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h Honoring San Vicente I had been asleep in my hotel room for less than an hour when I was jolted awake by the distinctive ring of a Mexican telephone. It was a sound that, despite my time south of the border, I’d never gotten used to, and hearing it again for the first time in half a decade conjured up the same old image: an Irish tenor gargling his way through a quart of motor oil, pausing at regular intervals to breathe. When I answered, Pablo spoke with an uncharacteristic formality that made me think he’d been fed his lines by Rosa. “My sister Rosa will be attending the dance for a vela tonight,” Pablo said. “You are more than welcome to accompany her. But you won’t get in unless you’re wearing black pants and a white shirt,” Pablo said. “I don’t have a white shirt,” I said. “No problem,” Pablo said. “I’ll lend you one.” At nine, I crossed the street to the mortuary and found Pablo running the palms of his hands over a newly lacquered coffin the size of a small rowboat. Pablo’s daughters, Ramona and Elisabet, played together near his feet. “Ramona is two years old and very sweet,” Pablo said. “Elisabet is four. The most important thing with children their age is affection. I work from home, so there are lots of opportunities to hug them. We even take baths together. The first time, Ramona stared at my penis, amazed at the sight of it. Then, a couple of days later she grabbed it and pulled, and that was it, her curiosity was gone.” Near ten o’clock, the sound of high heels scraping against the stairs that descended from the second-floor apartment interrupted our conversation . Then Rosa appeared at the foot of the stairs, and I bellowed, “Que guapa” (How handsome). She wore a matching crimson skirt and 22 blouse made of a glossy satin embroidered with daisies in blue, violet, white, and yellow. The contrast of the olive skin above her breasts with the blood-red dress was striking, and she repeated this effect at her face with crimson lipstick. She wore a spray of flowers behind her right ear and two slender gold necklaces round her neck. I gave her a peck on either cheek. Pablo drove us to the vela in an old Ford Mercury station wagon that doubled as a hearse. As we approached the site of the vela, the surrounding streets became so congested with traffic that Pablo dropped us off a block away from the entrance. Rosa and I walked along a cinderblock wall that skirted the perimeter of a dirt field where the vela was underway. Near the steel gate entrance, we merged with a crowd of elegantly dressed women in velvet and lace who were funneling inside. After their dark velvet dresses, what most caught the eye about the women were the layers of gold they wore round their necks. Some were draped in as many as three or four necklaces and an equal number of bracelets, earrings, and rings that were fashioned from gold coins. The coins date as far back as the California Gold Rush in 1849, when the Isthmus represented one of the shortest routes between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Rather than spending the coins that the Forty-niners left in their wake at hotels, bars, and brothels, the women held onto them and crafted elaborate jewelry that often represented the family fortune. In hard times, the women pawned the jewelry, and in this way many a financial crisis was avoided. Given the flashing gold and elegant dress of the women, the dirt field setting seemed all wrong. But the women didn’t seem to notice. Already they had fixed their attention on the concrete dance floor at the center of the field. There, under a circus tarp flapping in the wind, a small army of women danced in each other’s arms. Those who weren’t dancing lolled about in wooden chairs that were dug into the dirt surrounding the dance floor. Many of the unoccupied seats had names like “Maria” or “Isabel,” or just the letter X scribbled on their backrest with a permanent black marker. In a far corner of the field, a brass band played sones and boleros and an occasional merengue. A crescent moon stalled overhead. When we arrived at the steel gate, I sensed...

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