‘Soledad,’ he says, just loudly enough for her to hear. Because he knows without knowing that the act of saying her name in that moment is the flag she needs in order to return to herself.
‘Rebeca,’ he says also. But Rebeca squeezes her eyes shut even tighter. She’s not ready. She pulls her knees up in front of her and buries her face there.
Now the five men who were in that truck with the sisters are uncarefully unloading the backpacks. They wear untucked white T-shirts over their dark blue uniform pants, and Lydia wonders if they’re real agentes who also work for the cartel, or if the uniforms and trucks are just elaborate costumes and props. Qué importa. They stand in the bed and toss everything down in a heap. Luca can feel the whole line of migrants clicking to attention, their spines snapping them upright. A fizz of nervousness in the air. A few more men from the office come to join them, and soon the one in charge stands before them. The others call him comandante.
‘Is anyone here a Mexican citizen?’ he asks.
‘I am,’ Lydia says. Three or four other voices join hers.
El comandante steps up to the first man, seated directly beside Rebeca. El comandante nudges the migrant’s worn shoe with the toe of his boot. ‘You’re Mexican?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re not lying to me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘From Oaxaca.’
‘City?’
The man nods.
‘In what state is the city of Oaxaca?’ el comandante asks.
The man hesitates. ‘Oaxaca state?’ He is unsure.
‘Yes, amigo. The city of Oaxaca is in the state of Oaxaca. Congratulations. You must have done very well in school, in Oaxaca.’
The migrant squirms where he sits.
‘And tell me,’ el comandante continues. ‘Who is the governor of Oaxaca now?’
‘The governor?’
‘Yes, the governor. Of the state of Oaxaca. Where you are from.’
Another hesitation. ‘We, uh. We had elections recently. The governor, the last governor, he was um . . .’ The man shakes his head.
‘Surely you know the governor’s name?’ el comandante says.
‘Esperanza?’
El comandante turns to a guard standing behind him, who’s googling Oaxaca on his phone. He shakes his head. ‘Governor of Oaxaca is Hinojosa.’
El comandante returns his attention to the migrant. ‘Now. Would you like to tell me again where it is you’re from?’
The man swallows. He says quietly, ‘Oaxaca.’
El comandante draws his pistol and shoots the man between the eyebrows.
Rebeca jumps, her skin and her bones. Lydia cries out. Every migrant in the line cries out. Luca begins sobbing and screaming. He clamps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes closed and rocks himself. ‘No, no, no.’ El comandante clears his throat irritably, a tiny sound which is louder than all the reverberating noise in the room. With huge eyes and a cracked mouth, Rebeca is staring at the slump of a man beside her. His eyes are still open as he falls over onto her lap. He bleeds onto her legs. Rebeca doesn’t move.
‘Should anyone else be interested in lying to me about where you are from, allow me to suggest that you reconsider,’ el comandante says. ‘Now I will ask again: Who here is a Mexican national?’
Luca is shaking his head frantically, but Lydia takes a deep breath, and ‘I am,’ she says. This time she’s the only one.
El comandante turns and approaches her. ‘This is your son?’
She doesn’t breathe. ‘We are from Acapulco, in the state of Guerrero,’ she says. ‘The governor is Héctor Astudillo Flores, and the state capital is Chilpancingo.’
Before she can stop him, Luca moves swiftly to his feet. He’s trembling, but he stands up straight, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. His voice is clear as he takes over for his mami. ‘Although the site of Acapulco has cultural influences ranging back to the eighth-century Olmecs, it wasn’t established as a major port until the arrival of Cortés in the 1520s. The city has a current population of more than six hundred thousand inhabitants, and a tropical climate with distinct wet and dry seasons—’
‘Is he for real?’ el comandante interrupts. He’s looking at Lydia.
‘Yes,’ she says.
The man’s face looks very different when he’s smiling, as he now is at Luca. He looks grandfatherly. Portly. Wild, bushy eyebrows. A pebbly wash of gray around the temples. This man who just shot a shackled human being between the eyes.
‘Tourism is the main eco—’
‘Mijo, stop,’ Mami says.
Luca snaps his mouth closed and sits back down on her lap. He turns sideways there, so his body is mostly covering her. El comandante leans his hands on his knees.
‘Where did you learn all that?’ he asks.
Luca shrugs.
‘Did you make it up?’
‘No.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’
‘No.’ Luca would pee again if he wasn’t dehydrated. He buries his face in Mami’s neck.
El comandante straightens himself up again. ‘So you are from Acapulco.’
She hesitates even though it’s too late. She already told the truth because there was no alternative; she can’t change her answer now. ‘Yes,’ she says.
‘And why did you leave such a glorious place?’
El comandante looks into her face, and Lydia doesn’t see any recognition there. Sebastián’s face, the slain reporter, has made the national news, but hers has not. Neither has Luca’s nor Abuela’s nor Yénifer’s, nor any of their other sixteen slaughtered loved ones. It’s only that traveling text message that might identify her. Lydia takes a deep breath. She will not lie; she will tell some of the truth.
‘The city has become extremely violent, frightening. I could no longer afford the costs of running my business.’
‘So you left.’
‘Yes.’
‘In search of a better life for your remarkable son.’ He smiles a toothy smile at Luca.
‘Yes.’
‘Smart.’
Lydia does not answer.
‘Stand up then,’ el comandante instructs.