He was browsing through the books on display that were published by the likes of Ediciones Valdemar and Ediciones Siruela that had been specially imported from Spain. These were mostly supernatural fiction titles, for which many Mexican readers had a discerning fondness. Armstrong was glad, for his own anthologies invariably were comprised of tales depicting the weird and uncanny, a market that, at least in the Anglophone countries, seemed to have self-destructed after a glut of trashy horror paperbacks in the 1980s. But these were not junk, they were works by the recognised masters and a quick glance over the classics available for sale here in mass-market form would have drawn the admiration of any English or American devotee. Here were books by Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, M.R. James and Ambrose Bierce, amongst dozens of others. Most striking however, was the vast range of collections available written by H. P. Lovecraft. The browsing man in the dark suit picked up one after the other, almost reluctant to return each to its proper place, although if his down-at-heel appearance were an indication, their price was surely beyond his limited means. New books in Mexico are scarcely ever cheap.
Armstrong looked away. He could not understand why this rather ordinary gentleman had stirred his imagination. He was, after all, merely typical of the sort of book-addict found anywhere and at any time. Meanwhile Juan San Isidro had noticed Víctor’s arrival and called down to him.
“¡Ay, Víctor, quiero más chela! Lo siento, pero no tengo dinero.”
Armstrong sighed, and made his way up the stairs.
When they were eventually sat opposite one another, Armstrong with a bottle of Indio and San Isidro with a fresh bottle of Sol, the Mexican switched from Spanish to English. He was always keen to take whatever opportunity he could to converse in the language. A huge bear of a man, he’d recently grown a shaggy goatee beard and the T-shirt he wore bore the logo of some outlandish band called “Control Machete”, whose music Armstrong did not know and did not want to know. Years ago Armstrong had foolishly mentioned San Isidro’s literary efforts to the publisher of a small press imprint in California who was looking for cosmic or outré verse. The result had been a chapbook with a selection of San Isidro’s Aztec-influenced work translated into English, and thereafter Armstrong had never been able to entirely shake off his “discovery”.
“So,” he said, “how are things with you? Still editing those antologías?”
“There’s scarcely any money in them, Juan,” Armstrong replied, “unless I’ve managed to wrangle something original out of Steve King, the publishers want to nail my balls to the wall.”
“You know him? King? Do you think he’d give me a loan? He’s very rich, no? Help out a struggling brother artist?”
Armstrong tried not to smile inappropriately. He could only imagine how quickly San Isidro would piss away any handouts he’d receive on booze. No one other than their agents, accountants, lawyers or publishers milks cash-cow authors.
“He’s a busy man. I don’t think he’d appreciate my…”
“You mean he’s a pinche cabrón. Keeps his money up his culo where no one else can get at it. That’s why todos los gringos walk around with their legs apart, like cowboys, no? All those dollar bills stuffed in there.”
Armstrong was relieved to be British. Even liberal Americans who came south, seeking to atone for the recent sins of NAFTA and a long history of land grabbing, were objects of ridicule here. They might get away with such conscience posturing in the north, in cities like Monterrey that were closer to the border and which looked to rich U.S. states like Texas for inspiration, but in Mexico D.F. gringos are only ever pinches gringos and no amount of self-loathing or atonement on their part could ever erase the fact. The British, on the other hand, despite their Imperial past, were redeemed by virtue of having given the Beatles and association football to the world.
“Why did you want to see me, Juan?” Armstrong asked, taking out his packet of Faros and putting them on the table. His companion looked at the cheap brand with amused contempt. Nevertheless, this attitude did not stop him from smoking them.
“I want you to take a look at some cuentos,” San Isidro replied, puffing away on the cigarette he’d taken. “Read them and make me an offer. They’re in your line of work.”
He delved into a shoulder bag lying underneath the table and took out a pile of papers, individuated into sections by rubber bands, and handed them over.
“I thought you didn’t write short stories,” Armstrong said.
“I didn’t write them. I’m acting as the exclusive agent. They’re in English, as you see, and they’re the type of horror stories you like. I handle all his stuff.”
“Who’s this author,” Armstrong said, looking at the top sheet, “Felipe López? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“El señor López has only been writing for a couple of years. He’s my personal discovery, like you discovered me, no? Es un autor auténtico, not some hack. Mira al cabellero down there, the one who’s looking through the books? That’s el señor López. He doesn’t want to meet you until you’ve read his stuff. I told him I knew you, and that you weren’t the same as all those other culeros who’d rejected him.”
So that man in the crumpled grey suit was San Isidro’s first client, Armstrong thought. He hesitated for a moment but then relented. At least this man López had the appearance of being literate.
“Alright,” Armstrong said, “I’ll take them away with me and call you once I’ve read them. I can’t promise anything though.”
“Why not sit here and read them now, compañero? I tell you, these things are a goldmine. We can have a few more chelas while I wait for you to finish. He also does his own proofreading, so you won’t need to trabajar mucho yourself.”
“Short stories,” Armstrong riposted, “are fool’s gold, Juan. I told you, there’s no real money in them anymore. Have another on me if you like, but I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
With that closing remark Armstrong stood up, left a hundred pesos note on the table, and made his exit. He didn’t notice whether or not el Señor López saw him leave.
* * *
Over the next few days Armstrong almost forgot about the stories by Felipe López. He hated being asked to read fiction by an unknown author that had been praised by one of his friends. All too often he had to prick their enthusiasm, usually fired by beer and comradeship rather than from an objective assessment of literary merit. And San Isidro had never acted as an agent for anybody before; he was far too consumed by his own literary ambitions. So it appeared obvious to Armstrong that San Isidro was paying back a favour of some sort. Though it seemed unlikely given the down-at-heel appearance of López, but perhaps it was a case of San Isidro owing him money.
Armstrong was staying close to Cuauhtémoc metro station in an apartment owned by Mexican friends of his, a couple, Enrique and María, who were in London for a few weeks, staying in his flat there in an exchange holiday. It was something they did every other year to save on hotel bills. There were only three days left before they were due to cross each other high over the Atlantic in flights going in the opposite direction. Enrique and María were both involved in publishing themselves, and he’d struck up a friendship with them in 1995 whilst attending a fantasy and horror convention held in San Francisco.