Free The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant Page A

He does not look back but I follow him. I hear him asking for the ladies from Juquila who make special clothes for the Virgin. I smell meat and realize I am hungry when a man in a bloody jacket pushes past me and then César with the leg of a cow on his shoulder. In a moment we are among the butchers. It’s early, so the meat is piled high on the shelves and hanging thick on the hooks—rags of carne asada, strings of sausages round as beads, heavy blankets of tripe, piles of goat heads staring blind over pyramids of chickens with their marigold feet hanging in the walkway. When César passes a juice stand, he buys a liter and takes it with him through the heart of the market and over to the far side, closer to the rail line and el centro. We are in a clothing section now so he asks again for the ladies from Juquila and is sent over to a young Zapoteca in bluejeans and a T-shirt with fake diamonds who is reading a fashion magazine and listening to an MP3 player with tiny headphones.
    â€œExcuse me,” says César. “Is your mother here?”
    The girl pulls out one of the headphones. “¿Mande?”
    â€œYour mother, is she here?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œNobody. I need a gown for Juquilita.”
    â€œWhy don’t you say so?”
    The girl’s stall is made of light metal bars going up and across all around her, like a giant cage. On every bar are hangers with colored shirts and blouses covered in fine flowers all from sewing. The girl points behind her with her thumb and high in the back is a row of tiny gowns too small even for a baby, covered in a layer of brown dust. “That’s all we got left,” says the girl. “No more until November.”
    César chooses the brightest one, light green with gold threads. The girl takes it down with a long pole, gives it a shake and hands it to César. “Quinientos,” she says.
    You can buy five shirts for this kind of money, but César doesn’t bother to bargain. He kneels down, pulls some bills from his sock and pays her. Then he folds the gown into his jacket pocket and makes his way back through the market toward the river, making sure to go a different way. It is harder to find a taxi on the back side of the market, but it is dangerous to be near the entrance. Always the police are there. I follow César outside where he is asking people about colectivos going north. I stand apart from him and he ignores me. After some minutes waiting, a minivan comes and he squeezes in the back with three hundred kilos of nuns going to Nochixtlán. I get the last seat behind the driver. I can see that César is angry, but what can he say with all these nuns?
    The driver waits to collect the money until he is out of the city traffic and on the highway. This is a difficult moment for me because I have only the ten pesos. I am also hungry like the devil. I am hoping the driver will not notice me with all the nuns, but he does, and after everyone has paid he looks at me in his mirror and raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t he pay for us already?” I say, and point back to César with my thumb. I turn around and César gives me a look like, What the fuck are you doing?
    â€œI would be home sleeping now if it wasn’t for you,” I say. César is furious, but the nuns are turning to look at us and he doesn’t want to attract any more attention.
    â€œCincuenta y cinco,” says the driver.
    â€œI’ll pay you back,” I say to César.
    Without looking at me, César passes the money forward to the driver and then turns his head to the gray rocks and bare brown hills of the Mixteca, a desert compared to our green Sierra.
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    When we got off in Nochixtlán on the edge of town both of us were watching for federales and police, but there was nothing—only freight trucks and cars. We were deep in the Mixteca, two hours north of el centro, and on the hills around us