Sinking City

Part 1

 A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, a white blouse, and indigo pants stepped into Bulwark’s lobby. Her pearl earrings caught the light as the glass doors slid shut behind her. This was Guadalupe Echeverria. Crossing the granite floor, she listened to the echo of her heels and thought of her first days at The Factory—the nickname she and the others had given the international conglomerate that had become their second home.

  It stood alone, one of the first modern skyscrapers in Mexico City, like a sandhill crane that had drifted too far south. Bulwark’s headquarters were in Seattle, and in the run-up to NAFTA the company had pushed aggressively into Mexico: textile plants along the border, car factories in San Luis Potosí and Coahuila. It grew easily, promising investors cheap labor and a willing government. Before Bulwark, the skyline rarely rose above three stories. Now towers challenged the volcanoes with their height, teetering over an ancient lake that still longed to reclaim its bed. The ground crumbled beneath them. As the buildings sank, Guadalupe climbed.

  In those early years she dreamed of transfer—of a better life in the United States—but her petition for relocation was denied. She would have to rise higher before such dreams were even on the table.

  By forty she was National Director of Strategy. Tireless, meticulous, she closed the deal granting Bulwark the rights to extract lithium from a mine in Sonora. Soon after, she oversaw the relocation of the banking call center to Guatemala, saving Bulwark millions. What finally made her a contender for Global Strategy Director in Seattle was a covert arrangement with the ruling PRI: early access to the cannabis market once legalization passed.

  Today she faced her final interview. If hired, she would be the first Mexican—and the first woman—to hold the position.

  She was revising the last slide of her presentation when her chief assistant, Gabriel Reyes, appeared at the door. He had helped her sell the Sonora mine to the public, promising “minimal environmental impact”—claims loudly disputed in the press. It was Gabriel, too, who designed the campaign that deflected criticism after the Guatemala move.

  During that project, despite the risk, she had begun an affair with him. After years of a dissolving marriage, Gabriel had felt like an escape. He was charming, obedient, and young enough for her to lead: she paid at restaurants, she drove, she set the terms.

  When she was married, she had given her husband an extension of her credit card. He was a contractor whose income was barely a third of hers. Sometimes she wondered if that generosity had humiliated him, if she had helped build his inferiority. But she was too busy to fight, and in the end she bought him their divorce. She had always tried to give what was wanted—wasn’t that what love was supposed to mean?

  With Gabriel she could forget. She enjoyed his youth, his romanticism, the mornings they spent together in her new apartment, wandering through unpacked boxes while he smoked and told stories about cousins in politics and friends abroad. One morning he had asked if he could move in, if they could start a life together. She had laughed—then, to her own surprise, considered it. For a moment she let herself imagine being young again. But she knew she couldn’t. On the day her divorce was finalized she had promised herself to leave for the United States, with or without Bulwark, taking nothing with her.

  After the breakup Gabriel ignored her in meetings, called her Lupe in front of others, performed little acts of rebellion. Still, she had promised to help him advance, though each childish gesture weakened her resolve.

  Now he stood before her desk, pouting, accusatory, helpless.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I just had a question about the fallout from the lithium thing,” he said, sitting down. “Some journalist keeps pestering me for a statement.”

  “Gabriel,” she said, “be real. You can handle this.”

  “Nervous about your interview?” His tone was teasing. “Funny—you know Bill emailed me yesterday. Asked if I’d be interested in working abroad.”

  Of course he’d call William Forest, Bulwark’s CFO, by his first name.

  “I see,” she said. “Now you’d like to follow me?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I like it here. I’m actually worried. About you. About this American fantasy of yours. You know it’s not better there. What are you going to do all alone? How much solitude can you stand?”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not here to fight.” He reached across the desk and took her hand—too tightly. His fingers were soft, incongruously soft. “My offer still stands,” he said. “I just want the best for you. If you stayed, imagine what we could do together.”

  She closed her computer, eyes searching for an exit. She was too focused on the interview to invent a merciful lie.

  “Well,” he said, sensing her discomfort, “I tried. No surprise you abandon people so easily. What must your mother feel?”

  Her temples throbbed. She stood, grabbed her jacket, and smiled—a brittle, practiced smile—and left the office.

  In the elevator she was alone, the mirrored walls reflecting her from every side. As the compartment rose, her stomach sank. When the doors opened she stepped into the hallway, head lowered, following the wood grain toward the window at the far end. She pressed her palm to the glass; the warmth of the sun radiated into her skin.

  Forty-six stories high, she looked down at Avenida Reforma. Cars spun endlessly around the Independence Angel, breaking off into the labyrinth of the city. She thought of Sundays when the avenue closed to traffic, when children played in the fountains and cyclists shouted at distracted pedestrians. It was one of those Sundays—just after her divorce—that she lost her mother.

  The memory rose unbidden: the heat on her knees, the sound of sirens. As they approached the Angel, her mother slowed, looking for somewhere to sit. Guadalupe turned to wave off a vendor with a pushcart of candy and nuts; when she looked back, her mother was on the ground. She and her father tried to lift her, but the body was impossibly heavy. The doctors later called it a minor stroke. Only short-term memory loss, they said, nothing too serious.

  But soon her mother forgot names, forgot tasks, forgot herself. Her father, consumed by caretaking, began to resemble her. Guadalupe had never felt more alone. Weekends blurred into solitude in her new loft, phone pressed to her ear, coordinating swap prices, fantasizing about Seattle. Her mother was lost but not dead; grief was suspended, postponed. So she worked.

  She turned back to the window. The Angel gleamed gold against the darkening street. Reforma stretched upward, tree-lined and feverish, its parks and sculptures blazing in the smog-pink light. From above, the city’s inequalities were clear—the tidy boulevards of wealth, the tangled roofs of the poor.

.

  Her eyes caught on a small memorial near a crosswalk: a wooden cross tied with half-deflated helium balloons. Inés Flores, twenty-two, abducted, raped, murdered, discarded. Another name in an endless list. Her ex-husband used to say there was nothing to be done. You have too much to lose. That only happens to whores and lowlifes. She had believed him, or pretended to. Now the guilt of that belief weighed on her.

  She began reading every article about murdered women, memorizing their faces, tracing their stories late into the night. Sometimes she was certain it would happen to her too. Fear hardened her resolve: escape was no longer desire but necessity. She stopped wearing watches, stopped walking after dark.

  Out of guilt she contacted an old friend who ran a shelter for women, offering to volunteer, but the Seattle interview was already on the horizon, and preparation consumed her. From the forty-sixth floor the danger felt distant, tamed by glass and altitude. Two men were waiting for her in the boardroom, and she was certain she would impress them.

  She stepped away from the window, heels clicking down the corridor. The conference-room door was open. Inside, Robert Hill and William Forest chatted beside the projector. She paused, listening, then entered, shedding the last of her hesitation.

  “First things first,” said Robert. “What’s your theory about the volcanoes?”

  William smiled faintly, indulgent.

  “I told him the legend,” Robert said. “Now we want to hear your theory.”

  Guadalupe remembered the first time they met, years earlier, when Robert had pointed out the volcanoes from the highway, mistaking them for mountains. She could still hear his voice.

  “Who builds a city under a volcano?” he had asked.

  “People who follow their beliefs,” she had said. “Do you know the legend?”

  Now, standing before them again, she cleared her throat and began.

  “Popocatépetl was a Tlaxcaltecan warrior,” she said. “The Tlaxcaltecans hated the Aztecs—they fought constantly. Popo loved a princess, Iztaccíhuatl, the chief’s daughter. Before he went to war he asked for her hand, and her father agreed—if he returned alive. So he left to prove himself. She waited. That was what made him worthy: leaving, fighting, returning with blood on his hands.”

  “That’s what we do,” Robert said quietly. “We never learn.”

  “When Popo returned,” she continued, “he found her dead. Some say a jealous rival told her he’d been killed, and she took her life. Others say she died during an Aztec raid. I have my own theory—but maybe that’s for later. Grief-stricken, Popo carried her body into the mountains, lay beside her, and kept a torch burning. That’s him out there, still burning.”

  William tilted his head. “And your theory?”

  “I’ll tell you after the presentation,” she said. “A reward for sitting through my numbers.”

  He laughed. “She’s good, isn’t she?” His eyes lingered where she wished they wouldn’t.

  They sat. She began her presentation: the mine in Sonora, the savings in Guatemala, the cannabis deal. The slides flickered blue across the wall. But as she spoke, thoughts of her mother intruded—her father’s exhaustion, the nurse he refused, the weight of absence. You can’t solve everything with money, he had said. Sometimes all you can give is your time. She had hired the nurse anyway.

  She took a sip of water and continued. The numbers were flawless: fifteen-year projections, twenty-three million in savings. William scribbled something on his pad. She could feel his appraisal, the lazy confidence of a man who never needed to prove himself.

  When she finished, she closed the laptop. “Any questions?”

  Robert glanced at William.

  “How is your relationship with Gabriel Reyes?” William asked.

  Her pulse quickened—had Gabriel talked to him? “Professional,” she said evenly.

  “I like your attitude,” William said. “In fact, I’d suggest you bring him along to Seattle as an assistant—if you think it would help.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “Too costly, and I’m confident in my own team.”

  He nodded. “Are you married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Robert rose, stretching. “Back in a minute,” he said, stepping into the hallway.

  When the door clicked shut, William approached. He crouched briefly, picked something from the floor—a pearl earring. “This fell while you were talking,” he said, holding it between his fingers. The pearl glowed pale against his skin.

  She hesitated—unsure whether he meant to return it or touch her. Then she took it, feeling the slick warmth of his hand, and fixed it back in place.

  “You have a lovely accent,” he said. “Tell me—why do you want this job so much?”

  She paused. Sometimes she suspected she didn’t love the work itself, only its orderliness—the way numbers obeyed, unlike people. “I’ve always wanted it,” she said.

  “Well, if it works out,” he said, “I’ll show you around Seattle. The city’s changed. Some parts you’ll want to avoid.”

  Robert returned, his shirt damp, his belly pressing the fabric. “What did I miss?”

  “Only her theory about the volcanoes,” William said.

  Guadalupe smiled faintly. “I think Iztaccíhuatl didn’t wait for him. She pretended to. She was a princess—busy, pragmatic. Maybe the legend was invented later, to lure men into war, promising a woman waiting at the end of conquest.”

  She paused, wondering what legends she had told herself to keep climbing.

  “Sounds like heartbreak,” Robert said.

  “Sounds like good marketing,” William added. “But the original sells better.”

  She ignored his grin. “Thank you both for the opportunity,” she said.

  “This was just a formality,” Robert replied.

  She suppressed her excitement. She could already imagine the Seattle skyline, the cranes above South Lake Union, the drizzle on glass.

  “It was nice to meet you,” William said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

  “Thanks for finding my earring,” she said, regretting the concession as soon as it left her mouth.

  They shook hands and left her alone with the silence.