CXXXIII. Día de los Muertos, 2020

 Day of the Dead, 2020

Yesterday was Día de los Muertos. On this uniquely Mexican holiday, I was shopping for frutas y verduras for dinner when I ran into some friends in the plaza.  

I had stopped to admire an ofrenda to a loved one who had passed away. The altar was set up in a place of honor in the gazebo at the center of the village plaza. While I was reading the inscription I heard someone calling for my attention with a familiar cracked-pitch, two-syllable, “Sir?” It was the village transsexual and occasional prostitute whose name I have forgotten, but will call Bella.

“How you?” she asks. I show off a head bandage from a recent minor surgery, and Bella is attentive. I nod approval at her mask and compliment her new hair style. She explains something about cutting it short because her team lost.(?) l ask if she still cleans house in Chapala; yes, she says but not for today’s holiday.

“Zhoo he'p me please?” Conversations with her most often—but not always—take this route. Her request is usually for something to eat, or bus money to visit a sister in Guadalajara, or sometimes just because she knows I care for her difficult plight, (She's chosen a hard path toward self-realization) and that I will be a soft touch. 

She explains to me that to honor her dead relatives at this evening’s gravesite vigil, she would like some money to contribute to the family floral arrangement. I consider this and asks if she will also put some flowers at the grave of my friend Mauricio who recently passed away; I had planned to visit but decided not to because I needed a night at home. She agrees and asks for directions to where he’s buried. I give her a generous amount for both offerings and the deal is sealed.

After picking up some oranges and bananas for tomorrows smoothie, I walk back across the plaza and see Cici behind her family’s table of jewelry at the usual place, twisting wires for a brooch, looking a little low—not up to her usual fierce hug and bright smile. Or maybe she was shy for being unmasked. Her cousin was working next to her on the same shaded, old wrought-iron bench. El estaba llevando su cubrebocas. Cubrebocas—literally, “cover your mouth”—is what folks around here call the masks you wear for the virus.

I bring up the US election. We agreed the world would be better off if Trump was defeated. ¡Ojalá!

I ask and Cici tells me they haven’t had muchos clientes. The governor “pushed the button” last week to shift Jalisco back to a more strict lockdown, demanding vendedores not set up for the usually lucrative weekend vacation trade. Cici mentioned that even the cemetery was closed for the usual nighttime vigils this evening. It was only after saying goodbye that I thought of the implications this last news had for my deal with Bella.

My hope is that she did not know about the closure, or that she had plans to sneak inside the panteón. She knows that when I see her next, I’ll ask her what she did with the money and won’t give her any more until I’m satisfied she has honored both her parents and my friend.

Finally, on my way home I stop for some tasty local bread at the corner grocery. Coming out the open door I almost run into my neighbor and friend, Suzie, a fellow US ex-pat. She’s a sweetheart. I ask what she thinks about the election and she said she thought we’d win but it would be messy. I agree. “Ojala”, we said together on parting, raising our hands in prayer to the sky.