I learned a long time ago down here in Mexico that saving face is everything. Let them think they?re winning, winning, and winning?until they?re not winning. And then leave them a graceful open back door so they can back out without making it seem like they?re backing out.
Long before ever digesting the work of Mexican writer Octavio Paz and his brutally honest treatise on the Mexican psyche and the inherent sadness of being a conquered people, I came to understand the importance of deference and tact in the Aztec Nation?especially as a gringo living in their world.
I used this knowledge in boxing quite a bit, training my kids to let their opponents come forward and be aggressive?as long as they?re not landing any scoring blows. Mexican fighters, as a general rule, are just as concerned with maintaining the appearance of bringing the good fight as they are with actually winning. Let them be happy in their aggression, let them call you a coward afterwards?just get the win.
If one is willing to swallow one?s pride in a nation where pride is often the ONLY thing that matters, you can get away with just about anything.
?Xiomara! Hermosa! (Xiomara! Beautiful!)? I exclaimed. ?Donde has estado? Te estuve buscando. (Where have you been? I?ve been looking for you.)?
Xiomara puffed up her cheeks a bit and furrowed her painted-on eyebrows.
?Que Hermosa, Que Hermosa (?Beautiful? my ass),? she replied. ?Me debes tres mil, cabron! Donde esta mi dinero? (You owe me three thousand, bastard! Where?s my money?)? Three thousand? When did it go from two to three? Whatever.
The armed security and the ?made? men who had left their chicas to see the show were taking everything in. Standing there negotiating an outstanding debt with a working girl would?ve blown my cover as a bumbling gringo who just happened to wander into the wrong place with his horny, blond pal. So, I made a fool of myself for the amusement of the fellas with the pistolas. The only other alternative would?ve been to haul ass with my client Rick, swinging at everyone in our way until we got out the front door?and then hope that we could get to the car before getting lit up. And seeing as how Rick was biting his lip, trembling in fear, chances were pretty good that he?d be lousy at covering my ass.
?Pero, Xiomara?Sabes que soy pobre gabacho. Ni dos centavos tengo. Por eso tengo que andar llevando mocosos asi para buscar cojines. (But, Xiomara?You know I?m a poor White boy. That?s why I have to take snot-nosed punks like this to look for fucks.)? I misused the word ?cojines? on purpose to look like the harmless fool I wanted them to see. ?Cojines? means ?cushions,? but it?s also a play on words, a child-like substitute for variations of the word ?coger? (fuck).
The guys around me laughed. I played straight man, not cracking the slightest grin. Some of the tension had left the room.
I turned my attention to the armed guys and, specifically, the kid in the White Sox jacket who knew the most English.
?Mi amigo quiere con ella (My friend likes her),? I said, signaling to Xiomara with a nod of my head. ?Puedo negociar con ella? Mientras, te damos para las botellas (Can I negotiate with her? In the meantime, we?ll give you for the bottles.)?
I told Rick to hand over the 3K for the bottles, the security guy nudged Xiomara into a side room where we were instructed to follow her.
?Te estuve buscando, hermosa (I was looking for you, beautiful),? I told the still-perturbed chica. ?Tengo un trabajo para ti. Bien f?cil. Paga cinco mil, mas propina. (I have a job for you. Really easy. It pays five thousand, plus tip.)?
What job was I talking about? I was winging things, distracting her with bullshit, trying to get a smile. A smile meant that she was jarred back to pussycat mode and away from trying to get me dismembered in a private cartel brothel. Man, was she pretty, though. Like a real-life schizo Pocahontas.
?Y eres la mejor en ganando sus propinas?yo si se?muy bien se. (And you?re the best at earning your tips?I know?I know very well).? I smiled with feigned shyness.
She smiled back. Good.
At the very least, she?d get a payday with Rick right now. I?d get her number (again) and get her out of my hair for a bit. And me and my client wouldn?t be raped with tequila bottles or tortured with car battery charges to the balls. To steal a line from Ice Cube? ?It was a good day.?
Less than 72 hours later, though, I WOULD be reaching out to Xiomara and making good on my promise. And, in turn, she?d lead me to a pile of cash, but not before once again almost getting me killed.
