carrots out of the fridge to peel one, but instantly changes her mind. Theyâre soggy. And thatâs not all. A few of them have what looks like hair on them, gray-green hair: penicillin, maybe. Disgusted, she throws them back in the vegetable tray, takes out a beer, and closes the fridge. The popcorn goes pop, pop, pop.
âYou should eat, Marina love.â
I know.
She puts the popcorn in a bowl, takes it over to the sofa and turns on the TV. Chihuahua turned up the other day with a TV and now it lives on the living-room floor.
âCan I hook it up to my computer to watch movies?â Marina asked him.
But Chihuahua had other ideas: he said heâd found something in the closet that looked to him like a âCable cableâ.
âHuh?â said Marina.
She was also going to ask, âWhat were you doing rummaging around in my closet?â But Chihuahua was already dragging over the cable; a great long thing rolled up in a neurotic figure of eight which could only be his doing. They moved the TV to where the cable reached, plugged it in and NBC news blinked onto the screen. The presenter was a blond in a pantsuit, the dayâs dramas racing across her chest on a rotating sash, like a Miss Tragic Universe 2003.
So the cable was hooked up to cable TV. Marina couldnât believe her eyes. Chihuahua had never mentioned it. But then, so what if he had? She wouldnât have given it a second thought. She certainly wouldnât have gone out and bought a TV just to test the thing. Who could have known that all this time, lying in her closet, there was a portal to another dimension, to the day-to-day lives of the rich, of grown ups, of people who watch US TV when they get back from work to shake Mexico off, as if following a twenty-first century version of Manuel Carreñoâs Manual of Urbanity and Good Manners â âBe sure to dismount from Mexico before entering the dining roomâ? Chihuahua was who. Chihuahua knew because heâs a big-city boy. It was him who explained to her that the shoes hanging by their laces in the street mark drug-dealing spots; he also showed her who in the neighborhood steals the phone cables to peel them and sell the copper. What annoys Marina is that Chihuahua isnât even from the capital: heâs from Ciudad Juárez. She once asked him, âHow much less provincial could your border town be than Xalapa?â To which he replied, âOh, Juárez is provincial, all right. But itâs two countriesâ provinces at once.â
Chihuahua pronounces English the same way Linda does: seamlessly. Marina tries to copy him but he gets annoyed when she obsesses over his accent.
âYou lot are the ones who are wrong with your litter-a-tour!â he snaps. âItâs called literature.â
For Chihuahua, âyou lotâ means anyone from the green states. And thatâs anything south of the deserts. Marina likes arguing with him about this. It makes her feel more defined in her identity, like she belongs to something; in this case, to the South of Mexico. Chihuahua pointed out to her that all Southerners eat quesadillas without queso and sort of sing their sentences. She ticks both these boxes. Well, apart from the fact she wouldnât get a whole quesadilla down her these days, cheese or no cheese .
One piece of popcorn for every commercial. Thatâs the deal sheâs made with her herself. And sheâs more or less sticking to it when the doorbell rings. Finally! She freezes on the spot. She knows Chihuahua can see her through the window, because many a night, before entering the mews, she watches the neighbors from across the street through their sheer curtains, which are just like hers. Unobserved, Marina studies the motionless figures, which look like cardboard cutouts offset by the blue light of the television, and she confirms another of her suspicions: that routine kills love.
After the doorbell, Marina
âYou should eat, Marina love.â
I know.
She puts the popcorn in a bowl, takes it over to the sofa and turns on the TV. Chihuahua turned up the other day with a TV and now it lives on the living-room floor.
âCan I hook it up to my computer to watch movies?â Marina asked him.
But Chihuahua had other ideas: he said heâd found something in the closet that looked to him like a âCable cableâ.
âHuh?â said Marina.
She was also going to ask, âWhat were you doing rummaging around in my closet?â But Chihuahua was already dragging over the cable; a great long thing rolled up in a neurotic figure of eight which could only be his doing. They moved the TV to where the cable reached, plugged it in and NBC news blinked onto the screen. The presenter was a blond in a pantsuit, the dayâs dramas racing across her chest on a rotating sash, like a Miss Tragic Universe 2003.
So the cable was hooked up to cable TV. Marina couldnât believe her eyes. Chihuahua had never mentioned it. But then, so what if he had? She wouldnât have given it a second thought. She certainly wouldnât have gone out and bought a TV just to test the thing. Who could have known that all this time, lying in her closet, there was a portal to another dimension, to the day-to-day lives of the rich, of grown ups, of people who watch US TV when they get back from work to shake Mexico off, as if following a twenty-first century version of Manuel Carreñoâs Manual of Urbanity and Good Manners â âBe sure to dismount from Mexico before entering the dining roomâ? Chihuahua was who. Chihuahua knew because heâs a big-city boy. It was him who explained to her that the shoes hanging by their laces in the street mark drug-dealing spots; he also showed her who in the neighborhood steals the phone cables to peel them and sell the copper. What annoys Marina is that Chihuahua isnât even from the capital: heâs from Ciudad Juárez. She once asked him, âHow much less provincial could your border town be than Xalapa?â To which he replied, âOh, Juárez is provincial, all right. But itâs two countriesâ provinces at once.â
Chihuahua pronounces English the same way Linda does: seamlessly. Marina tries to copy him but he gets annoyed when she obsesses over his accent.
âYou lot are the ones who are wrong with your litter-a-tour!â he snaps. âItâs called literature.â
For Chihuahua, âyou lotâ means anyone from the green states. And thatâs anything south of the deserts. Marina likes arguing with him about this. It makes her feel more defined in her identity, like she belongs to something; in this case, to the South of Mexico. Chihuahua pointed out to her that all Southerners eat quesadillas without queso and sort of sing their sentences. She ticks both these boxes. Well, apart from the fact she wouldnât get a whole quesadilla down her these days, cheese or no cheese .
One piece of popcorn for every commercial. Thatâs the deal sheâs made with her herself. And sheâs more or less sticking to it when the doorbell rings. Finally! She freezes on the spot. She knows Chihuahua can see her through the window, because many a night, before entering the mews, she watches the neighbors from across the street through their sheer curtains, which are just like hers. Unobserved, Marina studies the motionless figures, which look like cardboard cutouts offset by the blue light of the television, and she confirms another of her suspicions: that routine kills love.
After the doorbell, Marina
Similar Books
