On coming out of the torture chamber
we were confronted by a bear, near the gate.
Nothing out of the ordinary,
the villa was in a remote area.
(was it ever)
Young and rather curious
(the concept of bars must've seemed quite new)
it kept its distance
as if sensing the small heavy gun in my pocket.
Fat lot of good that'll do you, flashed through my mind.
The Prince looked at the bear
then at me. Out came the gun.
Will it get the idea? I mean, it could just—

No.

The Prince glanced at his watch.
(Tag Heuer, elegance and steel.)
The gesture was loaded.
(our guys in the Mercedes
— the fuckers — kept shtum)

The execution itself,
like most things in life,
was botched and successful
at the same time.

The first shot got it angry. Also: scared.
Nature is simple. That's what I have learned.
(don't ask)
Somewhat crazed (was it the shock?)
the bear ran uneasily towards the black car
colour-coordinated with the Prince's coat
(one could almost hear the sweaty electronics
clicking the locks well shut)
then back — trailing blood,
and on fresh snow, no less,
indeed quite poetic,
but then again
life is sometimes like that,
nothing to be ashamed of, I guess.

The second shot should have done the job
and didn't
(there you have your modern weaponry)
but the third did. Well done.
The bear howled but after the screams below
it wasn't really moving, let alone scary.
(or maybe just a little bit)
I felt some pity, and then it passed,
and then it was dead.
Let's go.

Not yet.

We stood in silence for a bit.
(no, of course the Prince was not afraid)
Mourning? Maybe.
Although if so,
then I don't really know what,
exactly.

Luz Hernández, in her kitchen on Calle Sonora, Colonia Condesa, Mexico City DF, November 1975. To this day I don't know which of the two was Arturo Belano and which was Ulises Lima. I never actually met either of them. I only saw them through this window as they were slowly walking away from the house with Inés gesturing animatedly between the two of them. I remember thinking with a relief that they looked too scruffy to be pimps.

Inés came home earlier than usual that day. When I heard her opening the front door, I went to meet her to see if everything was all right. She seemed very excited, her eyes brighter and her hair wilder than usual. I asked if her lectures had been cancelled and she told me, all in one breath, that she'd just met a couple of poets and they read her poems and liked them and asked her to join their group, and so she was going to quit the university and become a poetess. She just came home to pick up some books. The two poets were waiting for her outside.

Up to that moment I didn't know she wrote poetry.

Naturally, I tried to reason with her but can you reason with a very stubborn seventeen-year-old? Can you reason with any seventeen-year-old, no matter how stubborn? They always think they know best. They don't want to listen to wisdom that comes after years of heartbreak and disillusionment. And why should they? So I let her go while muttering: wait till your father hears about this. An empty threat if ever there was one.

When Pedro came home from work I didn't even wait till he got changed but told him straightaway about our conversation. He listened without saying a word and when it became clear I was expecting some kind of reaction, he asked what do they call themselves? At first I was too surprised to say anything, but then a sudden wave of anger and fear loosened my tongue. Are you out of your mind? I shouted, your daughter decides to leave the university and join a group of some dodgy poets, who will probably turn out to be a bunch of pimps or thieves or complete layabouts, and all you can think of is what they call themselves? What difference does it make what they call themselves? My husband looked at me and I swear his eyes looked just like his seventeen-year-old daughter's. It makes all the difference, he said very calmly. I felt a chill down my spine and knew my anger was pointless, so I answered him just as calmly, my voice trembling only the slightest bit: I think they call themselves the visceral realists.