And just like that, you are there again, pushing your way through the yellow tents of Tepito’s market. You cannot stay away from Mexico. It is like skydiving, or popping amphetamines. It is life at the crescendo. These stalls of towering flowers, these heaps of chintzy, absurd toys are a labyrinth connecting the Centro Historico with the no-go barrio. Here, heads roll, if they’re lucky.
At the north and east of the squalor of caged dogs and baby birds, past baskets of chipotle crickets nopales, past skyscraper shoeboxes of wrestling masks and diablito figurines, you slip into the streets.
You shake your head curtly whenever a twin set of stony eyes latch onto yours. You aren’t looking for blow or a guerrilla machine gun for a steal. You have no list of enemies you want dead.
But you ARE looking for death, after all, and haven’t you always been? Tonight, you are one of her pilgrims.
You follow the others past the shady men whose faces are covered like old western train bandits. Toss paper money into an upturned cup for an ancient mestiza missing both legs. She hands you a bouquet of orange and violet chrysanthemums. Armed with sacred offerings, you are now part of the procession. A thousand candles flicker as the river of humans moves toward Her shrine.
You approach the church of Santa Muerta, a humble hole that now showered in purple and gilt fire. You weren’t expecting to see glory in the grim one’s gaunt visage, but you were hoping for something. A glimpse, at least, of what might come after. But the colours in her aura are festoons of the living. There is nothing there after all, only sockets emptied of sight, and a grinning rope of clattering dentin keys.