Like birds, we Americans in Mexico City flocked together, attending the same churches and parties, and sending our children, if we had any, to the American School. Our husbands worked for the same American companies, enduring their overseas assignments while we wives had our hair done in over-sprayed bouffant styles and puzzled over whether a 7 p.m. cocktail party invitation meant American or Mexican time, two hours later. I always had to ask Janet, whose husband worked with mine, and who lived one floor above us.
On a chilly fall morning, Janet appeared at my doorway at the stroke of ten, dressed in a powder blue suit and clutching a navy patent leather handbag. When she had last lived in the States, a dozen years before, Jackie Kennedy had still reigned in the White House.
She looked down her nose at me with a frown, her ample height raised even higher by 4-inch navy heels. I was wearing a plaid skirt, a white blouse with a pullover sweater, knee socks, and penny loafers. “We’re going to the embassy, you know,” Janet said.
“We’re just going to vote,” I said. I felt a little shiver of excitement at voting for the first time.
“You are voting for Nixon, aren’t you?” she asked.
Perhaps my youth and the fact that I had arrived only four months before from Chicago, newly graduated and just as newly wed, made her think I would support McGovern. But I knew how I was supposed to answer. “The president, of course.” Steve’s boss had made it very clear that those who valued their jobs voted for the candidate most favorable to business.
Janet sighed and led us from the building. We lived near the southern edge of the city, in a pink and white apartment house equipped with hot and cold running water, occasional heat from noisy pipes, and electricity that failed only a couple of times a day. The front windows, a scant yard from the sidewalk, were covered with black bars, and around our tiny patio, bougainvillea hung over high stone walls topped with broken glass. We each had a maid, who lived in a cinder block room on the flat roof of our building, and nearly all our work was cheerfully, if slowly, done for us.
The bus stop was only half a block away. Janet said nothing as she tapped her toe against the cracked concrete while we waited. I could tell when Janet was in a mood; lately, she’d been irritable and impatient, and I’d grown used to it. Two young men wandered by, one muttering ‘norteamericanas‘ as he passed. Behind us, an older man rolled up the metal door to open his tiny pharmacy for the day. I studied the pattern of colors on the concrete buildings – pale blue, yellow, cream, sea green — and enjoyed the warm sun after the chill of the apartment. Mexico City was the only place I had ever been where one put on a coat to go inside.
The bus pulled up. Once we’d settled in our seats, Janet grasped her purse upright in her lap and stared straight ahead. “I’m going to leave Jim,” she said.
“You… you are?” I swallowed. “Why?”
“I’m tired of being told what to do.”
I laughed a little, nervously. “You aren’t going to vote for McGovern, are you?”
She scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then… why?”
“Don’t you get tired of it? The dinners that get cold because your husband’s late again, having to boil the water just to brush your teeth, not understanding what anyone says…” She waved a hand around. “Everything.”
“Maybe you just don’t like Mexico,” I ventured.
“Frankfort wasn’t any different, or Brussels either.” She looked away. “It was exciting here at first. But I’m tired of shepherding company wives to the Ballet Folklorico. And I’m going to scream the next time I have to spend a Sunday afternoon riding the boats at Xochimilco.”
“This assignment won’t last forever.” Many of the things that annoyed her I still found to be fun, adventurous, even mysterious. “You’ll probably be back in the States soon.”
Janet shook her head. “Jim will never make it up the ladder. The next assignment will probably be Saudi Arabia.”
“But Steve told me —”
“How long has Steve been with the company? A year?” She gave a short laugh. “When do you think you’ll get back to the States?”
I didn’t know what to say. Steve had promised we’d be gone for only two years. I missed my parents, my married sister in Downers Grove, my dog.
“Have… have you told Jim?”
“He wouldn’t notice if I left. Or care either.” Her hands tightened on her purse. “He stopped caring a long time ago. Men do that.”
But that wouldn’t happen to me and Steve — I was certain it wouldn’t.
“After all,” she went on, “it’s not like he needs me, does he? What do I do all day? Nothing.”
What did I do? I put Steve’s dinner on the table in the evening, even if Maria Elena had cooked it, and laid out his clothes, though it was Maria Elena who had washed and ironed them. But did Steve appreciate my little offerings?
“How will you live?” I asked.
For a moment, Janet was silent. “Well, there’s alimony, of course,” she said slowly. “And I can find something.”
I bit my lip. Like me, Janet was a college graduate who couldn’t even type.
Our bus had arrived at the Metro station, and in the rush to board the shiny red-orange train, our conversation lapsed. On the subway, we never spoke, to avoid revealing that we were Americans, though I doubt anyone was fooled. I felt safe on the subway, but still, I knew never to ride alone. How would I get anywhere if Janet left? I’d be trapped in our apartment.
We cast our votes at the embassy, but my excitement at the event had evaporated. I had assumed we’d shop for a while in the Zona Rosa and have lunch at Sanborn’s, but Janet was in no mood to tarry, murmuring only that she was tired of doing the same things every time we came downtown. Before I knew it, we found ourselves back outside the Tasqueña Metro station, boarding the bus that said ‘Ajusco,’ the bus that passed our apartment building.
Janet said nothing as we rode, perhaps sorry that she had confided in me, a mere girl fifteen years her junior. As I started to rise when the bus neared our corner, Janet laid a hand on my arm. “Let’s stay on,” she said.
“What?” I shook my head. “We don’t know where it goes.”
“It goes to Ajusco.”
“But where’s Ajusco?”
Janet shrugged. “I don’t know. I never heard of it, except for the bus.” Then she turned to me and smiled for the first time that day. “But it would be something different to find out, wouldn’t it?” Then her face darkened. “Better than lying on the sofa and reading Rosemary’s Baby for the fourth time.”
The bus passed our stop. I suddenly realized I had never been as much as a block south of where we lived. It was all new to me, thrilling and frightening at the same time.
“It can’t be far,” Janet added. “This is a local bus.”
“It must be,” I murmured, uncertain. I was sorry I hadn’t eaten more of Maria Elena’s huevos rancheros for breakfast I was starting to get hungry.
I watched out the window as the bus passed new luxury apartments, street-side shops, and a hospital. A few at a time, the riders left the bus. Then the surroundings changed and we passed a shanty-town, a barrio of dirt streets, cinder blocks, and corrugated metal, where several more passengers got off. As the road began to climb, the bus slowed to a groaning crawl. Buildings gave way to fields of corn. A flock of goats grazed beside the road. The bus lurched over broken pavement and potholes, around a broken-down truck, past a bicycle being pushed uphill by a man with Indian blood. The smog lightened. Only six other people remained on board, all women with bolsas, their shopping bags, stuffed with groceries.
Finally, the bus coughed and stopped. The remaining women gathered up their bags and straggled from the bus. The driver turned off the ignition and spoke to us. I didn’t catch what he said, but when he gestured, Janet and I glanced at each other, and then left the bus. The driver jumped from his seat and disappeared.
We stood in a small dusty square, hardly more than a wide spot in the road, the only level place on the hillside. Half a dozen chickens scratched in the black dirt.
Above us, a few adobe houses straggled up a dusty track, a faded rainbow of peeling pastel paint. Flies buzzed through the open door of a cantina under a worn Corona de Barril sign. Two men eyed us curiously from a bench against the wall. A yellow dog lying at their feet raised its head, then lowered it again. Beyond the cantina, a donkey brayed.
“Ajusco,” Janet said. She seemed smaller.
“I suppose so.” I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. With the noontime sun beating down, the bus had been hot. I had taken off my sweater, and now tied it around my waist.
Janet took a deep breath, then turned to enter the cantina. I followed.
A young woman in a print dress stood behind the bar.
“Dos cocas sin nielo,” Janet said. I too could order two Cokes without ice, one of the first phrases I had learned. And I was proud that I knew better than to drink anything with ice. I wondered if they had any food that was safe to eat.
The woman took a long look at us before she turned and pulled two familiar Coke bottles from the chest behind her.
Her eyes narrowed as she held one poised under the opener. “Ten pesos,” she said in English. The ‘e’ in ‘ten’ was only a little longer than it should have been. I wondered where she’d gone to school.
“That’s outrageous,” Janet said in English. She opened her purse and laid two peso coins on the counter. The girl shrugged and started to put the bottles away.
“OK, five pesos,” I said, and covered Janet’s coins with a five peso note. I was thirsty as well as hungry, and tired of this adventure.
The girl gave me a sly smile and opened the bottles. As she set them on the counter, she took my five peso note and Janet’s coins also. “Seven,” she said, and laughed.
I took a long drink. The cola was only slightly cold, but tasted delicious.
“What do you have to eat?” I asked.
“Tacos of chicken,” the girl started. “Tamales —”
Janet grabbed my arm. “We aren’t eating here.”
“But —”
She turned me toward the door. “No, we don’t want to miss the bus.”
In my hunger, I had forgotten the bus. What if it had left already? How would we get back to Mexico City? We hurried out, but the bus was still there, door ajar. We boarded, sipping our Cokes. I let down a window.
Thirty minutes passed in silence and no one came. The bus was empty. No one waited in the square except the same two men who still occupied the bench on the cantina porch, but they had fallen asleep. Clearly, the bus wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.
“I’ll go back and ask that girl in the cantina what time the bus leaves,” I said.
“No, you won’t.” Janet rose. “I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.” She led us off the bus. “Besides, we don’t even know if this bus goes back to the city.” She looked around. “We’ll have to walk.”
I was beginning to be afraid. We had no way of contacting anyone; no one knew where we were. Ever since I’d arrived in Mexico, I’d heard horror stories of people who had ventured into the wrong areas and been robbed or disappeared without a trace. No wonder we had been told to stay home or within the areas we normally traveled.
And how far had we come? Several miles at least, but the bus had been going so slowly, it was hard to know. Janet started down the hill and I hurried after her.
We walked for half an hour, avoiding eye contact with the few people we saw. We passed the man with the bicycle we had seen going up, who tipped his cowboy hat to us. “Just keep walking,” Janet hissed. “Act like we know exactly where we’re going.” She stumbled, though, and barely caught herself. I held my breath as we passed an unrecognizable animal, dead in the ditch.
Finally, we heard a rumble behind us, and the creak of springs over the bumpy road. I turned to see the bus lumbering toward us and waved it down. I didn’t notice if we had the same driver; I didn’t even know if it was the same bus. At that point, any bus would have looked wonderful. We took our seats behind an Indian woman in a brightly embroidered blouse. As we came into the city, I watched out the window anxiously, not knowing if we were even on the right road. When I saw the hospital, I could have cried with relief. I pointed it out to Janet, but she only nodded. We rode the rest of the way to our stop in silence.
As soon as we entered our apartment building, Janet took off her shoes. “Well, that wasn’t a very good idea, was it?” she said, holding the worn and dusty heels in her hand.
I hesitated by my door. “Are you… are you going to tell Jim?”
She turned. “Tell him what, dear?”
We stood in the cool hallway, looking at each other for a long moment. I could think of nothing to say. Janet sighed and then limped up the stairs.
I waited until her steps faded and then let myself into the apartment. Maria Elena made me lunch, and as she washed up, I took a novel from the bookshelf and lay down on the sofa to read.
This article appears in Oct 5-11, 2005.
