The Guilty by Juan Villoro Page B

good monster.
    We got onto the highway without saying a word. I’m sure Tania was thinking about Keiko and the family he would have to travel so far to find.
    I dropped Tania off at Renata’s house and headed to Los Alcatraces. When I got to the table, it was four in the afternoon. Katzenberg had already eaten.
    I’d chosen the restaurant carefully; it was perfect for torturing Katzenberg. I knew he’d thank me for taking him to a genuine locale. They were blasting ranchera music, the chairs had that toyshop color-scheme we Mexicans encounter only in “traditional” joints, there were six spicy salsas on the table and the menu offered three kinds of insects. All calamities picturesque enough for my companion to suffer them as “experiences.”
    Baldness had gained ground on Katzenberg’s scalp. He was dressed like a Woolworth’s shopper, sporting a shirt with checks in three different colors and a watchwith a see-through band. His little eyes, intensely blue, darted around. Eyes faster than flies, on the lookout for an exclusive.
    He ordered decaf. They brought him the only coffee they had: café de olla, with cinnamon and panela sugar. He barely sipped it. He wanted to be careful about food. He felt a throbbing in his temples, a little sound going bing-bing.
    â€œIt’s the altitude,” I assured him. “No one can digest anything at 7500 feet.”
    He told me about his recent problems. Some colleagues were jealous of him, others hated him for no apparent reason. He had been lucky enough to visit places where conflicts broke out on his arrival and it got him incredible scoops. He was the first one to document the forced relocations in Rwanda, the Kurdish genocide, the toxic gas leak at the Union Carbide factory in India. Everywhere he went, he’d won prizes and made enemies. He felt his adversaries breathing down his neck. We were the same age, 38, but he’d aged in subtle ways, as if he’d crossed all of Africa with no air conditioning. I thought I sensed a bit of pathological lying in the precise enumeration of his grievances. According to him, nobody had forgiven him for being in Berlin the day the wall came down, or for having run into Vargas Llosa in a shirt shop in Paris a week after he’d lost the elections in Peru. I figured he was one of those investigative reporters who brag about the facts they’ve dug up but lie about their birthdate. Many of the conflicts he’d had with the press must have been sparked by the way he got his stories, taking advantage of people like me.
    He eyed the neighboring tables.
    â€œI didn’t want to come back to Mexico,” he said in a low voice.
    Was it possible that someone hardened by coups d’état and radioactive clouds was afraid of the Mexican way of life?
    I’d ordered empipianadas. Katzenberg looked at my plate as he spoke, as if he were drawing conviction from the thick, green sauce.
    â€œIt’s an elusive thing. Evil is transcendent here. People don’t cause harm just because. Evil means something. It was hell, hell that Lawrence Durrell and Malcolm Lowry found in this country. It’s a miracle they got out alive. They came into contact with overpowering energies.”
    Just then, they brought me a clay jug of hibiscus water. The handle had broken off and been taped back on. I gestured at the jug:
    â€œIn Mexico, evil is improvised. Don’t worry, Samuel.”
    4. Oxxo
    Katzenberg’s paranoid side was much more likeable. He wasn’t the overbearing lion of New Journalism he’d been on his last trip. Whether it was real or imagined, all this intrigue was having a positive effect on him. Now he wanted to write his story and get out fast.
    I spoke like only a screenwriter would:
    â€œIs there something I should know?”
    He answered like one of my characters:
    â€œWhat part of what you know don’t you understand?”
    â€œYou’re a