Sale de la casa sin saber la hora, solo que es una noche sin estrellas y sin luna – tan solo la tenue luz de las farolas rotas le ilumina el paso. Lleva encima seis cervezas y dos tragos de ron, porque el vodka se acabó hace una semana y de algún lado había que sacar coraje, el fuego del estómago que le da aliento y cobijo aún en el frío de la estación lluviosa. Sabe que no lo esperan, que será un intruso, furtiva sombra que acecha entre resquicios de luz moribunda. Pero esa es la idea, ¿No? A los muertos no los ve nadie, y hace mucho es él un muerto en vida.
Las calles de la ciudad maldita están inundadas, el capricho de Tláloc manifiesto en incontables lágrimas que escurren y se estancan en charcos como heridas en el cemento roto, en los baches que el gobierno ignora y que duran más que los mismos habitantes de la urbe capital. Se para frente a uno de ellos y contempla en el agua inmunda su reflejo, la forma que por indiferencia del cosmos o por pecados de una vida pasada le ha tocado habitar: el rostro es prieto, rajado de ceja a oreja por el cuchillo de otro al que después se la cobró doble. En los ojos se atisba el propósito de su salida nocturna, el brillo inmisericorde de quien no dudará. Los labios gruesos esconden dientes amarillentos, los colmillos del bandolero, del animal. Los pelos llenos de gel – peinados y despeinados a la vez – semejan la cresta de un gallo de pelea, de un ser llevado por la violencia que nace de algún primitivo recóndito del cerebro asfixiado por la bebida y la furia. En los brazos lleva tatuados los nombres de sus hijos, de los dos miserables chiquillos que un día purgarán condena heredada de su padre como él la del suyo. Así es la vida que les tocó, la maldición de sangre que parece no saberse otra que la de vivir en el filo hasta que se cortan.
Dobla la esquina y sale a la avenida principal, donde los trasnochados transitan en autos destartalados con faros de luz espectral. Nunca ha tenido un coche, excepto aquella vez que robó uno rompiéndole el cristal y lo llevó a dar una vuelta. Solo una, porque al poco tiempo llegó la tira y tuvo que salir corriendo – se las da de muy matón, pero no está dispuesto a pisar la cárcel. Sabe bien que ahí no sobreviviría. Quizá por eso ha dudado tanto antes de salir esta noche.
Conforme avanza, siente el frío metal que le roza la panza, que le eriza el vello que desfila desde su entrepierna hasta su ombligo. La pistola es dura, pesada e implacable, una pieza que intimidaría a cualquier chota y que en su mano se siente como el poder de Dios. No es narco para chaparla en oro, pero sí la ha llevado ante quien sabe cómo bautizarla en nombre de la Niña Blanca, de San Judas que en la diestra lleva el bastón y en la zurda las causas perdidas. "Con esta cruz de plomo has cumplir tu encomienda," le dijo aquel santero, y unos míseros quinientos pesos cambiaron de manos. No vale nada la vida, y la vida no vale nada.
Esquina tras esquina se le desdibuja porque aquí los callejones hablan la misma historia, el mismo ciclo de nacimiento y pobreza, de encontronazos con la muerte disfrazada de dinero rápido, seductor anzuelo que muerde una juventud olvidada y una adultez curtida entre balas y barras. Quizá si tuviera más huevos se habría puesto a vender, a menudear, pero los del punto lo tendrían fichado y lo menos que necesita es tener de enemigos a esos cabrones – aún no acaban de limpiar la sangre del último al que se quebraron por hacer negocio donde no debía. No, lo que hace no es por dinero, sino por justicia. O tal vez venganza. ¿Qué es la justicia para alguien que nunca en su vida la ha probado? Aquí solo sale lo que se hace por mano propia.
Piensa en lo que dirá cuando llegue allá, cuando esté frente al rostro y el nombre. Quizá le nazca decir algo inteligente, algo profundo como las palabras que a veces escucha en las bocinas de los camioneros que zigzaguean el laberinto de concreto. Le reclamará entonces la ausencia, los años perdidos entre las paredes del reclusorio; ahí se pudrió aquel por secuestrar a dos incautos para sacarles la frugal quincena raspada de una oficina gris, dos idiotas trajeados que tuvieron la mala suerte de cruzarse con él a bordo de un taxi. Por pendejo, piensa él, sabiendo que fue ese fallido robo lo que le arrebató a su padre y la vida que pudieron tener. Veintisiete años es una vida entera – no se acordará aquel del vástago que aún no había nacido mientras a él le rompían la cara los chotas y los otros presos.
O quizá solo le miente la madre, declamando entre palabrotas negruzcas el dolor del alma, pero también la rabia de quien se sabe privado por los pecados de otro. Hay suficiente veneno en él para estar ahí hasta que el sol salga, vertiendo sobre su padre insulto tras insulto hasta que uno de los dos le siembre un chingadazo al otro. Ebrio como está con la ilusión de resolver esto a puño limpio, se dice a sí mismo que tiene la fuerza, que puede caminar sobre esas espinas sin quebrarse, sin sangrar. Eso es ser un hombre – un hombre maldito, pero un hombre, a fin de cuentas. Lo único que no pude hacer es llorar.
Casi olvida la pistola, pero ella no lo olvida a él.
Al fin llega y lo encuentra fumando en el porche de la única casa dispuesta a recibir a un expresidiario, a un tipo que desperdició un tercio de su vida en el fondo de un calabozo. Las ventanas están todas oscuras, los habitantes ya dormidos, ajenos al mundo. Solo está él, fumando en la lluvia incesante.
Lo mira a los ojos, aquellas cuencas hundidas donde anidan dos esferas vidriosas de negro inescrutable. La mandíbula la tiene torcida, mal sanada y deforme, herida por los dos tipos a los que mató en el bote y por los que le dieron cinco años extra y una paliza que lo dejó hospitalizado. No dice nada, porque no tiene nada que decirle a su propio hijo, solo un gruñido de molestia que delata que ni siquiera reconoce en él su propia imagen, el fantasma de su malicia, la semilla podrida que depositó hace casi tres décadas en el vientre de una mujer malquerida.
"¿Qué chingados quieres?" pregunta como si de un desconocido se tratara.
El discurso planeado – las palabras que quiso hilar y escupir sobre su padre – se ahogan en la garganta del hijo. En vez de eso saca el arma y apunta justo entre los ojos.
La expresión de su padre no cambia: es un hombre acostumbrado a ver morir, incluso si esa muerte es la suya reflejada en los ojos de su prole. Sonríe con su mandíbula torcida, con sus dientes amarillos, desafiante.
"¡Ah, muchos huevos has de tener, cabrón! Jálale, pues, a ver si eres hombrecito."
El dedo en el gatillo tiembla, se estremece, pero no tira. La pistola clama y protesta, pero la carne no cede. Se ha quedado paralizado, como hechizado por la mirada avasalladora del padre, por el temor de lo que significa en verdad derramar su propia sangre.
"¿No? Me saliste maricón," reclama aquel, no triunfal, sino decepcionado. "Pero ahorita te lo saco, que sigues siendo mi chamaco y me toca disciplinarte."
El primer puñetazo le parte el labio, sus dientes mordiendo su propia carne tierna. La boca le sabe a sangre, pero el corazón le sabe a vergüenza. El segundo va al abdomen y se clava justo bajo el hígado, robándole el aliento y todo control sobre sí – ha soltado el arma, y esta repiquetea al caer como pequeñas campanadas de humillación. Trata de caer con algo de gracia, con las rodillas por delante, pero en vez de eso se dobla y cae de culo, salpicándose de agua sucia y gélida. El frío no le dura mucho, porque el padre lo toma de los cabellos y azota una, otra, y otra vez.
Para cuando al padre se le acaba la furia – o tal vez solo las fuerzas – él es una mancha en el suelo, un mosquito embarrado tras picar a un animal rabioso. El padre enciende otro cigarro y, ayudándole a incorporarse, se lo coloca suavemente en la boca. No hay reproche, no hay malicia.
"Dale, mijo."
Así se quedan los dos, reflejo uno del otro. Después saca su padre una botella de algún lado que él no ve, pues tiene los ojos amoratados, y brindan juntos. La sangre tiñe de carmesí el vaso, una ofrenda entremezclada con alcohol barato. Son carne uno del otro, receptáculos de un mal compartido, padre e hijo condenados.
En el suelo, la pistola bebe noche.
He leaves the house without knowing the time, just that it's a starless and moonless night – only the dim glow from the broken streetlights illuminates his path. He's had six beers and two shots of rum, because the vodka ran out a week ago and he had to find courage somewhere, stoke the fire in his stomach that gives him strength and shelter even in the cold of the rainy season. He knows that they are not expecting him, that he will be an intruder, a furtive shadow lurking between cracks in the dying light. But that's the idea, right? No one sees the dead, and he has been the living dead for a long time.
The streets of the cursed city are flooded, Tlaloc's whim made manifest in countless tears that drip and stagnate in puddles like wounds in broken concrete, in potholes that the government ignores and that last longer than the inhabitants of this capital city. He stops before one of them and gazes at his reflection in the filthy water, the shape he's forced to inhabit thanks to the indifference of the cosmos or the sins of a past life: his face is dark, slit from eyebrow to ear by another's knife, someone who he then hurt twice over to make up for it. The purpose of his nocturnal excursion can be glimpsed in his eyes, the merciless glint of someone who will not doubt. His thick lips hide yellowish teeth, the fangs of the bandit, of the animal. His gel-soaked hairs – combed and disheveled at the same time – resemble the crest of a fighting cock, of a being carried away by violence that is born from some primitive recess of the brain drenched in drink and fury. His arms bear the tattooed names of his children, of the two miserable children who one day will serve the sentence inherited from their father just like he serves the one inherited from his own progenitor. This is the life they got, the blood curse that seems to know no other way than to live on the edge until they get cut.
He turns the corner and steps out onto the main avenue, where late-nighters drive around in beat-up cars with ghostly headlights. He's never had a car, except for that time he stole one by breaking the window and took it for a ride. Only one ride, because shortly after the pigs arrived and he had to run away – he acts like a thug, but he's not willing to go to jail. He knows very well that he would not survive there. Maybe that's why he hesitated so long before going out tonight.
As he marches onwards, he feels the cold metal brushing against his belly, making the hairs that run from his crotch to his navel stand on end. The gun is hard, heavy and relentless, a piece that would intimidate any pig and feels like the power of God in his hand. He is not a narco to have it plated with gold, but he did take it to someone who knew how to baptize it in the name of the Niña Blanca, of Saint Judas who holds the shepherd's crook in his right hand and lost causes in the other one. "With this lead cross you will fulfill your charge," said that santero, and a measly five hundred pesos changed hands. Nada vale la vida, y la vida no vale nada.
Corner after corner become blurs because in this neighborhood the alleys all tell the same story, the same cycle of birth and poverty, of brushes with death disguised as fast money, seductive bait bitten by forgotten youth, an adulthood forged between bullets and jail cell bars. Maybe if he had some balls he would have started to sell, but the people who own the drug point would have him on file and the last thing he needs is to have those bastards as enemies – they still haven't finished cleaning the blood of the last guy who got shot for doing business where he shouldn't have. No, what he does is not for money, but for justice. Or maybe revenge. What is justice for someone who has never tasted it in his whole life? Out here, the only things that get done are those one does himself.
He thinks about what he will say when he gets there, when he faces the face and the name. Maybe he'll have something smart to say, something profound like the words he sometimes hears on the radios of bus drivers who zigzag through the concrete maze. Then he will reproach him for his absence, for the years lost between prison walls; it was there where he rotted away for kidnapping two fools to get their frugal salarymen paycheck scraped from a gray office – two idiots in business suits who had the bad luck of running into him in a taxi. Por pendejo, he thinks, knowing that it was that failed robbery that took away his father and the life they could have had. Twenty-seven years is a whole life – his father might not even remember the child who had not yet been born while he was getting his face caved in by both the cops and the other prisoners.
Or perhaps he'll only insult him, spitting out black curses and the pain of his soul, the rage of one who has been deprived by the sins of another. There's enough venom in him to be there until the sun rises, pouring insult after insult on his father until one of them smacks the shit out of the other. Drunk as he is with the illusion of solving this with his bare fists, he tells himself that he has the strength, that he can walk on those thorns without breaking, without bleeding. This is what it means to be a man – a cursed man, but a man nonetheless. The only thing he cannot do is cry.
He almost forgets the gun, but it doesn't forget him.
He finally arrives and finds him smoking on the porch of the only house willing to receive an ex-convict, a guy who wasted a third of his life at the bottom of a dungeon. The windows are all dark, the inhabitants already asleep, oblivious to the world. There is only him, smoking in the incessant rain.
He looks into his eyes, those sunken sockets where two glassy spheres of inscrutable black have made their nest. His jaw is crooked, badly healed and deformed, injured by the two guys he killed while inside and for whom he got five extra years and a beating that left him hospitalized. He says nothing, because he has nothing to say to his own son, just an annoyed grunt that reveals he doesn't even recognize his own image in him, the ghost of his malice, the rotten seed he sowed almost three decades ago in the womb of a broken woman.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asks as if addressing a stranger.
The planned speech – the words he wanted to spit out on his father – choke in the son's throat. Instead he pulls out the gun and aims right between his eyes.
His father's expression does not change: he is a man used to seeing death, even if that death is his own, reflected in the eyes of his child. He smiles with his crooked jaw, with his yellow teeth, defiant.
“Ah, so you think you have the balls, don't you, cabrón? Pull it, then. Let's see if you're man enough.”
The finger on the trigger trembles, shudders, but doesn't pull. The pistol cries out and protests, but the flesh does not yield. He is paralyzed, spellbound by the overwhelming gaze of his father, by the fear of what it really means to shed his own blood.
"No? You turned out a faggot,” his father claims, not triumphant, but disappointed. "But I'm gonna beat it out of you, 'cause you're still my kid, and it's my right to discipline you."
The first punch splits his lip, teeth biting into his own tender flesh. His mouth tastes of blood, but his heart tastes of shame. The second punch goes to the abdomen and stabs him right under the liver, stealing away his breath and all control over himself – he has dropped the gun, and it rattles as it falls with small chimes of humiliation. He tries to collapse with some grace, knees first, but instead he bends over and lands on his ass, splashing himself with icy, filthy water. The cold does not last long, because his father takes him by the hair and hits him again, again, and again.
By the time his father runs out of anger – or perhaps just out of strength – he is a stain on the ground, a mosquito smeared across the floor after biting a rabid animal. His father lights another cigarette and, helping him sit up, gently places it in his child's mouth. There is no reproach, there is no malice.
"Hit it, mijo."
They both stay like that for a while, each a reflection of the other. Then his father takes out a bottle from somewhere that he doesn't quite see, because he has two black eyes, and they toast together. Blood stains the glass with crimson, an offering mixed with cheap alcohol. They are each other's flesh, receptacles of a shared evil, father and son, both doomed.
On the ground, the gun drinks night.
