Martin Boyd
A lot of Mexicans had complained that it hadn’t been the pot of gold the Americans had promised it would be, but NAFTA had been good to Emilio Panzón. Since 1994, his fleet of trucks had made a fortune for him, carrying automotive parts up to California and returning with loads of cheap washing machines and dryers. Actually, his fleet had been doing the same since 1978, but in 1994, it all became legal. This cut down costs considerably, as he no longer had to pay the obligatory “commissions” at the U.S. border.
His wife, Amelia Carino, had sunk a good portion of his fortune into her charity organization, Mexico Tomorrow, which ran projects to help the poor country folk who lost their farms after NAFTA. Every time he signed one of those cheques over to Mexico Tomorrow, the pain in Emilio felt an unbearable stab of pain in his gut, but he would drown it in a bottle of good Spanish wine, and in the knowledge that in this way he kept the peace in his family.
Thus he lived relatively happily for several years, until the day of the change.
On the day of the change, Emilio and Amelia sat together on their sofa in the living room of their mansion in Las Lomas, with their son, Emilio Jr. and their daughter, Maria, at their feet, watching the news on their big-screen TV imported from the U.S., of Japanese design, manufactured in the Philippines. Emilio felt a stirring in his gut. He knew a change was coming, but he wasn’t sure what it would bring.
On the TV screen appeared the gigantic face of the spokesman for the Electoral Institute. The sheet of paper he held in his hand shook like a leaf on a fig tree as he began to speak: “The Electoral Institute verifies the following figures from the presidential election. Mr. Juan Carlos Zorrillo, of the Party of National Inertia, 24 222 368 votes. Mr. Juan Carlos Francisco Javier Perez Panadero, of the Party of Democratic Populism… 24 222 368 votes.”
He looked up from the paper, removed his glasses, and looked seriously at the camera. “The result, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “is a tie. And, as holding another presidential election would be a bureaucratic extravagance that Mexican taxpayers wouldn’t stand for, the Electoral Institute has determined to award the presidency to both candidates. Mr. Zorrillo will be President of all Mexicans who choose to live in his Mexico, which will henceforth be known as Mexico Z. Mr. Perez Panadero will be President of all Mexicans who choose to live in his Mexico, which will henceforth be known as Mexico P. All Mexicans must choose the Mexico they want to live in.”
Emilio aimed the remote control at the TV and shot. “Well,” he announced, as the pallid face of the spokesman disappeared, “we are obviously going to live in Mexico Z.”
He felt his wife shift away from his side slightly on the sofa. “I voted for Perez Panadero,” she said in a voice that lowered the temperature of the room by at least two degrees. “My Mexico is Mexico P.”
“Are you crazy, woman?” he cried. “With all those social programs Panadero has planned, Mexico P. will be bankrupt in a year. And do you think the gringos will look twice at you? Mexico Z. will be the Mexico with all the money.”
“Only if all the people with all the money in Mexico choose to live in Mexico Z,” commented Emilia. “But we’ll be living in Mexico P.”
Emilio looked at her sideways. “We, kimosabe?” he smirked. “This house is in Mexico Z. Period, and end of discussion!”
And it was the end of the discussion. Emilio and Amelia didn’t speak again in the days that followed. The borderline between Mexico Z and Mexico P was drawn down the middle of their house. Amelia took the kitchen and the south side of the living room, where she sat with her friends reading Trotskyite pamphlets, drinking fair-trade organic coffee and discussing the plans for a Mexico P for all Mexicans P. Emilio took the study and the north side of the living room, where he sat with his big business friends drinking German beer and discussing how great Mexico Z was going to be with all the bleeding hearts and cry-babies living in the other Mexico. Their two kids became wetbacks in their own house, keeping to the Mexico P side when they wanted freedom from oppression, and jumping the border when they wanted money to go to the movies.
To prevent such uncontrolled border crossings, the government of Mexico Z, with support from Washington, financed the construction of millions of electric fences to separate the two Mexicos. The fences divided cities, suburbs, even homes. Emilio watched, bewildered, as the workers raised the fence in the middle of his house. It was a prefabricated fence, made in Taiwan. As he watched it go up, Emilio vaguely recalled some Bible verse he’d heard at mass, before his local church ended up in Mexico P, about how “a house divided against itself cannot stand”. He looked at his two children through the wire mesh, and saw their large, dark eyes staring sadly back at him. Even Amelia looked at him, for the first time in months, with an expression that suggested a sense of something lost.
He turned to his friends, who were singing Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” in a drunken chorus. They didn’t really know the words, and the melody sounded a lot more like the old Mexican standard “El Rey”. They finally gave up singing, and instead raised their glasses to toast the partition of Mexico.
“To freedom!” cried his friend Pedro, owner of a chain of French-style fashion boutiques with outlets in Monterrey and San Antonio, Texas.
“Freedom?” asked Emilio, shifting uncomfortably in his Italian suit. “How can you talk of freedom, man? I’ve got a wire fence in the middle of my house!”
“But don’t you see, compadre,” answered Pedro, “this separation has been the best thing that’s ever happened to Mexico. In one move, we’ve gotten rid of the political opposition, and solved the poverty problem, because all the poor are living in Mexico P! We’re free at last!”
Emilio looked back through the wire at his family. Something stirred in his gut. Suddenly, he picked up the big-screen TV, pulling its cable out of the wall, and tossed it like a huge rock at the fence. The fence collapsed instantly. His friends watched in horror as he trampled over it to the other side and embraced his wife and children.
“What the hell, compadre?” shouted Pedro across the border. “What are you doing? Are you a Mexican Z, or a Mexican P?”
Emilio looked at him and smiled. “Neither, compadre,” he answered. “I’m a Mexican, period. No more, no less.”
For the first time in years, the pain in his gut dissolved completely.