La Vida Doble

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Can I tell you the truth? That’s a question for you. Are you going to believe me? That’s a question only you can answer. All I can do is talk. It’s up to you whether you believe me or not.

I left the currency exchange with all the money on me. Thirty thousand dollars in cash, and a little over four million pesos. Canelo was next to me, Kid Díaz or Kid of the Day, as we called him, was a bit behind us.

“Run, Irene!” Canelo shouted at me. “Run!” And doubling over just as we’d been trained to do, hunching down and moving sideways to minimize exposure to the enemy, he covered my retreat, scattering lead from his Smith and Wesson.44 Magnum revolver. But not me. I ran for a stretch and then walked a few yards. When I saw that none of the people fleeing in terror from the sound of the bullets took any notice of me, panic overcame me and I threw myself to the ground and hid under a parked truck. Inexplicable, in a trained combatant like me. I told myself: I’ll wait for the bullets to stop and then I can get out and walk away naturally. But really, when the moment of truth came, I chickened out. And I had the money on me. Those are the facts. An instant before, anything had been possible; an instant later, destiny had me cornered, the bridge was cut off, I couldn’t go back. Never again. I get dizzy thinking about it. But that instant existed, that free and open field was real, and a tenth of a second later it had disappeared forever: I was a prisoner.

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