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To Emmanuel Haro Poniatowski, my oldest son, State doctorate from the Pierre and Marie Curie University, on his fiftieth birthday.

July 7, 1955 - July 7, 2005

I would like for the names of Robert Alegre, Rodrigo Ávila, Antonio Helguera, Begoña Hernández, Ramiro González Ayón, Giovanni Proiettis, Salvador Zarco, and Martin Zurek to be forever linked to this book, as I owe them an immense debt of gratitude.

The title of this novel comes from my dear friend Sara Poot Herrera, who saw it on a crossing in Mérida where she was born.

Part One

Chapter 1

The disjointed faces of those who hadn’t slept all night came together in a circle that began to spin on itself as if it were obeying the laws of centrifugal force. The silence turned to stone. No one moved, not even Rodrigo, Saturnino Maya’s nine-year old son. An invisible funnel pulled them inside. No one dared look at his watch, except Neptuno, who whispered:

“It’s almost 10.”

“Everyone will probably chicken out,” said Saturnino Maya from section 14.

If the railroad workers didn’t comply with the strike order, they’d all be fired. The night before, Saturnino had expressed the same fear: “What if everyone doesn’t join in?” “What do you mean not join in?” old man Ventura Murillo said as he stood up. “Our unity is guaranteed, they’re ripe for it; they’re not going to chicken out, not after what Trinidad told them.”

“But what are they gonna say?”

“That’s a worrisome question,” Murillo said ironically.

“How do you think the government’s gonna react, compañero Trinidad?” Saturnino insisted, his son still holding his hand.

The delegates from the seven sections waited impatiently.

“The most they can do is fire us.”

“Can they put us in jail?” Saturnino Maya looked at him with apprehension in his eyes. He was so small and so beloved that Trinidad had to fight not to embrace him.

“Exercising our right to strike isn’t a crime, and they can’t charge us for that. We might lose our jobs, sure, but that’s a risk worth taking.”

It was 10 o’clock now. How frightening! You could hear their breathing. Silence settled where before you could only hear the snorting of the locomotives entering the stations. In every direction there was rail, trains departed, and the tracks sparkled in the sun, even the streets undertook the journey. Goodbye! Goodbye! The possibility of departing pulsated in the student’s gaze, in the child’s uneasiness, in the old man’s longing. There was more commotion in Peralvillo than in the rest of the city. Jukeboxes played the latest boleros which rose through the tall windows facing the sidewalk: “I know that I will never kiss your lips / your lips of burning purple, / I know that I will never know the mad / passionate source of your love.” Standing beside his son, Saturnino raises his eyes.  Did you hear that, men? You see, everyone knows we’re going to fail. That song’s a bad omen.” “Shut up, you coward,” said Silvestre Roldán, wanting to hit him.

None of them had ever gotten involved in anything like this; until today they had accepted the raises that their bosses had gotten, every two, four years, but they would never have jumped into something so dangerous if not for Trinidad. They looked at him with distrust. Could this be an act of suicide? Carranza had the streetcar workers shot by a firing squad. They had killed workers—men and women—in Nueva Rosita, Coahuila, or en Rio Blanco, Veracruz for much less. His father’s words rang in the ears of Jacinto Dzul Poot, himself a railway worker. “The whole thing’s foolish, there’s no way out, it’ll end in blood.”

“We’ve really gotten ourselves into something,” Roldán whispered translating the fear of the others.

“I’ve spent nights out in the open,” Trinidad Pineda Chiñas replied sharply, “I’ve woke up soaked in morning dew, sometimes it was hard for me to stand up, my body so numb I thought I’d would be able to make it, I’ve gone hungry for days; when things were good, I’d sleep in basements or in boxcars, I was so hungry and cold that I felt as if no fire or no one’s embrace could warm me up, but even though I’m dirt poor, I know that if a single man fights and doesn’t give up, it’s all worth it.”

“Okay, okay, we don’t need any philosophizing, say what you want, we’re in a mess here,” insisted Silvestre, who was so tall he had to bend over to talk to him.

“It’s not a mess; out complaint is just, we have the ob-li-ga-tion to exercise our right.”

“They’re gonna screw us,” Silvestre returned to the charge.

“You want to go back to the way things were?”

“Things weren’t that bad.”

“All the railway sections are going to participate,” Saturnino Maya seconded Trinidad.

“I hope you’re right, you sonofabitch.”

The signs of insomnia were evident in their pale faces.

“I couldn’t close my eyes last night thinking that if all the workers don’t stop working at the same time, we’ll all be fired,” insisted Silvestre.

Other delegates were waiting in the street. Outside, men crossed themselves, mechanics third- and second-class, coworkers from Apizaco, from Orizaba, Aguascalientes, mechanics from the turnaround station, from special services, the warehousemen, the repair shops workers, compressors, electricians, foundry workers, welders, coppersmiths, car repairmen and painters.

“We’re all here—waiting.”

“We don’t all fit, compañeros, I’m sorry.” Ventura Murillo’s house at Calzada de los Misterios was barely a home. Inside, the tenements lined up: No. 5 interior, No. 8 interior, 16, 34. Inside, there were families of eight and even twelve in two rooms, four in a single bed; they were embarking on the long day’s journey into night. Stalls packed into the sidewalks around the station where railway men drink coffee spiked with tequila from clay mugs early in the morning, tacos, pork leg sandwiches, the smell of fried snacks, the man smell that made the quesadilla woman, her nose stuck in her shawl, yell: “Alright, my farters.” Several men left their bicycles chained against the wall of Ventura’s house.

Inside, the circle around the telephone grew tighter. At first, the shock waves were quiet, but now they stoked their anxiety. “What will happen?” The mystery kept them on tenterhooks. The men’s fear grew as 10 o’clock approached.

“Our struggle is just,” Trinidad proclaimed, “we must have faith.”

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There was just one world and it was in that room, just one time and it was for their waiting. What terrifying slowness! They were living in a solemn moment, no one spoke it, but the inexorable moment that would define their lives was falling; no one could have expected it, but their souls hung on the minute hand.

It was the first time that the entire railway system was going on strike across the country without calling on the company. 10:00. 10:05. 10:10. 10:15. Trinidad’s eyes were magnetized on the telephone as if the simple power of his stare could make all forty sections across the Republic call: “No one move, we’re on strike”: Ventura Murillo, Saturnino Maya, his eight-year-old son, Silvestre Roldán, the Yucateco Jacinto Dzul Poot all closed the circle, elbow to elbow. Dzul Poot used to say, “Everything okay?” and the others would answer yes, but now he repeated it like an automaton: “Everything’s okay, everything’s okay, everything’s okay, everything’s okay,” as if he were praying.

Outside, the railroad workers, hands in pockets, waited in silence. Some, their heads down and sitting on the sidewalk, swirled the red bandanas around their neck. They looked older than their age. Or was it the wait that marked their features? Once the strike order was given, the telegraphers’ role at each station would be crucial because they would transmit the order to the line workers, the shopmen, the office workers, pullmen, wiremen, everyone, no matter where they were, had to stop at the appointed time.

Finally, at ten-seventeen the telephone rang; the leader almost dropped it as his coworkers crowded around him. After hanging up, he shouted:

“It’s a general strike. No train is running!”

Trinidad felt a happiness he had not felt since he was a child.

The first reports from the provincial sections confirmed it: “No one is working. Red and black flags cover every installation in the system.”

In the notice circulated to the Republic’s forty sections, the Strike Committee stipulated that if the train was in mid-run it should arrive to the next station and stop. Naturally the hospitality services, emergency centers and sanitation teams would continue to function; the military and auxiliary trains, office workers and payroll clerks would continue at their desks.

“The stoppage is total,” Trinidad’s voice shook.

The telephone continued to peal, and after writing down information from each section, his hand also shook:

“The entire country is paralyzed.”

The slaps on the back sounded like drum beats. “We did it, brother, we did it.” Silvestre Roldán wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket; Jacinto Dzul Poot did the same with his bandana. It was impossible to contain their emotion. The first man they raised on their shoulders was Rodrigo, who roared with laughter. Saturnino Maya hung from his coworkers’ arms. Ventura Murillo’s premature white hair was a blessing. Everyone called him “El Planchadito” because his denim overalls were always so neatly pressed, but now, in shirtsleeves, he sought refuge in his coworkers’ arms, laughing or perhaps crying. What was the difference? Silvestre Roldán’s face regained its color.

Each phone call brought good news. After having feared failure, the news from across the Republic was jubilant. Outside, in the street, the atmosphere turned festive. Some began to sing “Railway Woman” spontaneously.

“The camaraderie and union discipline are obvious,” Roldán said pompously.

“Today, who knows about tomorrow,” Saturnino interrupted.

“Fuck off! Your pessimism is reactionary.”

“Saturnino is right,” Trinidad intervened. “You always have to start over, you win, you lose, win, lose, win, lose, and start all over. Tomorrow we’ll have to begin it all over again. Nothing is permanent, everything changes, the earth moves, so do we, light is never the same, everything leaves and doesn’t return, the ocean’s waves…”

“Enough already, Tito, you asshole, victory’s made you crazy or something. What’s the matter?” Ventura Murillo patted Trinidad on the back.

For the first time in several hours, the leader sat down. He expanded and contracted his chest in a single deep breath, perhaps the deepest breath he had taken since he was born. That’s what he sensed, a birth, some blank thing after the intense war with the bosses, the slow, despairing dialogue with the management, the meetings with his coworkers who at times seemed as motionless and closed as the company. He smiled at Silvestre Roldán, whose height collapsed by his boss’s side and asked:

“How do you see it?”

“I breathe deeply, and my confidence is reborn, because I was raffling my job.”

“We all bet our jobs.”

“Yes, but you have a wife and kids. I have nothing. My job is my life.”

“Being a railroad worker is the best thing that can happen to a man,” Saturnino smiled.

Theirs was a trade passed from father to son, and they exercised it as one of the noblest professions since Teodoro Larrey founded the Mexican Mechanics Union in 1900. In the Mexico of Porfirio Díaz, of peasants and landowners, railwaymen stood out because of their coarseness. They were hardened, gruff and proud. In the past, they weren’t afraid of the “shoot on the spot” order of don Porfirio and now—Mexico’s most envied trade union—they were becoming agents for change. The red bandana knotted around their neck was their war cry.

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Upon seeing their coworkers’ response, even the union bosses, the charros, who claimed to support the movement went on strike.

The workers called the union bosses charros because on October 14, 1948, Alfonso Ochoa Partida, a real charro who wore a braided hat and tight pants with silver buttons, rode a horse, handled a lariat, roped calves, and branded them, took over the local union by force, in full daylight, with the help of 100 policemen and presidential guards dressed as civilians, a raid that became known as the charrazo. Besides his horsemanship and his love for his horse “Florián,” Ochoa Partida worked on the railroad and, after offering his services to President Miguel Alemán, became the first union boss to be bought by the government. Thereafter, every time a union leader betrayed his members, the workers concluded, “there goes another charrazo.” The raid was a death blow to the independent labor movement. “The workers give us our orders,” the president of the Republic liked to brag.

“How’s my boy doing?” the old railwayman don Nicasio came by the station to ask the foreman. “Take care of him for me; if he does anything wrong, just let me know so I can straighten him out.” He also said hello to the locomotive.  “Take care of her for me. I used to treat her like a queen.” “I spoil her too,” the new engineer responded. What don Nicasio saw, however, made him sad: the workshops in disrepair, the tracks in deplorable condition, and the equipment too, the broken down engines piled up in the turnaround station; and what his son told him angered down to the marrow in his bones. “Listen to what one of the corporals told coworker Javier Rizo: ‘If you want, you can leave, you don’t have to work, I’ll cover for you, just give me some cash.’”

The cantinas, more and more numerous in Nonoalco, would fill up early with young men who were being “covered.” Listen, Papá, it’s the company who’s pushing us.” They forced the engineer Ventura Murillo to pull twenty cars loaded to capacity with his engine, and even though he protested saying that his “Adelita” couldn’t bear the strain, the boss ordered him to do it; if he didn’t do it, he would be accused of a slow-down, of sabotaging not just his own work but that of his coworkers. When he got to a steep hill, the train spilled over and crashed into another train, and they charged don Renato. “Thank God nothing happened to him, but his fine was ten thousand pesos. Can you believe it, Papá? Ten thousand pesos.” “Things aren’t like they were before, don Nicasio, they accuse us of a slow-down all the time.” There’s nothing worse than work slow-downs, going slow to make the merchandise arrive late. “Men don’t do that.” It harmed the country’s economy; it was an assault against the nation. The old rail worker Nicasio shook his head; his son was living times of union corruption that made him sick. “Maybe it’s the end of Mexican railroads.”

“First you have to create wealth in order to divide it up,” the proponents of charrismo used to say.

In the meantime, the government job was a source of personal enrichment.

Trinidad lived in the Mina Hotel, and although he never foresaw what would happen to him, when everyone withdrew to their homes, his missed his wife Sara, their Sunday routine, the evenings spent in the park with their children. Clemencia, a tough and dedicated coworker, offered to wash his clothes. “You can come eat whenever you like; if there’s room for seven, there’s room for eight, compañero.” He now regretted saying no. He felt the loneliness all the way down to his bones.

Of course, he had his niece Bárbara, but she didn’t even ask him how he got by in the city. Nor did she inquire about his wife or his children, which were her second cousins. What a strange girl, that one, brought up in modern ways! Trinidad missed the big red skies, the heat and dense vegetation, the smell of cilantro, of epazote in a boiling pot of black beans, of clothes freshly ironed with starch.

“We’re gonna throw back some cold ones to celebrate.”

The boss would drink one, maybe two, but when he was ready for the third one, he would go back to the hospital.

“You see how they listened to us! You see what we did!”

The next day the stoppage would last four hours, and would increase with each day; the fourth day would be eight hours until becoming a general strike, all the trains would stop on the tracks.

“I was afraid of how the rail and wire lines would react because the government favors them, but they also suspended operations.” Trinidad could not contain his satisfaction.

“I know the union, and I know what they can do,” Ventura Murillo interrupted. “He knew that the stoppage would spread throughout the country.”

“Declaring victory too soon is for idiots,” Silvestre Roldán announced.

The railroad workers had acquired a sense of security they had never known before. What a display of unity they had made! The response had exceeded all expectations.

Translated by George Henson