My much-delayed mural "Bruja" was unveiled last week with the rest of a major renovation of one those breezy old mansions constructed in Las Lomas way back in the Twenties for early grandees of the PRI, and while the guests slam down champagne and murmur appreciatively inside, I drift out to the street where my friend Miguel and the other chaffeurs and bodyguards are stomping around and singing snatches of pop tunes to keep themselves warm in the cool night air of the hills above Mexico City in the middle of February.
"The boss says to me, if that crazy yanqui painter don't finish my mural in time for the party, Miguel, you take him out to the farm for me and feed him to the hogs."
"But I like you, I don't want to do this thing, so I say to the boss, It is very unlucky to kill a crazy man, worse luck to kill a painter, and to kill a crazy painter is as the curse of seven brujas."
"So the boss thinks it over for a little while, and then he says..."
"Kill him anyway."
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Our little mob of drivers and mercenaries laughs merrily and congratulates me and Miguel for our good luck that I finished the mural, and then they go back to singing and stomping around until a passing car slows down on Paseo de las Palmas and all of them suddenly fall silent, glaring into the headlights.
