The Guilty by Juan Villoro Page A

inner world.”
    I’ll never forget that phrase. A time actually existed when Renata believed in my inner world. As she spoke those words, she looked at me, with the honey-colored eyes that Tania unfortunately didn’t inherit, as if I were a landscape: interesting, but a little out of focus.
    None of the accusations she hurled at me later nor any of the fights that led to our divorce hurt me as much as that generous expectation. Her trust was more devastating than the critics. Renata saw in me possibilities I never possessed.
    In scripts, “INT” refers to the interior, and mine is decorated with sofas. That’s as deep as I go. Anything else is the delusion of a woman who made a mistake searching for depths in me, and who hurt me by believing I was capable of plumbing them myself.
    I called Gonzalo Erdiozóbal to ask him to take care of the script. He doesn’t write, but his life is like a documentary on syncretism. Before Vienna, he was a veteran of university theater productions (he’d recited Hamlet’s monologues waist-deep in a very memorable swamp), he was involved in a freshwater shrimp farming project in Río Pánuco, he left a woman and two children in Saltillo, he financed a video about Monarch butterflies, and he launched a website to give voice to the 62 indigenous communities of Mexico. Plus, Gonzalo is a marvel of practicality. He fixes motors he’s never seen before and makes delicious dishes with surprising ingredients he finds in my pantry. His zest for pioneering and love ofhobbies are a little annoying, but in times of desperation, there’s nothing better. When Renata and I separated, he ignored my pathetic attempts to isolate myself and visited me habitually. He would show up with magazines, videos, and a very hard to find Caribbean rum.
    I called Gonzalo and he said he’d never thought about writing a script, which meant yes. I felt so relieved that I got carried away talking. I told him about Katzenberg and his return to Mexico, but he wasn’t interested in the journalist’s news. He wanted to talk about other things. An old friend from university theater was producing one of Genet’s plays in a gymnasium. When Gonzalo describes them, scenes run the risk of lasting as long as they do in real life. I hung up the phone.
    I went to pick up Tania. The city was plastered with pictures of the whale. Mexico City is a wonderful place for breeding pandas—the first panda born outside of China was born here—but orcas need more space to start a family. That’s why Keiko was leaving. I explained this to my daughter while we waited for one of the goodbye performances to start in Adventure Kingdom’s gigantic tank.
    Tania had just learned the word “sinister” and she was finding many uses for it. We should have been happy; Keiko would have babies off in the depths. Tania gave me a cross-eyed look. I thought she was going to say it was sinister. I pulled out a picture book she had in her backpack and started to read it to her. It was about carnivorous carrots. She didn’t think that was sinister at all.
    The whale had been trained to say good-bye to the Mexican people. He waved adiós with his flipper whilewe sang “The Swallows.” A ten-trumpet mariachi band played with enormous sadness, and the singer exclaimed,
    â€œI’m not crying! My eyes are just sweating!”
    I confess, I got choked up in spite of myself. I silently cursed Katzenberg, incapable of appreciating the richness of Mexican kitsch. He only paid to see violence.
    Keiko leapt from the water one last time. He seemed to smile in a threatening way, with very pointed teeth. On our way out, I bought Tania an inflatable whale.
    There were forest fires outside of Ajusco. The ashes brought night on prematurely. From the hill Adventure Kingdom was built on, the city’s filthy skin glinted like mica. The perfect backdrop for Cristi’s dreams of a