Chapter 8
I didn’t sleep much that night. At three in the morning I went down to the garage. It’s two blocks from the house, with its faded blue sign: “Salazar Service. Brakes, tune-ups and diagnostics.” The air in Mexico City was cold and smelled of gasoline, sweet bread from the corner bakery, and the dampness of a freshly washed sidewalk.
I opened the metal curtain. The sound reminded me of all my years. Teresa bringing me coffee in a thermos. Daniel, a child, sitting on a tire, playing with screws. Nico arriving as an apprentice. Ramiro singing boleros out of tune. La Güera was arguing with suppliers because nobody could beat her at haggling over spare parts in La Viga.
I turned on the lights. The cars slept there like tame animals. An old Tsuru, a delivery van, a taxi that needed brakes. All of that was mine because I had worked for it. Not because someone had promised it to me at a table. The next morning I gathered the team. I told them the truth. Not all of it, because some pains aren’t displayed like a bill. But what’s necessary.
May you like
“The workshop is going to change,” I told them. “Not because I’m dying. Because I’m alive and I want to make the right decisions.” Nico lowered his gaze. The blonde wiped her hands on her pants. —Boss, we don’t want to take anything from you. —I know. That’s why it’s their turn.
Roberto and I formed a company. Legal, clean, notarized. I remained at the helm. They began receiving shares. The grandchildren were protected on paper, not on empty promises. I changed locks, passwords, accounts, and beneficiaries. I notified the bank that no one was speaking on my behalf. I went to the Public Prosecutor’s Office when summoned and said what I had to say, even though it burned my tongue.
