"His name was Pablos."
Tuesday, March 9, 10:30 a.m.,
In the passport control room, Maria was just a tiny ant among the hundreds and hundreds of travelers who gathered in an endless congested queue.
Maria lifted her head, praying inwardly that her turn would come and soon. Her black heels were making her suffer like hell because of standing and waiting for so long. Besides, why had she put them on to travel? she wondered, regretting her decision, she who usually always opted for the easy way.
Unfortunately, her wish could not be granted because behind the row of counters, there were only two old policemen to control the flow of rowdy people, or rather three, but the youngest, a man in his thirties ;with thick eyebrows like two large bushes and an enticing smile; seemed much more preoccupied with conversing with an elegant young lady with false eyelashes than with doing her job.
Maria sighed for the umpteenth time and slightly unbuttoned her jacket, because in addition to poor service, a hot flash overwhelmed her. The air was heavy, saturated with the sickening smell of sweat.
Suddenly, as she was about to deactivate the airplane mode of her cell phone, a group of tourists all wearing the same straw hat; in front of her ; started screaming in anger and frustration at this situation.
The first policeman looked at the second, a mustachioed man in bad shape, and mumbled a few words to the youngest presumably to get them to work. This one did not seem at all happy to have been interrupted in his beautiful discussion but ended up complying after the young lady wrote her phone number on a piece of paper before slipping away.
Maria's ordeal was finally over, after more than twenty-five minutes of waiting, and she was finally able to admire the azure blue sky of her country. Outside, she landed on a huge esplanade where the bustle of traffic gave her wings to move forward. Street vendors, men in suits, families with their children and surrounding businesses: everyone seemed to welcome her.
Her legs were heavy, wobbly, but despite the fatigue and her two huge suitcases that seemed to weigh tons, a smile passed the corner of her lips.
She was finally in Mexico. And she finally felt free. Yes, free to choose her path, to live her dream, to hope for more...
But she was brought out of her thoughts very quickly by a voice that was both warm and strident:
- Señora, do you need a driver? asked a dark-haired man in his fifties with a graying beard and wearing a Nike sports tracksuit, a red silk scarf that hugged his skinny neck almost excessively, and a green checkered beret from which two large protruding ears stood out. His prominent forehead drooping over a squashed nose, and his lips were so discolored it looked like he was suffering from chronic dehydration.,
"A very interesting style of dressing up" thought the young woman.
Several dozen taxis; of all imaginable colors; were parked along the entire length of the avenue.
Maria nodded, somewhat taken aback, and climbed into the first, a burgundy-gold sedan emblazoned with an emblem of the Angel of Independence.
- 802, Calle lope de Vega, please, said the brunette with a half-damaged Spanish.
The taxi driver laughed a good laugh before putting on his seat belt and engaging a gear.
- Is this your first time in Mexico?, asked the man with the beret, still smiling after a long silence where only the engine of the machine purred weakly.
Maria took her eyes off the window and answered amused:
- Yes. And you ?
- Ah! It's a good one there...I have always lived here, moreover I have never travelled. I would have liked to take my wife to Italy for Valentine's Day...
There was a long silence before the driver snapped out of his nostalgic thoughts to add with a sigh:
- But that's life. Lack of luck or rather money.
- Yes I understand. But I'm sure it will happen one day, replied the young woman in a reassuring tone.
- Probably yes. If you don't mind, the first thing to do is to introduce you to Mexican music. You will see it is a marvel. Vicente Fernandez is one of my favorite singers!
Maria accepted with a good heart touched by the enthusiasm of her interlocutor and let herself be lulled to the rhythm of the song...
. . .
A black coffee. Sugar free. That's what helped clear the haze in his thoughts.
Leaning back comfortably on a leather armchair, the firearm resting on the table in front of him, he waited patiently for news, with an almost frightening calm.
The solid wooden door located to the right of the huge living room of his luxurious residence opened slowly, and a thin young man with freckles but especially white as a sheet made his entrance with small steps.
His name was Pablos. Small and naive, with fine features and smooth, soft hair, the young man had a scared look on his face.
Aged only 17, he was one of those young people who had watched too many series and who had got it into his head that being the bad guy in the story was "cool". In Joker fashion.
Except that by deciding to join the mafia, he realized that the reality was quite different.
Unable to leave once in the den of the beast, he had become the laughing stock of his men, frail and weak, he had been entrusted with the terrible task of announcing the bad news to the boss.
Opening the wooden door, Pablos had suddenly felt very cold. A penetrating, pitiless cold that enveloped him completely like the gaze of the "jefe", and the bad feeling that was gradually settling in his very weak body.
- Yes ? said the man with the growing dark beard and piercing eyes.
- I...I...Boss...uh...
He was aware of his ridiculousness, but in spite of his dry throat he continued, stammering, looking down:
- We...didn't...find him.
There was a long silence in which, unwittingly, Pablos regretted the stupid choices he had made in the past.
He should have never dropped school.
He should have never met Martin, his former best friend who had told him that living on the streets was the best thing ever.
He should have never run away from home.
He should have never come here.
He should have...
Pablos no longer had time to think and regret, his limbs had suddenly paralyzed, jerky spasms ran through him like tiny echoes of convulsions, the strangled breath of a throbbing pain as the embrace of a specter crushed him. .
He put his hand instinctively on his stomach and that's when he understood.
He fell heavily to the ground, his ears ringing like searing explosions of fireworks.
"Mom" he thought as a tear shed and his teeth chattered, hoping no doubt by this gesture to gain warmth.
Despite his weakened senses, he could hear footsteps echoing on the marble floor as a red liquid had decorated it.
Leaning over him, the boss stared at him with an expressionless smile.
"Words aren't enough," he heard before closing his eyes forever.
He should have never ran away from home...