Chapter 7: The Golden Man
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Author’s Note: In this week’s chapter, we journey deep into the myths of Mexico, and if you know how to connect the dots, you may catch a cameo by a very mysterious character I wrote about back in the 2010s. Don't forget that you can chat with me about Hall of Mirrors inside my Discord server.
-Cesar Torres
Chicago
Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres
Copyright @ 2022 Cesar Torres. All Rights Reserved.
Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres
Chapter 7: The Golden Man
NESTOR BUÑUEL
Steven Puttock leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Nestor knew this posture well. It was the stance of a child who wants to be delighted by a bedtime story.
The time had come for Nestor to share his own story, and took his time. He enjoyed telling stories.
“A few years ago,” Nestor said, “I went on vacation for five days to Mexico. I spent two days at the beach in Huatulco, and three days in CDMX, where I wanted to soak in the museum of Templo Mayor, the renovated cathedral, and where I could pay respects for my mother and father’s death at the basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe.”
“Your parents are both dead,” Puttock said. It was a statement, not a question.
“They died four years ago from the virus. In any case, I visited the basilica early in the morning to avoid the crowds. Afterward, I wandered in the neighborhood, looking for something to eat, but I mostly just let my feet and my curiosity take me where they wanted me to go. This neighborhood could be a little dicey at night, but in the morning, I only ran into store owners sweeping and washing the sidewalk of their storefronts, children heading to school, and lots of vehicles driving on their way to jobs.
“I stopped at a corner to buy some tamales, and as I worked my way through them, a sign across the street caught my attention. It simply said Box. The building itself was nothing to remember, just a whitewashed facade and a large iron gate, with a smaller door set into it. The bells of the basilica began to ring at that hour, and for a brief moment, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. You ever get that feeling?”
“Never,” Puttock. “Everything about this world gives me cognitive dissonance. But I get what you’re saying. Go on.”
“I asked the woman who sold me the tamales what that place was. Es un gym, she said, flashing me a wide smile dotted with gold capped teeth. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned around, I couldn’t see anybody. I looked down and saw an old man, no taller than 5’2”, his face weathered like that of a tortoise, tossing down the last bite of his tamal. You want to go inside?, he asked me. I shrugged and said yes.
“To be honest with you, I expected the place to be some sort of art studio, or maybe even a hipster coffee shop. It’s the new Mexico City, after all. A woman in a buzz cut opened the door, and let us in. What I discovered inside took my breath away. The building housed a very extensive boxing gym, complete with three rings, punching bags, a small patch of artificial grass for sprints, and several weight machines and free weights. Along its walls, autographed photos of famous bodybuilders, powerlifters, soccer players, American pro-wrestlers and luchadores from Mexico formed a grid of muscle, testosterone, and beauty. I had never seem a gym quite like this before. Most of the equipment was vintage, and there were no televisions or screens anywhere. There was just one constant factor here: men and women training their bodies to the maximum. I didn’t bring any gym clothes with me, and I wasn’t staying long enough in the city to try to come back the next day, but I asked the old man if I could stick around and watch the boxers train. Of course, he said. Just don’t take any photos. No smartphones allowed.
“The old man brought me a cup of coffee and sat next to me on the wooden bench. My name is Rufino, he told me. I explained that I was in CDMX paying my respects for my parents’ deaths. He looked up at me with his black eyes and told me his daughter had died from the virus too. The virus had attacked her immune system in such a way that many of her vital organs, including her lungs, kidneys and heart, shut down. It had been both terrifying and freakish, the man told me. So now it’s just me, he said, living in my loneliness.
“As I listened to him talk, I realized we were both living in similar ways. Carrying on in the world, both utterly devastated by the inequities of life and its brevity.”
Puttock’s excitement could no longer be contained. Ever since the first time the two men had met, Puttock had been determined to get inside Nestor’s head by gathering personal information, but every time, he had failed. Nestor’s self-control in the interview process had always been one of his greatest gifts, and Puttock knew that. But now, this small anecdote, was bringing forth a lot of emotions for Nestor, and Puttock licked his lips, barely able to keep himself from smiling.
“Rufino showed me all the autographed photos,” Nestor continued, “telling me funny stories about the athletes and celebrities who had stopped by here over the past seven decades. Toward the end of the grid, I found a photo that didn’t quite fit the pattern of the others. In it, a luchador was flying off the top rope, large as a house, muscular as a lion, flying toward the camera. The photo was probably taken with a smartphone, because it was littered with the speckled with the contamination of digital artifacts. The colors were completely washed out, as if the person who took it had applied a vintage filter, but more than anything, it just looked like a quick action shot taken in a dimly-lit lucha libre arena.
“Something about the luchador in the photo looked very, very fucked up. Is that a mask he’s wearing?, I asked. The old man shook his head. No, those are his real teeth, he said. The wrestler had filed his teeth down into sharp points, like those of a meat-eating beast. The old man smiled as he said this. That, my friend, he said, is the best luchador that the world never knew.
“That cabrón was the biggest Mexican you ever saw, Rufino said. He was 195 centimeters tall. That’s about 6’5’, in feet and inches,” Nestor said.
“A tall fucker,” Puttock added.
“Y estaba bien mamado, Rufino told me,” Nestor said. “The old man put his hands out in front of his chest, meaning that the wrestler was jacked beyond belief. I looked at the photograph. Everywhere one looked, the luchador was bursting with sweaty muscles. He would have easily won the Mr. Olympia heavyweight category.
“The old man turned to me and said, This luchador called himself El Hombre de Oro. The Golden Man. That’s the name of an old telenovela my grandmother watched, I said. Rufino nodded. It’s also the name of a novel by the Venezuelan writer Rufino Blanco-Fombona, he said.
“El Hombre de Oro’s costume was a smoky-silver bodysuit that covered all of his body. Up close, it was translucent, like plastic or glass. If you looked closely, you could even see his hairy chest and leg hair through the garment. It was more opaque around the waist and crotch, forming a pair of indigo-colored wrestling trunks, but its material was something out of this world. El Hombre de Oro told me once that his costume was such a part of his character, that it wasn’t a costume at all. He called it his skin.”
From the Journal of Felix Calvo, October 27, 2030
The sky has glazed over.
It’s turned a soft shade of pink, yet it’s only noon here. The navy planes fly by every once in a while, spraying the pink powder that’s supposed to prevent fires and neutralize the pollution particles that make high-heat days so dangerous. They come from the west, swoop down by the skyscrapers of the loop, then glide back over to the North side to spray the rose-colored chemical.
But this planes are also soaring over the city on the very same weekend where our curfews are back in effect.
We’re supposed to stay indoors to keep ourselves safe from the heat waves, but also safe from the vigilantes. And I suppose it keeps us also safe from the National Guard and the city police, because they have been known to beat and pepper spray citizens who don’t comply with the curfews.
But I can’t stay in this apartment. I need to move. Something rattles my bones, like bass at a club. And just a moment ago, I caught a glimpse of a large shape, soaring over the houses and the trees.
Something that radiates greenish smoke. Something with four eyes. An owl made of smoke.
I know that shape. When its wings are completely spread wide, it’s as big as a school bus. And it leaves a trail of smoke that disappears like a mirage. But I know what I saw, and I know what I heard. Because it sent me its music, reminding me of its name through polyphonic notes that sound like an orchestra and a techno beat box at the same time.
My mother’s texting me on the hour now. She’s scared. She wants me to follow the mandates to stay inside.
No one knows what’s going on anymore, and goddammit, I still can’t reach Nestor’s phone.
But perhaps if I follow the trail of smoke left by the bird, I can get some answers.
I threw on some clothes in the most neutral colors I could find and threw a baseball cap over my head. I have my phone with me, which is also a stupid thing to do, especially if I am arrested by police, who will have the right to see its contents.
But I don’t care. I think I can follow the smoke owl, I can feel its vibrations inside my tissues, and I think he’s calling out to me.
I step outside into my street, and it’s empty, except for a polidrone that zooms by like a dart, size feet above my head.
I move through the alleys, which are extremely hot at noontime, and which reek of hot garbage. But the alleys are safe. They are the circulatory system of this city. And if I follow them toward the lake, I know I can reach the smoke owl.
At the end of my block, I hear a neighbor scream from one of the apartment building behind me, “get the fuck inside before you get shot, you stupid fuck!”.
But I turn right into the alley and begin my journey.
NESTOR BUÑUEL
“Rufino lit a cigarette and continued his story,” Nestor said. “He told me that he only ever saw El Hombre de Oro lose one fight, and it was one in which he was outnumbered. Otherwise, the massive luchador had won every single match. If he had kept his trajectory, he eventually would have wrestled in the big leagues, in Arena Mexico.
“Is El Hombre de Oro still wrestling here in the city?, I asked. Rufino took the last drag of his cigarette and clicked his tongue. El Hombre de Oro disappeared, he said. It happened after a big fight at Arena Coliseo in 2019. That night, El Hombre de Oro fought the rudo El Imperial, who was known as a cheater. During the fight, el imperial ambushed Hombre de Oro by bringing in six other luchadores to beat El Hombre de Oro down in front of thousands of people in the audience. They brought baseball bats and even a machete. It was brutal. They streaked the ring with his blood, humiliating him. Fuck, they bathed the ring in blood, is more like it. It was the only time I ever saw El Hombre de Oro lose. But El Imperial did pay a price. During the fight, El Imperial lost two fingers.
“Yes, Rufino said. El Hombre de Oro bit off the index and thumb off El Imperial with one single bite with those tiger-like teeth. It was brutal. After the match, El Hombre de Oro vanished, but I found him an hour later, Rufino said. I found El Hombre de Oro in this very gym that night, with his head between his knees, vomiting blood, and crying. There was a strange smell everywhere, like incense at mass, and even though I knew he was a good man, I got scared. I felt a presence here, as if there were beings with eyes in the shadows everywhere, and a type of paralysis, like the kind the deer experiences when he hears the hunter breaking a branch. El Hombre de Oro no longer looked like a hero. Now he looked like a lump of meat, butchered. His skin was flayed open, and in some places it hung in ribbons. He looked up at my with those sad eyes of his, and they were crying tears of blood. And beneath the tears, his eyes shimmered, like sunset.
“Why are you crying? I said, and when he opened his mouth, El Hombre de Oros’ teeth had grown even longer, sharper, like those of a a dog or a tiger. His jaw looked swollen, more muscular more feral. He uttered gurgling sounds, but whatever he was trying to say, I couldn’t understand. I had heard about men with teeth like him from my grandmother when I was a boy growing up in Mazatlán, but I had never, ever wanted to believe that they really existed. Abuelita Sonia was her name. She used to make atole on the stove, her silver rings clacking on the molcajete as she dissolved the chocolate into thick milk, and she would tell me stories that I loved, but which often left me crying in the middle of night when nightmares would arrive. My grandmother told me all the famous Mexican legends every child needs to learn to understand where they came from..
“Abuelita Sonia had lived through the Mexican Revolution as a little girl. One day, her grandmother sent her down to the well at the foot of Huitztepetl Mountain to fetch water. Word had spread that Zapata’s men had suffered many injures, and they were being brought to her village to get their wounds tended to and stitches put in. My grandmother had been warned to never go to the well through the dense part of the forest, but that day, in plain daylight, she felt confident, and unafraid, as the young often do. As she neared the well, she ran into a man who sat on a rock, nursing a wound on his ankle. He asked her for help, and she helped him make a splint using a chunk of wood and string she kept in her sewing kit in her purse. She asked him what he was doing all alone by herself in the forest, and without hesitation, my feisty grandmother asked him the same question back. The stranger laughed at her question, but he didn’t answer it. He thanked her and offered her a polished stone that reflected her image like a mirror. She reached out to accept it, and she noticed his nails, which were as long as eagle talons and black as tar. Suddenly the forest grew darker around her, and the man’s chest rumbled, the way a beast purrs before it strikes. The man asked her why she didn’t want to take his gift, and she simply shook her head, genuflecting. She wanted to go on her way now, but he stood in the middle of the path, blocking her way. Are you going to hurt me? She asked. And that’s when the man told her, there is great danger coming for your father and his brother. You must protect them. The war will cause much death, followed by poverty and misery, if you don’t prepare for it now. The man was dressed in farmer’s rags, his white shirt held together by mere threads, and he was barefoot. She tried to move past him, but he blocked her way. Aren’t you going to thank me, girl? Thank you for what?, she said. Thank me for warning your family. The best way to thank me is to accept this gift. He brought his face close to hers, and she smelled his hot breath, which smelled of raw rabbit meat and rot. His canines were sharp as knives, and his eyes glowed red like fire. H held the polished stone in his hand, and it started to smoke, as if it were burning. What are you? She screamed, and he said. I am a nagual, mija. I am the nagual who guards this mountain, which is named Huitztepetl. I am her steward. And I will kill anyone who desecrates her. I protect Huitztepetl on behalf of the goddess Mayahuel, who blesses these hills with fertility for the plants that grow in this mountain. When I find intruders, I yank them by the ankles and toss them down the side of the mountain and wait for the coyotes and vultures to eat them. As he spoke these words, his face contorted and changed into a grotesque grimace, his eyes red as hot coals. According to her, his face and body were transforming into something cat-like before her very eyes. My grandmother, screamed snapped free of his grip and ran as fast as she could back to her village.
“My grandmother told her father about the horrible man with the red eyes she had found in the woods. How can this be?, her father said, falling on his knees and sobbing in the kitchen in shock. What’s wrong, father?, she said. He told her that during the night, a group of his men had traveled on horseback toward the north. Just three kilometers out, their party had journeyed through a rocky ravine in the skirts of the mountain Huitztepetl. They lost their footing on a cliff, and their party of ten plunged to their deaths. All ten horses had died too. By the time the bodies had been discovered, animals had eaten all the flesh off the corpses of the men and the horses. But that was impossible. Usually it took days for animals to pick so many carcasses clean. That’s when my grandmother knew that the nagual had killed the part of ten for trespassing through the sacred mountain. And ever since that day, everyone in her village avoided the eastern side of that small mountain near where she had encountered him. Even modern developers avoid that patch nowadays, and local residents still tell the story of a man with red eyes who appears to hikers in the darkness at dawn or at sunset, smelling of rabbit meat and dank grass. It’s a place that is said to be cursed. Of course, when my grandmother told me this story, she warned me that if I was a bad boy, a nagual would snatch me in the night and eat my hands and feet with his sharp teeth. Because that’s what good Mexican grandmothers do, ha ha ha!”
Nestor took a sip of coffee to get a good look at Puttock, who sat transfixed, listening with intent to every single part of the story.
“Now you have to remember,” Nestor said, “I was just a tourist passing by, and the fact that this short boxing coach wanted to tell me these stories made me think that he would want money, a tip for this informal guided tour of this small gym. Nothing is ever free.”
“Got that right,” Puttock said. “So what happened to El Hombre de Oro?
“According to Rufino, things changed after EL Hombre de Oro lost that fight to El Imperial. People in the neighborhood started spreading rumors that El Hombre de Oro had received mystical gifts from a curandero. They said he was some type of demon or lost soul. Those rumors spread, and they hurt his reputation a lot. But what made it worse is that a second rumor starting moving through this local neighborhood, this gym and the wrestling promotions circuit in the city. People were saying that El Hombre de Oro was gay, and that really upset a lot of people in this community.
“I also thought he was gay, Rufino continued. I won’t deny it. But I think that idea really upset a lot of the other wrestlers and promoters, especially the ones that envied the talents El Hombre de Oro had to offer. On Easter weekend, I ran into him at the Church of Santiago in Tlatelolco. He was walking out of the mass that day alone, moving about his massive physique with grace, but also a solemn gait of sorrow. I said hello, and he said he was paying his respects to his mother and father, who had passed away in the United States in the state of Kansas. It was a former life, he told me. Back when he had a job as a nurse, he said.
“El Hombre de Oro said that his time on this planet is coming to an end very soon. How can you say that?, Rufino had responded. And without any hesitation in his voice, El Hombre de Oro said, Because I am living inside the skin of a god, and that god will be taking his gifts back. The sun cast long shadows of the high-rise apartments onto the Aztec ruins on which we tread, and I noticed geometry everywhere: the sloping triangles of the pyramids, hexagons in the light flares from the sun, and immense patters in the buildings, the cars, and the very grass below our feet. The geometrical patterns became gigantic and overwhelming, like water filling a container. My soul brimmed with tension. El Hombre de Oro said that he had been given the privilege to wear the skin of the god Tezcatlipoca, so that he could represent him on Earth, but that the end of his tenure, he must be sacrificed back up to Tezcatlipoca, so the mantle could be passed on to another person to represent him on Earth. El Hombre de Oro said this to me with a hint of sadness, and definitely a touch of pride. El Hombre de Oro held up a hand up to his face to scratch his temple with his index and middle fingers. As he did so, his nail elongated, like a blade of grass sprouting from the earth. The nail became sharp as an eagle’s talon, and it changed its color into a shade of blue that reminded me of jade, but also of the ocean, Rufino told me. El Hombre de Oro told me that he held powers inside him that were beyond the imagination, but now, as his time was winding down, he was more interested in the small, everyday pleasures that human existence had to offer, including Catholic mass. And it was lucha libre that liberated his mind and soul, he told me. When he would climb the top rope after winning one of his matches, his favorite thing to do was to watch the parents in the crowd interact with their children, hoisting them upon their shoulders, laughing, sharing a soda, oblivious to the crises outside the magical realm of the wrestling arena. He gave me a massive hug and and said goodbye. That was the last time I ever saw him.”
“What a delicious tale,” Puttock said, taking a sip of his water. Nestor had eased into the story now. As a book author, Nestor no longer went on book tours, but telling his tale to the serial murdered reminded him that he enjoyed telling tales and stimulating the imagination of people.
Nestor continued.
“We had already finished our beer, and Rufino ushered me toward the gym’s exit. Tour was done. I thanked him, but what I really wanted to say is that I didn’t want his stories to end. I felt like a little boy who wanted just one more bedtime story. I stared at the photograph of El Hombre de Oro. He had the most handsome beard, black and full, long black hair, and those brown eyes that spoke volumes. He was beautiful. He really was like a son to me, Rufino said, interrupting my train of thought. El Hombre de Oro had a good heart, and even though he was different, he shared what all of us have, which is the need to be connected. He was born different, like you, he said. You are gay?, Rufino said.
“I nodded. I date women, and I also date men. So yes, I am different the way El Hombre de Oro was different. The old man’s face turned solemn, and he said. You all deserve better than the shit this world gives you, he said.
Puttock crossed his arms and nodded. “Surely by now you had already learned more about the four Tezcatlipocas, Buñuel? You’re not a lazy intellectual.”
“I was starting to learn,” Nestor said, omitting the fact that it was his business partner Felix who had become Nestor’s best teacher about the history and myths of the Aztecs or Mexica. He refused to share Felix with Puttock. “I was familiar enough to know that Tezcatlipoca is the patron god of naguales.”
Puttock drew soft circles on the conference room table with his index finger, formulating a thought. When he was ready to speak, he withdrew his hand crossed his arms.
“You want to know what I think the luchador El Hombre de Oro really was?”
“Yes.”
“He was a nagual, plain and simple. A 21st-century nagual. A powerful magician who is in touch with supernatural forces. He can use his powers to heal or to destroy. Naguales are said to transform into many animals, but it’s the jaguar which is they transform into most often. And that’s because Tezcatlipoca is able to transform into a jaguar, at will.”
“It would explain those sharp animal teeth from the photos in your stay,” Nestor said. By now, Nestor realized that this conversation was going to be forever on the record for this investigation, but he decided to just let go of what Delia or other cops might think. Suddenly, he was actually very intrigued by Puttock, because perhaps Puttock did have knowledge about Mictlán and the pantheon of gods.”
“El Hombre de Oro, that luchador from this urban legend I learned about from Rufino—would be a nagual by definition, yes. El Hombre de Oro would be an emissary for the Black Tezcatlipoca.”
“Professor Villa, who tried to sell me the book 9 Lords of Night, was very likely a nagual, too,” Puttock said. “But you already know that, don’t you? ”
Nestor nodded.
“You’re a very clever man, detective,” Puttock said. His smile spread from ear to ear. “How did you make the connection from my story about Villa to your urban legend of El Hombre de Oro?”
“Because of the the hallucination you saw when he showed you the book 9 Lords of Night. Villa made you see a flat obsidian disk instead of a bound book—he made you see a black mirror. That’s the mirror the god Tezcatlipoca was said to wear on his chest. Tezcatlipoca is a master of illusions.”
The room grew very silent. Time slowed to a crawl, and neither he nor Puttock moved a muscle. But they did stare right into each other’s eyes with intent and curiosity.
“You said you would give up another name if we traded stories,” Nestor said. “It’s your turn to fulfill your end of the bargain.”
Puttock brushed lint off his prison uniform and nodded. “He’s coming, Buñuel,” he said “Xipe Totec is coming to this world soon. I know this because his brother Tezcatlipoca the Black is here. Your story is further proof. But it is Xipe who will bring in a new era for mankind, and take his rightful place among us.”
“You know what I need from you,” Nestor said.
“Your face hardly moves when you interview people,” Puttock said. “It’s like stone. How did you learn such an effective trick, detective?”
“By putting up with a lot of bullshit. Now give me the names of the people you killed.”
Puttock tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.
“Come on, let’s go,” Nestor said.
“Lizette Fernandez, 2011. Cleveland, Ohio. She worked for minimum wage at a laundromat in a poor part of town. I tracked her for many months. Would you believe she would take three buses and walk a full mile just to get to that god-forsaken job? I would follow her from home, to work, and then back home again, daily. I offered her the last ride she would ever take. She was the first tribute I ever flayed to appease Xipe Totec. After I removed her skin, I burned her body. It’s buried four miles west of the place where she lived. Though I will never tell anyone where I hid her skin.”
Nestor didn’t find anything about Puttock amusing, and this arrogant display made Nestor stiffen with pent-up anger. But he didn’t let his gaze drop. This confession was what he needed to get the fuck out of here, get on a plane back to Chicago, and never, ever have to see this piece of shit again in his life.
“What people forget,” Puttock said, “Is that poor brown and black women make the easiest targets. They are exploited, overworked, and undereducated by our failing education systems, and much to my delight, that sometimes makes them naive and trusting. I trailed Lizette every week, and you wouldn’t believe how many dangers awaited her. She rode these buses before dawn each day, and not once did she notice me. Oh and her skin, it was perfect brown skin, like no other—
“Why her?” Nestor said.
“She was like Marlene Grue. She was a vessel full of potential. She was strong, smart, and beautiful, but she didn’t always know it. That made her perfect as a tribute. Of course, Marlene was what they call a cis woman. Lizette, on the other hand, wasn’t assigned female at birth, if you know what I mean.”
Nestor felt a chill race through his body.
Puttock had killed a trans woman.
A knot of pain, rage and nausea wound itself inside’ Nestor’s gut, but he kept his facial expression neutral. He wanted to reach across the table and beat Puttock to a pulp, but he kept himself under control.
“I can see how you are finally connecting all the dots,” Puttock said. “ You have witnessed strange events that your rational mind can’t comprehend but that your heart knows are true. And there’s a reality that is now crystal clear to you: You know that the four Tezcatlipocas brothers really do exist, and there are portals opening in our world for them to step through. You should be very afraid, because Xipe Totec, the Night Drinker, approaches.”
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