Mexico City Noir Read Free Page B

toothpick. A senior citizen looking for a bench to rest. And a raucous group of teenagers sporting white shirts and pants making their way home. He goes in circles, in many circles. The soles of his feet begin to burn. A step. Another.
    I don’t even have a name, chief. Yes, Vikingo. That’s a name? Although I did have one before. Yes. Fernando, I think. Like the boy in the photo. The one with his mother. When he was alive. Now I’m nobody.
    A woman in a helmet and a blue uniform with a billy club in her hand crosses the public square just a few meters ahead of him and Vikingo is gripped with fear. He slows his steps. The image of the fleeing man reappears in his memory. No, I’m not Fernando. Fernando was that other guy. He was falling. He ran into me and the others shouted his name. I didn’t see anything. I’m nobody.
    He stops. His breathing is agitated. He asks himself if he has already gone this way.
    A girl is standing nearby, staring right at him. She looks him up and down, from his messy red hair to the scabs on his ankles. She glances, surprised at Vikingo’s hands, and moves away with a gesture of repulsion. Yes, girl, I haven’t washed, he thinks to himself, but he immediately forgets about her to peer out across the boulevard that opens before him, a meridian full of dry palms and wide sidewalks crowded with people around the taco, tamale, cake, and juice stands. The air is loaded with dense, sweet, sticky smells. He drives the cart toward the flow and this time, yes, he clearly hears the hissing of tires and the insults. One of the drivers even opens the car door, furious as he gets out of his vehicle, but as soon as he gets a good look at the vagabond he shuts the door without saying a word.
    Vikingo reaches the sidewalk across the street and pauses at a lamppost where there’s a poster: Mistreatment Meeting . As they walk by, the men and women look at him intently. They examine his clothing with curiosity, as if they can’t believe a man can wear so many things. Then they see his stained sleeves, his hands, and they quickly move away from him. He raises his face and inhales the city air: there’s a strong scent of excrement and blood. A step. Another. Then one more. He walks. He pushes. Just like he pushed last night. He was Fernando. Yes. Fernando what? I’m nobody. I didn’t see anything, chief, I swear. This way.
    Clerks, housewives, and students chew and drink with determination, their faces reflecting pleasure and haste. They talk incessantly among themselves, joke around, laugh. Their sounds reverberate in Vikingo’s eardrums. Some finish eating and light cigarettes, blowing smoke toward the sky, where the wisps join all the emanations from the cars. They really do have a life, says Vikingo to himself, without daring to look at them too much. They have names. Fernando or Juan or Lupe. They are somebody. Not me. I don’t even have a name. The blurred memory of the previous night provokes an intense desire in him to feel tobacco smoke scraping his throat, filling his lungs. With his head down, he approaches a guy lighting a cigarette but before he can say a word, the man backs away. So Vikingo drops his head even lower and continues along. He digs inside the brown paper bag. He wants to find the smallest butt, yet comes up with one of the longest. It’s stained, sticky, just like his hands. He brings it to his nose and his mouth floods with copper-flavored saliva. A step. Another. Then one more. I don’t have matches.
    He approaches one of the vendors, who has several cuts of meat, clusters of guts, and long sausages frying in a pot. The people eating inside the stall grow quiet when they see him. Vikingo nods, he’s about to walk past when he notices an empty seat at the far end of the counter. The surface is jammed with plates of leftovers, green and red sauces, minced onion, salads, and salt shakers. Sausages hang from above, cut like flowers, as if they’ve been manipulated into