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 her
if she’d like to have an ice cream later. She’d said she would, and moved in with Danny Pastor two weeks later, heaven for
a village girl. His apartment was small, but it had running water and a bathroom and a bed and closet. All of that plus a
refrigerator and a stove.
Danny had known about making true love, more than Luz knew, but that didn’t lay claim to much. Still, he’d been married and
had read books on it. He told Luz he wanted to please her in bed, to bring her happiness, and taught her how to use her hands
and mouth on him. The first time he put his tongue on her she tore the bed apart with pleasure and learned to scream into
a pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. If truth usually lies somewhere in the middle of all continuums, it seemed in this
case the magazines and television knew more than Esmeralda Santos and the other villagers about men and women and the things
they do with one another. Besides, Mexican men preferred that their wives remain ignorant of the erotic arts, afraid, as they
said, “she might get to like it too much.” Those were good things for mistresses or other bad women to know, but not wives,
who might then seek out even more distant frontiers.
Danny had bought her three cassette tapes by María Conchita Alonso, whose love songs were popular with the younger women.
He also had bought her two tapes by Pedro Infante to play on his battered tape player, since she still liked the old
música ranchera
she’d heard as a girl in Ceylaya. And also two tapes of salsa music by a guitar player called Ottmar Liebert, looking on
the album cover as very close to a young Marlon Brando and playing rhumbas with just a touch of Maríachi woven into them.
When Ottmar Liebert played “La Rosa Negra,” that one especially, was when Luz would dance a lickerish, naked rhumba for Danny.
Danny, grinning and lying back on the bed and spilling tequila on the sheets and shouting, “God, let it all run forever!”
In the evenings, if Danny had money, they would go uptown and listen to Willie and Lobo in Mamma Mia. María de la Luz Santos
had been born for this sweet life, and she wanted even more of it. Though it could get a little over the edge if you
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 her
if she’d like to have an ice cream later. She’d said she would, and moved in with Danny Pastor two weeks later, heaven for
a village girl. His apartment was small, but it had running water and a bathroom and a bed and closet. All of that plus a
refrigerator and a stove.
Danny had known about making true love, more than Luz knew, but that didn’t lay claim to much. Still, he’d been married and
had read books on it. He told Luz he wanted to please her in bed, to bring her happiness, and taught her how to use her hands
and mouth on him. The first time he put his tongue on her she tore the bed apart with pleasure and learned to scream into
a pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. If truth usually lies somewhere in the middle of all continuums, it seemed in this
case the magazines and television knew more than Esmeralda Santos and the other villagers about men and women and the things
they do with one another. Besides, Mexican men preferred that their wives remain ignorant of the erotic arts, afraid, as they
said, “she might get to like it too much.” Those were good things for mistresses or other bad women to know, but not wives,
who might then seek out even more distant frontiers.
Danny had bought her three cassette tapes by María Conchita Alonso, whose love songs were popular with the younger women.
He also had bought her two tapes by Pedro Infante to play on his battered tape player, since she still liked the old
música ranchera
she’d heard as a girl in Ceylaya. And also two tapes of salsa music by a guitar player called Ottmar Liebert, looking on
the album cover as very close to a young Marlon Brando and playing rhumbas with just a touch of Maríachi woven into them.
When Ottmar Liebert played “La Rosa Negra,” that one especially, was when Luz would dance a lickerish, naked rhumba for Danny.
Danny, grinning and lying back on the bed and spilling tequila on the sheets and shouting, “God, let it all run forever!”
In the evenings, if Danny had money, they would go uptown and listen to Willie and Lobo in Mamma Mia. María de la Luz Santos
had been born for this sweet life, and she wanted even more of it. Though it could get a little over the edge if you
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