The Shadow of the Shadow by Paco Ignacio Taibo II Read Free Book Online Page B

Porfirian aristocracy whose fathers had the good sense
to break with the hacienda and make new fortunes speculating in
real estate, removing some of the old stigmata from their sons and
families and making them more palatable in the renovated world
of postrevolutionary politics. For dessert, there was the whole
spectrum of hustlers, crooks, high-lifers and confidence men the war in Europe had loosed upon Mexican shores: Russian counts,
French engineers, Catalonian shysters, high-class housebreakers
and specialists in the old family jewels game. There were also a
few highbrow reporters and Sunday poets from El Heraldo and
El Universal, and a smattering of the sons of Spanish immigrant
shopkeepers. It was a society whose insecurities sprang out of its
own immaturity, virginity, and lack of faith. It wasn't Verdugo's kind
of crowd, and he felt out of place as he watched the other guests
enter through the front door, liberating themselves of their hats
and gloves (a vain and pointless accessory in the warm Mexican
spring). For Verdugo's taste, the party-if it could be called thatlacked the necessary contingent of soldaderas, anarchists, lottery
ticket vendors, horses, dogs and other assorted livestock, northern
cattle ranchers about to make their first million, and a healthy
troupe of the prostitutes who were his good friends.

    The press of the late arrivals forced the lawyer and the others
toward the back of the great hall and the rooms bordering on it.
Verdugo somehow got himself dragged into a conversation about
the virtues of the climate in the state of Veracruz with the French
industrialist owner of a textile mill and an army captain, adjunct to
the general staff of "Tiger" Guadalupe Sanchez.
    The officer knew General Santa Ana's biography by heart and
made a great effort to insinuate his knowledge into the conversation
wherever possible. Verdugo made an offhand comment about the
practice of witchcraft in the Tuxtlas region and its common use
against the "paleface" foreigners, but his two companions only
stared at him as if they'd just discovered some rare species of beetle.
That was the problem with this new society: it spent so much time
trying to be modern that it forgot where it had come from. The
only ones they were fooling, however, were themselves.
    Verdugo lit another cigarette and turned his back on his two
companions. It was a fortuitous move, because at precisely that
moment their hostess, the Widow Roldan, made her appearance.
She descended the main staircase dressed in a loose black gown that hung gracefully from her shoulders on two garlands of white
velvet flowers. She wore long white Swedish gloves that reached
to her elbows, and a pair of high Russian boots. The blackness of
her dress stood out starkly against the whiteness of her shoulders
and arms. She smiled languidly, the kind of prefabricated grin that
had come into fashion lately in the wake of a much-heralded run
of Dumas' Camille.

    Endowed with a marvelously utilitarian instinct, the lawyer
took his eyes off the widow and concentrated instead on the
faces of his fellow guests. There was a little bit of everything:
envy, fascination, contempt, lust. He paid particular attention to
a certain officer stationed at the bottom of the stairs. The man
looked at the approaching woman with an expression of-what?
Pride? Possessiveness? "There's my man," thought Verdugo, and he
glanced up at his friend Conchita, walking at her mistress's side.
As she passed the officer in question (a colonel, thought Verdugo,
counting the stripes on his sleeve), Conchita stared at the man
with barely concealed contempt.
    Slowly the guests filtered into the screening room. Verdugo
took a seat in the back row where he was better placed to sneak a
quick nap if the double feature dragged on too long (Los opalos del
crimen, ten rolls, starring Beatriz Dominguez, and Los Filibusteros,
six rolls, based on the novel by Emilio