muscular legs. But they had paid twenty dollars for a night with a young Mexican woman, a cheap enough price for bragging rights back at Texas A&M.
Twenty dollars had been Luz’s top body-price, since other young women had the same idea. And in Puerto Vallarta a twelve-year-old girl could be rented for only three dollars a night, cash paid directly to the girl’s mother, who handed over the girl or brought her to a specified place. Guaranteed virgins ran a little higher. Danny eventually had told her about a bloated gringo who bragged around Las Noches about being the first to take one of the young girls. The man had laughed when he let everyone know she wasn’t large enough to handle him, how he’d torn her up and sent her back to her mother, who’d then had to find a doctor to staunch the bleeding.
Luz had whored only when she saw a new dress in a shop window or a nice pair of shoes she wanted. Not that it was a question of essential morality by this time, just that the whole business was fairly boring and not very refined, besides. There wasn’t much to it, not all that different from the boy David, You played nice, drank a little something with them, and it was soon finished in one of the little hotels south of the Rio Cuale. It was a practical matter, nothing more. They’d usually leave as soon as they were finished, but Luz would stay in the room all night since it had been paid for and there was hot water and a little privacy of her own for a while. None of them had said anything about taking her to el Norte.
When she was twenty and working at La Plazita, one of the busboys was ill on a Tuesday evening. Along with her work in the kitchen, Luz helped clean tables that night, something she ordinarily was not allowed to do. The gringo who came in was tanned and carried only a little belly, not as tall as some of them—perhaps five ten or so—and he had a pleasant face and nice brown hair hanging just over his shirt collar. She noticed the hair had a few streaks of gray in it.
He’d scratched his chin and ordered enchiladas, thinking she was there to take his order, but only men were allowed to be waiters. Before the waiter came, she whispered that the chiles rellenos were better, so he’d decided on that and asked
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