IAN WENZEL-GARAY - SINKING CITY

Ian Wenzel-Garay earned his creative writing degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2020. He works on fiction and is interested in topics such as class, masculinity and culture. Perspective is key in his writing, he lets the characters guide the story so they can  create an experience and allow the reader to stumble upon different  points of view.

Sinking City
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A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, a white blouse, a pair of indigo pants and a set of pearl earrings entered Bulwark’s lobby. This was Guadalupe Echeverria and as she walked through the granite-floored lobby she remembered her early days at “The Factory,” the nickname she and the other employees had bestowed on the international conglomerate where they worked. The building had been one of the very first modern skyscrapers in Mexico City. It stood alone, like a sandhill crane that had flown too far south. Bulwark’s headquarters were in Seattle, Washington and, in the runup to the signing of NAFTA, the company had made early inroads in Mexico. It had invested in a variety of industries, textile factories near the border and car manufacturing in San Luis and Coahuila. It grew easily across the country, attracting investors with the promise of cheap labor. Before Bulwark, the landscape of the city consisted of buildings no higher than three stories. Now, skyscrapers challenged the surrounding volcanoes with their height and teetered over an ancient lake that struggled to reclaim its territory, crumbling the sediment where the buildings rested. As the buildings slowly sank, Guadalupe climbed the corporate ranks. In her early days, she dreamed about moving, about a better life in the United States. As a sales manager she asked to be transferred to America, but her petition was rejected, reaffirming that she needed to reach higher levels at the company before her dream itself was on the table.
At 40, Guadalupe became the national director of strategy in Mexico. She worked tirelessly in the new position. It was she who single handedly locked the deal for the right to extract lithium from a mine in Sonora. Not long after, she managed to transfer the Latin American customer service department for Bulwark’s banking branch to Guatemala, saving the company millions of dollars in employee salaries. But, what turned Guadalupe into a candidate for Director of Global Strategy at Bulwark’s headquarters was a covert deal with the current party in power, PRI, that would grant Bulwark early access to the cannabis market once it, theoretically, became legal in the country.
     Today she had her last interview for the Seattle job. If hired, she would be both the first Mexican and the first woman to hold this position. Guadalupe was in her office reviewing the last details of her presentation for her interview when her chief assistant, Gabriel Reyes, stepped inside. He helped Guadalupe with public relations campaigns that assured the Sonora locals that the lithium mine would have only a minimal environmental impact— claims vociferously disputed in the local press. And it was Gabriel who came up with the idea to develop a press campaign under Guadalupe’s supervision that helped Bulwark to avoid further criticism when they moved the Customer Service department to Guatemala. It was during this project that Guadalupe, despite the risk of such an involvement with a subordinate, initiated their stealthy affair. She had finally escaped a never-ending divorce and after months of solitude, she started to see Gabriel as a means of escape. Yes, he played the hotshot, but Guadalupe kept him in check. She paid at restaurants. She did the driving. And she set the terms. Back when she was still married she had given an extension of her credit card to her husband. He was a contractor and his income was only a third of hers. She wondered if she was wrong for doing that, if she had contributed to his, eventually, untenable sense of inferiority. But she was too busy at work to fight with him, and the last thing she bought him was their divorce. She had always tried to give him whatever he wanted. Isn't that what you're supposed to do for love?
 With Gabriel she could forget about her past. She enjoyed his youth. He was romantic and easy to handle. She cherished especially the early mornings she spent with him at her new apartment when, as they wandered amidst her unpacked boxes, he would smoke and tell stories about his cousins who worked in politics or his friends who traveled the world. It was during one of these mornings that Gabriel asked if he could move in with her, if they could start a life together. When she stopped laughing, Guadalupe, surprised about her misjudgment of the relationship, didn’t dismiss him out of hand. She considered his offer for a while, as if she was still young herself. She relished the idea of a fresh start, of a new beginning. But she knew she couldn’t do it. She had resolved, the same day her divorce was finalized, to move to the United States, with or without Bulwark, and she would not take anything with her. It was her dream deferred. The plan, if it hadn’t vanished entirely during her long years with Luis, her ex-husband, had at least faded into the background. But here it was again, as fresh and bright as it had seemed when she had completed her associate’s degree.
After the breakup, Gabriel began to ignore Guadalupe during meetings and called her by her nickname, Lupe, in front of other employees, but, despite these minor insubordinations, their professional relationship was still on relatively stable footing. They only discussed work. She had promised, despite the end of their affair, that she would continue to help him in the company, but the more childish he acted the less committed she became. And here he was again, pouting, leaning on her desk.
     He unbuttoned his well-tailored blazer and adjusted his sued belt. She looked at him. He had the face of a fox caught in a trap, and his look said you did this to me.
He exhaled and narrowed his eyes.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I just had a question about the fallout from the lithium thing,” he said and sat in front of her. “This journalist keeps bothering me. She still wants a statement from Bulwark.”
“Gabriel,” she said, “let’s be real. You can handle this.”
“Nervous about your interview?” he said. “You know it’s funny, yesterday I got an email from Bill asking me if I had any interest in moving abroad.”
Of course he would pretend to be on a first name basis with William Forest, Bulwark’s Chief Financial Officer. “I see,” she said. “Now you’d like to follow me?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I like it right here. I’m actually worried. Worried about you. About your American fantasy. You know things aren’t any better there. What are you going to do all alone? What if something happens? I mean 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 grabbed her hand—a little too hard. His once surprisingly gentle hands, surprised her again, despite his hostility, with their unusual softness. “I just want to tell you that my offer is still on.” He released her. “I just want the best for you.” He paused. “If you stayed, imagine the things we could do together.”
She closed her computer and her eyes skittered across the room. She searched for her escape route. She was too focused on the interview to come up with a merciful lie.
“Well,” he said, bowing to her discomfort, “I tried. No surprise on how easily you abandon people. What must your mother feel?”
Guadalupe’s temples pounded. Her calves tightened, and she stood up from her chair. She snatched her jacket up and smiled, not even trying to make it seem genuine. Then she left the office. As she paced toward the elevator her eyes closed, her eyelids grew heavy and her throat knotted. Not because of Gabriel, but because of the reminder of her mother. She blinked rapidly, exhaled—she was fine.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. It was empty and the walls were mirrored. As the compartment lurched up, her stomach sank. She felt heavy in her heels, and the doors opened in front of her. She stepped into the hallway with her face down staring at the wood floors, and she followed the grain until she reached the floor-to-ceiling window. She pressed her palm against the pane and felt the warmth it had collected through the day. Forty-six stories high, she looked down into Avenida Reforma and followed the broad street until her eyes met the roundabout where the Independence Angel stood. Cars spun endlessly around it, only to spiral off into the intricacy of the city. As her eyes climbed the steps on the base of the sculpture, Guadalupe thought about the Sundays when the whole avenue would close to car traffic. Kids splashed in the fountains while cyclists yelled at distracted pedestrians. It was during one of these Sundays, the Sunday after the divorce was finalized, that she lost her mother. She could almost hear the sirens in her ears and feel the heat on her knees. As they were approaching the Angel, Guadalupe’s mother began to walk slower, as if she was looking for somewhere to sit. Guadalupe brushed away a street vendor hocking candy and nuts from a pushcart, and when she turned again to grab her mother’s arm, it wasn’t there. She had collapsed on the pavement. Guadalupe and her father tried to lift her up, but she felt heavier than seemed possible. This was her first stroke. She went through a long in-patient recovery and, after a few anxious days, the doctor had told them that the loss of oxygen she’d sustain had resulted in a minor brain injury. “Only short-term memory loss,” he said, “luckily nothing too serious.”
It wasn’t long after that her mother had forgotten Guadalupe’s name, that she struggled to complete basic tasks, to care for herself, even to hold conversation. Her father became so absorbed in her mother’s constant care that he began to look like her. Guadalupe had never felt so alone. It took every effort of her tremendous will not to reach out to Luis. She spent the weekends by herself, in her empty new loft, placing work calls, coordinating swap prices and fantasizing about Seattle. Her mother was lost, but she was not dead, so Guadalupe took no time to grieve. She only worked and worked.
Guadalupe stared at the Angel that rested on top of the column. Its golden body shined against the dark street. Up the avenue, leafy trees framed the asphalt and gave shade to people who sat on iron benches or walked at a fast pace. Beyond the trees the umber rooftops saturated the landscape and a few skyscrapers rose into the horizon. She recognized the building she lived in back when she was still married. It was easy to recognize the neighborhoods from above. Poverty and wealth no longer mixed, the height filtered them and drew clear borders between the two. It was easy to spot telephone cables choking the sky and the almost cubist arrangement of ramshackle houses, but her eyes lingered on the broad streets packed with trees and parks where copper sculptures blazed amidst the foliage. Her gaze soon returned to Reforma.
On the crosswalk in the center of the boulevard she spotted the cross with helium balloons she had walked by a few days back. The balloons were half-floating now and gleamed in the scorching sun. They were placed there to memorialize Ines Flores, a 22-year-old who was abducted, raped, killed and thrown away without consequence. Only one more in an endless list. Her ex-husband had always told her that there was nothing to do. “You have too much to lose,” he would say. “That only happens to whores and lowlifes, just stay away from the bad places.” And though she feared falling victim to this violence, she always managed to convince herself that such a thing wouldn’t happen to her. But now with Luis gone, she began to question herself until guilt started to pollute her thoughts. How had she believed him? She read every article about murdered women. She would spend hours looking for victims and researching their stories. She started to think that at some point it would happen to her too, and this gave still more urgency to her dream of escape: it was no longer a desire, but a necessity. The more she read or watched the news, the closer the threats felt. She stopped wearing nice watches, or walking to the convenience store late at night. She had read that most women fall victim to people whom they know or have a relationship with, but Guadalupe couldn't believe it. How would one do such a thing to someone they love? What she feared the most was a random attack on the streets or during her walks at her neighborhood park. Out of guilt, she decided to help. She contacted an old friend who ran a shelter for victims of domestic abuse, but, by the time she received a response with the offer of a volunteer slot, the Seattle interview was already on the horizon and she needed all her time to prepare. At least from the 46th floor the city seemed less frightening, more tamable. She felt herself sinking into the warm pool of her wealth. Up here, there was nothing to worry about, just two men waiting in the boardroom who she was more than positive she would impress.
 
Guadalupe took a last look at the city and turned her back on the window. She walked slowly through the hallway, listening to her shoes click on the wood. When she reached the conference room, the door was already open and the two executives were chatting inside. She held her breath and focused on their voices, taking very small steps. She waited for a moment shedding her feelings as she stepped inside the room. Robert Hill and William Forest greeted her politely. Robert was in his late sixties, close to retirement and he had come to Mexico many times in the course of his long career. It had been years since Robert had first noticed Guadalupe’s performance, and it was he who suggested her as a candidate for Global Strategy Director. Thanks to her long and careful planning, he had all but begged her to do the interview. William, on the other hand, was more of a wildcard. He was a recent replacement from Bulwark’s chief competitor, BlackWood, and new to the company. He had an uncanny calmness, and it was hard for Guadalupe to tell if he was friendly or only pretending to be.
“First things first,” said Robert. “What’s your theory about the volcanoes?”
William acted like a mature son enduring one of his father’s endless stories.
“I told William the legend,” he said. “Now we want to know your theory.”
Guadalupe paused, and remembered the first time she met Robert. They were driving to get dinner when Robert pointed out of the Suburban and asked about the surrounding “mountains.” Beyond the endless suburbs, a forest climbed, then, breathless at the treeline, yielded to black rock and gray dust that gradually whitened into snow. Haze gathered on its summit, but the sky was otherwise clear.
“First time in Mexico?” Guadalupe said.
“Why?” he said.
She smiled. “That’s not a mountain.”
He looked at her. “It looks like a mountain to me.”
“That’s a volcano,” she said, “Popocatépetl. The one next to it too. Iztaccihuatl.”
“Who builds a city under a volcano?” he said.
“People who follow their beliefs, I guess.” Guadalupe ran her fingers through her hair. “Do you know the legend about the volcanoes?”
Robert stared as if the volcanoes themselves would begin to speak.
She cleared her throat and dug deep in her memory, this was a legend you only tell to foreigners and it had been a while since she told it.
“Popocatépetl was a Tlaxcaltecan warrior. The Tlaxcaltecans hated the Aztecs with every fiber of their being,” she said. “They were fighting all the time because the Aztecs, being the strongest, made them pay tribute and occasionally sacrificed some of their people to their gods. Iztaccihuatl was the daughter of a cacique, the Tlaxcaltecan chief, and a beautiful princess herself,” she said. “So before Popó went to war he asked for her hand, and her father, the chief, agreed, provided he survived. So he left, leaving Iztaccihuatl by herself holding to his promise of return. It was what he needed to be worthy of her. He needed to leave and get his hands covered in blood to prove his love.”
“That’s what we do right?” Robert said, his tone neutral. “We never learn.”
She looked outside at the traffic, at the city and the volcano. “When Popó returned he found that Izta had died. Some say a jealous suitor told her that Popó had been killed and, unable to stand the pain, she killed herself. Others say it was a surprise raid from the Aztecs, that she killed herself before she could be captured. I have my own theory.” She crossed her arms. “But maybe that’s for another time. At any rate, Popó was so grief stricken that he took her corpse and climbed with it into the mountains. He lay down with it, as he ascended, lay with her day and night, and always he kept a torch burning beside him.” She pointed off into the distance. “So that’s him, burning away... lying with her still.”
 
“So your theory,” said William. “What is it?”
“I…” she said, “will tell it to you after the presentation. A little treat for your participation.”
William looked at his watch. “She is good. Isn’t she?” His eyes focused on Guadalupe’s hips and his lips tightened slightly. She pretended not to notice.
William and Robert sat at chairs facing a projector screen. As she went over the mine project and explained how she had convinced the government to give them permission to operate it, she found herself bothered by her thoughts about her mother. Of leaving her parents behind and betraying them. She had tried to spend more time with them, but between work and the pain she felt every time she held her mother’s weakened hand she barely spent time with them anymore. She would send presents to make up for her absence and one time she offered her dad to hire a nurse, to make things easier for him. “You can't solve everything with money,” he had said. “Sometimes all you can give is your time.” She hired the nurse anyway, but her dad wouldn't let him in.
She moved to the numbers about relocating the customer service department to Guatemala and projected a graph that showed how much money The Factory would save in 15 years. 23 million dollars. William looked at her, then quickly at his legal pad. The last thing she needed was for William to like her, to be the next Gabriel. She wondered how working with him would be. Would she take Gabriel’s role? She almost stuttered, but managed to pause for a second, drinking a sip of water. It ran down through her dry throat and she felt the liquid cooling her from the inside. That was better. She went over the cannabis project and told them how she had coordinated with the consultants to secure the support of a few crucial politicians. Her presentation ended. She closed her laptop. “Any questions?”
    
     William and Robert looked at each other. She wondered what made Robert so approachable. A rare mix of kindness and indifference?
     “How is your relationship with Gabriel Reyes?” said William.
She took another sip of water. Had Gabriel told her the truth? Did William talk with him? And if he did, what did Gabriel say? She wondered if he knew about their affair or if Gabriel had already ruined her chances.
     “Gabriel,” she said hesitantly, “Gabriel Reyes. Professional, I would say.”
     “I like your attitude,” said William, “I like you. I want to offer you to bring Gabriel along as a corporate assistant. Only if you think it would help with your transition.”
 “I don’t think that’s necessary. It would be too costly for Bulwark, and I’m confident in my skills.”
     William nodded. “Are you married?”
     “Not anymore,” she said.
Robert stood up from his chair, stretched his arms and walked out to the hallway. Voices echoed beyond the doorway and William walked slowly to the door and closed it. He walked towards her, but his gaze was looking somewhere else as he approached. He squatted in front of her and picked something up. His hand got closer and closer to her face, something shone between his fingers. “Here,” said William, “I guess it fell while you were talking.”
Guadalupe looked at the shiny object. It was her earning. A round pearl on top of a gold base. The milky color of the pearl blended with William’s white fingers. She grabbed it and held it in her hand. William looked down at her chest and Guadalupe felt sick. She wished he looked at her the way he would look at any other man.
He walked back to his chair and sat. “You have a nice accent. Please tell me why you like this job so much?” He looked at his nails. “It seems that you have an extraordinary passion for it.”
Guadalupe sometimes thought that she only used this job to escape from reality. She loved how predictable and measurable everything was. She had invested her whole life in it. But somehow she had no ready response. It seemed that William didn’t even need to try, that his presence and absurd confidence was enough to be on the top.
“I’ve just… always wanted it.”
“Well, if it does go through, I can show you around Seattle,” he said. “The city isn’t quite what it used to be. There are some places you’ll want to avoid.”
Robert opened the door, his shirt had been stained by water and his belly stretched against its fabric. He sat next to William.
     “What did I miss?” he said.
“You came just in time,” she said. “I was about to tell my theory about the volcanoes.”
“Yes,” said Robert. “What is it?”
Guadalupe put her earring back in her earlobe. “I think Iztaccihuatl didn’t wait for him. Sure, she hoped he would return, but she was a princess after all. She faked it. I’m sure there were plenty of men who wanted her and only saw her because of her beauty, but she was too busy dealing with Tlaxcaltecan affairs to waste her time on them. Of course later some romantic dude came up with the legend or who knows maybe the government did to lure young Tlaxcaltecans to join the army, conquer some land and kill their enemies, everything under the promise that a princess will be waiting for you after that.”
“Sounds like someone’s had a heartbreak,” said Robert.
“Sounds like a good deal,” said William. “But the original is easier to sell.”
Guadalupe stood still for a moment. She noticed the gruesome smile on William’s face.
“Anyways, thank you for coming and thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
“This was just a formality,” said Robert.
She tried to suppress her excitement. She pictured herself walking through South Lake Union under the rain staring at the countless cranes resting on top of the half-built skyscrapers.
“It was nice to meet you,” said William. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
“It looks like we will,” she said. “Thanks for finding my earring.” She winced inwardly. Why would she support his flirtation?
Guadalupe shook hands with both men and they stepped out of the room, leaving her alone in the silence. She closed her computer and sat. She chuckled. Her body felt weightless and her mind hazy. Like she had been drinking on an empty stomach. She wanted to call her father, to tell him about the interview, but she knew he wouldn’t share her excitement. She returned to her office, and she called for Gabriel, but he was nowhere to be found. She spent an hour too distracted to work and left for home. Today was special. She wanted a glass of wine and a foot massage. Since her divorce she had been practicing on herself and now she enjoyed her own hands better than anyone else's. It was a familiar touch.
     At her apartment she opened a bottle of red wine and sat in the living room. She carefully observed the furniture. A glass table in front of her, a marble buffet, four wooden chairs, a Persian rug and a bookshelf. With the glass in her hand she walked toward the balcony. The sun sank and the polluted air turned into purple clouds and sickeningly pink skies. She listened to the ring of her phone and went back inside.
     “Ms. Echeverria you have a visitor,” said a young voice, “Mr. Reyes.”
She placed her glass on the table. Before she answered she took a moment to think about Gabriel. She wanted his company, but she had just sold him out with William. Then again, if Gabriel was good at something it was pleasing her. She even considered telling him she didn’t get the job. She missed his attempts to comfort her.
     “Yes, yes, let him in,” she said.
She stood at her door. At the sound of the bell, she waited a minute before admitting him. “Where were you?” she said. “I looked for you at the office.”
     “Sorry, boss,” he said, “or should I say Global Strategy Director?” He handed her a bouquet of roses.
Guadalupe took them, hoping her displeasure didn’t show on her face. She cast about for a place to set them and settled on the kitchen sink. She poured him a glass of wine.
     “Did they ask about me?” he said, taking the glass from her hand.
     “They didn’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. Maybe they will later.”
     “It doesn’t matter,” he said. They couldn’t pay me enough to live in the United States.”
She felt Gabriel’s eyes trying to escape hers, trying to hide his crumbling hopes. He hesitated, then he adjusted his wristwatch and smiled.
      “Let's have a seat,” he said.
Guadalupe let Gabriel pass in front of her, and as she paced behind him she noticed his walk was off. They sat on the white couch. Gabriel, a bit too close to her. He had already been drinking, and reeked of brandy.
     “Yeah, fuck Seattle,” he said. “Do you even know how many homeless people are there?”
Guadalupe gave him a disapproving glance.
     “I’m sorry,” he said. “It's just…” he drank from his glass, “I don’t want you to leave.”
     He placed his hand on her thigh and squeezed it. “I still want you, to be with you.”
Guadalupe shifted her leg away but Gabriel’s hand quickly returned to her thigh. “I just want you to know how much I’m going to miss you.” He squeezed harder and drank.   
“Maybe you’ve had enough?” she said.
He shook his head and placed his glass on the table. He began to pet her hair. Before Guadalupe could react his lips were on hers. His breath was sour, and she pushed him away slowly, trying to dissuade him.
He got up from the couch and his knee knocked the glass off of the table. It landed on the rug, which cushioned the fall and saved it from cracking. As the wine seeped into the fabric, his lips twisted into an uneven grin. Guadalupe reached for the spill, and Gabriel stood suddenly and brought his foot crashing down on the glass. It exploded into smithereens. She wished he had been barefoot.
      “You think you can just toy me around.” He pushed her shoulder making sure she couldn't stand up.
“Gabriel,” she said. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Shut up!” he yelled. “You think you are too good for me?” He stepped on the shattered glass again. “Guess what, you're just an old bitch. Sad and lonely. I hope you end up just like your mother.”
Guadalupe felt her body getting warmer. His grip numbed her shoulder. She looked him in the eyes. She tried to stand up, but Gabriel only pushed her down harder. She sank deeper into the couch. Then her phone began to ring in the kitchen again. He let go of her and searched for it.
“Work, I’m sure,” he said. “Work. Work. Work. That’s all there is for you.”
As she watched him stagger, she wondered, almost, if he was talking to himself.
 “You’re lucky I’m not a jerk,” he said, then he took the phone from the kitchen table and dropped it into the wastebasket. The wine bottle glistened in the directional lights. He snatched it and walked towards the entrance. With his hand on the knob, he turned suddenly and smashed the bottle into portrait of her parents. The door slammed behind him.
Guadalupe took a long breath, and a tear ran down her cheek. She looked at the shattered glass and thought about picking it up. But she only sat there, frozen. Then, as if waking from a dream, she sprang to the door and locked it, turned, and walked slowly to her bathroom. She ran the sink and washed her face. She wanted—needed—to be somewhere else, but she couldn’t think of any other place to go.