My name is Julián Hernández and I'm 85 years old. I was Mario Moreno's driver, better known as Cantinflas. What I'm about to tell you traumatized me when I experienced it, because sometimes people aren't what we expect. I wasn't an actor, a politician, or a journalist. I was a driver, that's all. That's what my father taught me. If you want respect, start by respecting your job.
Everyone knew Mario Moreno as Cantinflas. I knew the man who sat in the back of the car, the one who got in tired after filming, the one who sometimes sat silently staring out the window. For me, he was always Mr. Mario. I never called him Cantinflas, or maestro, or idol. He didn't want that either. I came to work for him out of necessity, like almost everyone else. My wife was sick. My eldest son was starting high school, and we didn't have enough money.
One day, a friend told me they were looking for a driver for a very important artist, but he didn't tell me who he was. They called me to a large house, one of those that smells of floor wax and freshly brewed coffee. I was interviewed by a man in a suit and tie who spoke little and took extensive notes. He asked me if I drank, if I smoked, if I had any legal problems. I told him the truth, that the only thing I owed was my share of the savings. At the end of the interview, he looked at me intently and said, "You'll be driving for someone very famous."
The most important thing here isn't driving well, but knowing when to keep quiet. I nodded. "A driver is hired as much for his skill as for keeping his mouth shut. I understand that. I saw it on the first day." He entered the shop calmly, without making a fuss. He was wearing a simple jacket, no sequins or anything like that. He held out his hand as if I were someone important. Mario said, "Nice to meet you, Julián." "Sir, at your service." "Tell me, Mario, please."
The man said, “Leave him alone. Those who think they’re better than they are.” He chuckled softly. I smiled, but inside I was nervous. There he was, in the flesh, the man I’d seen in movies since I was a child. And now it was my turn to drive him around as if nothing had happened. The first few months were normal. I took him to film studios, to interviews, to events. In the car, he was almost always there, reviewing documents, scripts, notes. Sometimes he’d ask me questions during the ride.
How's the traffic, Julián? Worse than yesterday. It's always bad, Mario, I replied. The cars keep changing. He laughed. We didn't talk about anything serious. Work is work. I respected his space. When he wanted to talk, we talked. When he didn't want to, he turned down the radio, that's all. He was a good boss. He never spoke harshly to me, he never made me feel inferior. He asked me about my wife, my children. Once, when he found out my wife was in the hospital, he gave me some money without me asking.
“It's not a loan,” he told me. “It's so you don't have to worry while you're driving. I don't want you killing me thinking about the doctor's bill.” He was generous, but not vain. That's why, when things started to get weird, it hurt even more, because I already respected him. One day, after dropping him off at a fancy dinner, I was told not to pick him up at the front door, but on a side street. It wasn't normal. He always left through the front door, where the cameras and fans were.
That evening he left in a hurry, without saying goodbye to anyone, without his usual smile. He got in the car, closed the door, and said simply: "Go, Julián. Where are you going, Mario?" He gave me an address that wasn't in my address book, a neighborhood I knew, but for reasons better left unsaid. It wasn't an area for artists or politicians; it was a commercial district for others. During the drive, he was serious, not saying a word. Every now and then I glanced in the rearview mirror, but he kept his eyes fixed on the window as if trying to memorize the city one last time.
When we got to the area, he asked me, "Turn off your lights before you get to the corner." That's not something you ask a driver just for the sake of it. That was the first time I felt something was wrong. I stopped where he told me, and he straightened his jacket, put on a hat he'd folded in his bag, and before getting out, he looked at me. "Julian, whatever happens today, you didn't see anything. We're..." I didn't know what to say.
I simply said, "Yes, Mario." He got out and disappeared into the shadows, like any other normal person. No spotlights, no one asking for a photo. Mario Moreno wasn't the idol there. He was just another man walking where he shouldn't have been. I was left alone in the car, with the engine off and my heart pounding. I'd never felt so nervous as a driver. I didn't know if we were there for something good or something very bad. And honestly, that night, for the first time, I thought about it.
What was this man up to? I didn't yet know the answer was the opposite of what it seemed, but it all started with that one sentence. "Go and don't look back." Although, truth be told, from that day on, I couldn't stop looking. After that strange first night, I thought he'd only done something once, that perhaps he'd gone to visit someone sick or help an acquaintance in need. You always try to think the best of the people you respect.
I honestly didn't want to believe Mr. Mario was involved in anything shady. The next few days passed normally. Studies, interviews, lunches with producers, meetings with politicians who laughed at all his jokes, even the less funny ones. I watched, drove, and learned the city schedule. I already knew how long it took to get from his house to the set, from the set to the theater, from the theater to the restaurant: it was all memorized. But about two weeks later, something unusual happened again.
One afternoon, after a long photo shoot, instead of going straight home, he said to me, "Let's run an errand first." It wasn't unusual for him to ask that. Sometimes we needed to pick up a suit, some documents, a jacket he'd left somewhere. I simply asked, "Where are we going, Mario?" He whispered an address. It was near a large market, but not the nice one, the other one, the infamous one.
I knew it because I'd grown up nearby. It wasn't an area to wander around at night with an expensive watch. When we reached the corner, he said, "Don't take the main road. Take the back road." I obeyed. I always obeyed. There, in a dimly lit corner, someone was already waiting, a tall, thin guy wearing a gray hat—not a charro hat or anything fancy, just a simple, well-made one. He looked unfriendly. Mario rolled down the window just enough. "He's here," the guy in the hat asked.
He nodded and opened the trunk without asking permission. He placed a medium-sized black suitcase inside, the kind without a logo or anything. I only saw it for a second in the rearview mirror, but it looked heavy. It didn't look like it was full of clothes; it felt compact, hard. My stomach tightened. The guy in the hat said, "It's all in there." Mario replied seriously, "Make sure nothing's missing because there won't be time for 'adjustments' later." I swallowed hard. That didn't sound like "forgotten clothes"; it sounded like a business deal.
The kind of thing that, if it goes wrong, can't be solved with excuses, boss. The man in the hat leaned forward slightly to look inside. He looked me straight in the eye. His eyes were cold, not aggressive, but cold. "Is he trustworthy?" he asked, referring to me. Mario answered without hesitation. "If I didn't trust him, I wouldn't be here." The man in the hat made a gesture as if to say, "We'll see." He closed the trunk and drove away, disappearing among the market stalls. As we started driving, I could feel my hands sweating on the steering wheel.
I didn't say anything until I couldn't bear it anymore. "Mario, what are we carrying?" It took him a moment to answer. He was staring out the window, lost in thought. "Work, Julián," he finally said. "Things you can't mail." I didn't like the answer. It sounded like a joke, but his expression wasn't joking. "What kind of work?" I persisted. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, not angry, but very serious. "As long as you drive well and your family is well, you and I won't have any problems."
He said to me, "There are things that, if you know them, keep you awake at night, and yet you need to sleep." It hit me like a bolt from the blue. It was a polite way of saying, "Don't get involved." I lowered my gaze and said nothing else, but my mind was racing. On the way back, I noticed something else. We didn't take the direct route. He made me go around, change directions, take brighter avenues, then go back down smaller streets. That wasn't traffic; that was checking to see if we were being followed.
I checked myself in the rearview mirror several times. I didn't notice anything unusual, but I was already nervous. I started paying attention to every car, every motorcycle, every headlight. When we arrived at his house, Mario wouldn't let me carry my suitcase or call anyone. He went out alone, opened the trunk, struggled to lift it, and quickly entered through the side door, not the front, as if he didn't want anyone in the house to see me. That evening, when I returned home, my wife noticed I was acting strange.
“Did something happen to you?” she asked as she served dinner. “Nothing, I just went through some rough terrain,” I said, dodging the questions. I didn’t want to worry her, but I was having trouble swallowing my food. The image of the suitcase was etched in my mind. Black suitcase, gray hat, strange routes, short sentences. And it wasn’t the last time. Those trips began to happen again, not every day, but often, always at night, always with strange instructions. “Don’t follow her too closely. Don’t stop at the light if you don’t see anyone coming.”
If someone looks a lot like you in the rearview mirror, drive around the block. I no longer drove like a chauffeur; I drove like someone who felt watched. Bags changed size; sometimes it was a large envelope, other times a package wrapped in brown paper. The guy in the gray hat appeared and disappeared. He never spoke much. But I began to notice how others looked at him as he approached. Respectfully, but also warily. A wave of thoughts washed over me.
What if we were carrying dirty money? What if it were weapons? What if they were using me without telling me? And the hardest question of all: what if Mr. Mario, the one who makes everyone laugh, was actually someone else? I didn't want to think about it, but every night, every strange journey, every encounter with hard-eyed people forced me to see it. Until one day I saw something in one of those envelopes that changed everything. And that's when it stopped being suspicious and became real fear; traveling with a black suitcase became a habit.
Not every day, but they were already part of the calendar that wasn't written in any diary. They always told me the same thing. "He's busy tonight," and I already knew what that meant. Full tank, clean windows, and a clear mind. On those nights, I began to see the man in the gray hat more often. I never knew his name. If they said it, I didn't remember it. For me, he was always and only the man in the hat. He was one of those men who didn't need to shout to command respect.
He walked calmly, but it was clear that wherever he was, he commanded respect. One evening, around midweek, they told me to pick up Mr. Mario for an important business meeting. When they told me this, they used the word with a strange tone. Important, not like in a movie or an interview, but important in a different sense. I picked him up and carried him to an old building in a neighborhood where there were more wires than trees. It wasn't a place you'd expect to see a famous artist.
He got out quickly, without a jacket, just a simple jacket and an open shirt. Before getting out, he said to me, "Don't turn off the engine and don't fall asleep." I nodded. He entered the building, and I stood in the street watching who was coming and going. About an hour passed. I was getting restless. I don't like standing still for so long in places where the police only come in groups. Just then, I saw the guy in the gray hat arrive. He was with two other younger guys who seemed unconcerned.
They didn't make a fuss. They went in as if they were breaking into their own home. I lowered my gaze so they wouldn't think I was nosy. A few minutes passed and they came out again. The guy with the hat approached me. "You're the driver," he said. I sat up straighter. "Yes, sir. The lawyer will be out in a minute." That's what he said to Mario. The lawyer. When he gets in, keep going straight and wait for instructions. Don't stop until he tells you to. Understood, I replied. He patted me on the hood as if he were testing the car and went to the corner for a smoke.
Shortly afterward, Mr. Mario came out. He looked serious, but not afraid. He got in, closed the door, looked out the window, and said, "Go." I obeyed. After a few meters, he added, "Don't turn right like you always do. Today we're going somewhere else." He gave me directions in a low voice. As I drove, I saw in the rearview mirror that the man in the hat had gotten into another car and was following us—not very closely, but definitely following us.
After driving for about 15 minutes, we reached a cobblestone street lined with old houses with tall doors. Mario said to me, "Stop here, but don't turn off the car." He got out without waiting for a response, walked to a blue door, knocked loudly, and waited. From the car, I could only see a portion of it. The door opened and an elderly woman appeared. They spoke quickly, entered, and then another figure emerged. It was a young woman, perhaps 20 or 22.
She had a small shoulder bag and was wearing a light sweater, despite the cold. Her face was puffy, as if she'd been crying a lot. Mario put a hand on her shoulder. She hesitated, but finally got out. I watched them walk toward the car. The girl kept looking around as if expecting someone to appear around a corner and pull her back. Mario opened the back door for her. "Get in," he said kindly. "She's a trustworthy person." She got in slowly, almost dragging her feet.
She sat down and pressed herself against the door opposite, as if she wanted to be as far away from everyone as possible. I couldn't keep quiet. "Good evening," I said without turning around. She barely muttered anything that sounded like good evening. Mario got in front and ordered, "Let's go." "Where are we going?" I asked. She gave me an address I didn't recognize. It wasn't her house, nor the studio, nor the theater, nor any of the usual routes. We had just started moving when the girl asked in a low voice, "They're there too."
Mario looked at her in the rearview mirror. “No, not there. If they send me back, I’m never going out again,” he said almost in a whisper. The sentence struck me like a bolt from the blue. “If they send me back, I’m never going out again.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it didn’t sound like a reprimand or a dismissal. It sounded like a threat, the kind you don’t write down. “No one will send you back,” Mario reassured her. “As long as you’re with me.” No, I was driving, but my mind was already racing.
Who were they? And why couldn't I go back? And what did my boss have to do with all this? I saw the car with the hat in the rearview mirror. Cris was still behind us. He wasn't overtaking us, he wasn't moving away, he was just coming. The girl leaned forward slightly. "And who is he?" she asked, nodding her chin. "He's my driver," Mario replied. "He's family over here." "Don't worry, family." That word filled me with pride, but it also got me into trouble, even if I didn't want to.
Suddenly, Mario leaned toward me. “Julian, if you see that car behind you getting too close, do what you have to do, but don't stop, okay?” “What's too close?” I asked nervously. “You'll find out,” he said. I didn't like the answer, but he was right. You know when something isn't right anymore. The girl in the back started crying softly, covering her face. I wanted to say something, even something stupid, but nothing came to mind.
What do you say to someone who's afraid they'll never go out again? I managed to slow down a bit to avoid a pothole, and that's when I understood. The car with the hat wasn't alone anymore. Further back, there was another one without a license plate, its headlights half off. That's when I realized it wasn't a strange curve and that the girl wasn't invited. She was someone who couldn't come back because, if she did, the relationship would be over forever.
The road began to seem smaller, even though it was the same as always. When you know you're being followed, every corner feels like a trap. I checked the rearview mirror every two seconds. First the car with the gray hat, then the other one further back, with no license plate, no license plate, its lights half-hidden. Mario noticed my tension. "Relax, Julián," he said. "If you tense up behind the wheel, you'll make a mistake." Easy to say. I was the one driving the girl and the car.
He called from behind: “Is that them?” His voice trembled. Mario didn’t answer immediately. He looked out the window, as if calculating. He hadn’t spoken yet. “But they already know you’re not where you’re supposed to be.” It sent shivers down my spine. “Where you’re supposed to be.” I mean, somewhere else, in an office, a house, a basement. I took a wider road. I wanted to blend in with the traffic, but there wasn’t much of it at that hour. Worse still. It was easier for them to find us.
Mario, I've found the courage. If you're up to something dangerous, tell me straight out. Dad, I need to know what I'm getting myself into. She sighed. Not from laughter, but from exhaustion. The only thing you need to know, Julián, is that I'm not dragging you into something of mine, but into something that shouldn't exist. I frowned. What? Something that shouldn't exist? Before I could respond, the girl spoke almost angrily to herself. It's my fault, she said. It's my fault. Mario turned to look at her.
It's not your fault, it's what they did. You just didn't stay quiet. She hugged her bag as if she were carrying a child. "I was just sorting out the papers," she said. "I didn't mean to get involved, but I heard names, orders, things that would keep anyone awake at night. And then I saw the documents and put them away." I felt a knot in my stomach. "What? Documents?" I asked without taking my eyes off the road. She hesitated, but Mario reassured her with his look.
Tell him, daughter. Lists, he said, names of important people, those in charge, not those on TV. Others, those who decide who to kidnap, who to disappear, which judge to bribe, which case to lose. All in writing. I wanted to turn off the car and get out to walk home, but we were already in trouble. Not everyone does that. I asked, who keeps that kind of information on paper? The trusting ones, Mario replied. Those who think no one will dare touch them, just a single piece of paper.
He gripped his bag tighter. I'd been assigned to file that stuff. I was there alone with the files. I heard through the door when they ordered a journalist to stop disturbing them, or they'd be taken downstairs, along with the whole family, as if it were just a casual conversation. And something inside me broke. He touched his chest. I couldn't continue as if nothing had happened. He was silent for a second. Then he added, "I took what I could and left." I thought: what if I showed them to someone?
Everything was about to change. I sighed, and it changed. But for you, he nodded, his eyes filling with tears. The same day I didn't show up at the office, the phone calls started. To my house, to my mother, to the neighbors, telling him to come back, that if he handed over what he had, nothing would happen. But I knew something would happen. Mario then spoke in that voice he used when he had stopped being a comedian and was just a man from the neighborhood. When people like that tell you, "Nothing will happen," that's precisely when the worst is happening. I kept brooding.
“And where are those documents?” I asked. “Should we get them right away?” She looked down at her bag. I saw it in the rearview mirror. It was bulging, but it didn’t look heavy. Mario moved on. Not everyone does, but he’s carrying something that’s enough to make you want to shut her up. At a traffic light, one of those that turns red even when no one’s coming. Mario said to me, “Stop for a moment.” I stopped. The cars were approaching in the distance, but not too close yet. Mario turned to the girl.
“Show him, so he can understand,” he said. He opened the bag as if it were full of snakes. He pulled out an old paper envelope, folded in half, the corners frayed. He opened it slightly and handed it to me. “Just look at the top,” he said. I held out my hand, afraid to touch it. I leafed through it quickly. The first thing I saw was a header, something about a strategy meeting and a date. Then, further down, a list of names. Some of them sounded familiar: businessmen, a member of Congress, a police chief.
Next to each name, handwritten notes. Ally, pay, folds easily, problem, pending. I didn't want to read anything else; my stomach was turning. I already said, I'll give it back to her right now. That's all I need. He put the envelope back as if it were his heart. Mario stared at me. "Do you understand now why they want it back?" he said. "It's not because it's important, it's because it's seen too much." He ordered me again. "Hurry up, they're catching up with us." The light turned green and I accelerated.
The steering wheel felt strange, as if he were driving with wet gloves. “So, Mario, I’ve found the courage. All this talk about suitcases, these strange detours, that’s why.” He paused for a few seconds, thinking. He didn’t admit everything, but he admitted a lot. “There are people I help get out of this situation, get documents, money to leave. I don’t do it alone. There are other people involved, but they can’t show up. Neither do I, but sometimes my name helps open doors. And if they have to use my name, it’s better if it’s for something useful.”
The girl looked at him in surprise, as if she hadn't realized until then who was helping her. "When I called the number they gave me," she said, "I didn't know you'd come. They just said, 'A man who doesn't seem dangerous is coming, but to them he is.' And it was you." Mario smiled slightly. "To them, yes," he said, "because I know things and I don't play their game." At that moment, the car with the gray hat came a little closer to us.
Then, suddenly, he changed lanes and stopped behind the other car without license plates. Mario saw him in the rearview mirror and muttered, "They've already realized they don't have them. Now they're coming for us." I swallowed hard. It wasn't just a suspicion anymore, it wasn't just a feeling. I had already read the newspaper, and the uncomfortable truth was clear. Mr. Mario was involved in very dangerous things, but not in theft or extortion.
He was taking it out on whoever actually did it, and we were stuck in the middle of it all, in a car that seemed smaller and smaller. The city lights seemed brighter, as if everything was too bright. I don't know if it was the time of day or my nerves, but I noticed every streetlight, every shadow, every reflection in the shop windows. Behind us, there was no longer just one car; now there were two, lined up neatly, as if we were in a trailer. Only we didn't want to be together.
Mario looked in the rearview mirror with that strange calm that made me even more nervous. “Don't rush, Julián,” he said. “If you overtake, you'll alert the others. If you go too slow, they'll cut you off. Just keep going as if nothing happened.” “As if nothing happened,” he said. Calmly. The girl was glued to the seat, clutching her purse. She wasn't crying anymore. Fear does that to you sometimes; it leaves you numb. “Where are we going?” I asked, my voice a little louder than usual.
Mario gave me an address that wasn't on my mental list of usual places. It was in an area with old office buildings, most of them dark at that hour. It wasn't a seedy neighborhood, but it wasn't a wealthy area either. "They're waiting for us there," he said. "Who?" I asked. He didn't answer right away. "That's never a good sign. People who can use what the girl is wearing without dying trying," he said finally, "and who aren't completely exhausted." For now, let's keep moving.
I tried not to look too much in the rearview mirror, but it was inevitable. The cars were still there. They weren't tailgating us. They weren't overtaking us, they were just there. Sometimes it's scarier than being cut off. When we reached the area, Mario told me to turn onto a narrow street. Slow down here, Julián, we're almost there. In the distance, we saw a gray, multi-story building with rectangular windows, all the same size. There was no sign outside, just a metal door and a light bulb on top.
It looked like an abandoned factory, but as I got closer, I saw it wasn't. It was so deserted. There was a guard sitting on a chair near the door. Mario gave me directions. "Stop here, but with the car facing outward. Never straight ahead." I did as he told me. The guard looked at us with a serious expression. When he saw who was coming up behind us, his expression changed. He stood up, waved, and the door opened from the inside. "They're waiting for us," Mario muttered. "Don't get out yet to turn off the car."
He turned to the girl. “As soon as I open the door, come down and go in with them. Don't look back. Don't come out until they tell you to. Is that clear?” She nodded, her face pale. “And you?” she asked. “I'm going to check another door,” he said with a half-smile. “You continue on your way.” He came down first, then the girl. I glimpsed a woman in a simple dress, without heavy makeup, coming out with a folder under her arm.
She didn't look like a police officer or a secretary. She had a different look, like the teachers of old, serious but respectful. "It's her," Mario said, pointing to the girl. The woman took her arm gently, not brusquely. "You're here now," she said softly. "Come in." The doors closed behind them. I was left alone. The car with the engine running, the steering wheel warm, and my hands frozen. The car with the gray hat didn't approach. It stayed half a block away, pretending nothing was happening, and the other one did the same.
A few seconds passed, and another person emerged from the building. This time, a man in a dark suit, with a loosened tie and his hair slicked back. I recognized him immediately. I'd seen him in the newspapers making statements about cleaning things that were never cleaned. He was one of those politicians you don't know whether to believe, but there they were. He approached the car, and Mario climbed back in. Now in the backseat, the politician remained outside, leaning out the window. "You're late, Mario," he said.
They could see it from afar. “If I had arrived later, we wouldn't have made it,” Mario replied. They had marked it. The politician glanced toward the corner where the other cars were parked. “I understand, but they can't get in here that easily. The girl's already inside,” Mario said. “Good,” the politician agreed. “Now we just need the other thing.” Mario pulled the folded manila envelope out of his jacket. “Is this what you wanted?” “No.” The politician took it, looked it down without opening it yet, and said something that caught my attention.
“I didn't mean to,” he corrected himself. “You threw it at me.” Then he opened it, pulled out the documents, and scanned them quickly. His eyes darted from side to side, frowning, and sighing every now and then. “Do you realize what this is about?” he asked. “I have an idea,” Mario said. “This isn't just a list. This is a map,” the man said. “Everyone is connected here: businessmen, military officers, judges, police chiefs. I even see names from my own party, not the minor ones.”
He was silent for a moment, then looked at me. I felt as if his gaze were piercing me. “Have you seen it yet?” he asked, nodding. “Just a little bit,” Mario said. “Enough to understand why we're here.” The politician sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I have to handle this with kid gloves. If I misuse it, it will come back to bite me. If I don't use it, we're back to square one. What if they find out I have it?” He didn't finish the sentence; there was no need. “What worries me,” he added, “is that this isn't the whole story.”
If the girl saw this, she saw something else. There are other copies. I blurted out without thinking. He looked at me intently. Exactly, he confirmed it. And those out there know it. That's why they don't just want the document, they want her head. Even if they burned this envelope, if she were still alive, they believe there's a risk. I felt the floor of the car sink. So what was the point of bringing him all this way? I asked a little louder than I should have. The politician held my gaze. He wasn't arrogant, he was tired.
It's useful, Dad, so I have something to negotiate. He said it helps put pressure on some people, to stop other movements, to save at least a few lives. This won't change the world. But it can change the next few weeks. And sometimes weeks make the difference between one death and another. Mario nodded slowly. That's enough for me. He said, "At least he's no longer on their easy list." The politician sealed the envelope and tucked it into his jacket. But understand this, Mario added, with this you can no longer say you were just passing through.
You're in it, and they know who you are, too. And I'm not talking about the guy who tells jokes at the movies. There was a silence. Mario sat back in his chair and said, "I've known who I am for years. They know who I am, too. The difference is that before, I didn't get so involved. Now I do; I had to do something." The politician looked at him as if he were looking at a madman or a brave soul. "Well, you did," he said. "And now I have to do my part."
Have your driver leave and don't come back through the front door. Anyone not in the relationship should leave through the entrance. He walked away from the car. Mario touched my shoulder from behind. "Let's go, Julián." I slowly started the engine. I turned onto a side street I hadn't even seen. As we drove away, I glanced at the cars that had followed us, still parked and waiting. They didn't yet know we'd dropped the bomb. I drove in silence for a few minutes, until I couldn't stand it anymore.
Mario, is that man one of the good guys or one of the bad guys? He let out a tired laugh. In this country, Julián, no one is really on one side, but today, at least today, he'll be on the side we need. He leaned back in his seat and added, "Anyway, there's no going back now." I continued driving with the strange feeling of having entered a game whose rules I didn't know. What I didn't know was that the worst was yet to come.
There's a part of this story I haven't seen in its entirety. I know it because Mr. Mario himself told it to me later, and the girl did too, once the situation had calmed down. But it's all part of the same night. And if I don't tell it, it'll seem like everything was resolved easily. But it wasn't. When the politician took the envelope and told us to leave, I thought we were done, but we weren't. Before we left completely, the building's security guard approached Mario's window and said in a low voice, "They want you to stay upstairs for a while, until the situation calms down." Mario hesitated.
He looked at me. We went upstairs, he said, "Until they turn off the lights, it's better to stay inside than out in the middle of the avenue." I didn't want to stay, but I also wasn't about to argue. I turned off the car, locked it, and the three of us went in: Mr. Mario, the girl, and me. Inside, the building seemed different. Long corridors, old floors, the smell of warm coffee and paper. They led us to a small, windowless room with a table and three chairs, from which a single light bulb hung. Nothing else. "Wait here," said the guard.
If you hear a commotion, don't leave until one of our people opens the door for you. I sat down in front of the door as if that would stop half the world. The girl moved to a corner clutching her bag. Mr. Mario paced slowly back and forth with his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought. Several long minutes passed, no one spoke, until I, who always end up putting my foot in my mouth, exclaimed, "Mario, the one with the gray hat." Who is he, really?
He stopped. He saw me. “Why do you ask me that, horror?” “Because he doesn’t seem like a nice person,” I said, “and he’s walking very close to you.” Mr. Mario was silent for a moment, as if he were considering how much to say. “There are places where good people don’t last a week,” he finally replied. “If you want to get in, you have to look like one of them, or they’ll kick you out.” I frowned. “So he doesn’t work for others?” He shook his head. “He works with me,” he said. “Well, with us.”
He'd been in there for months, watching who was who, how they moved. If you're alive today, it's because he warned us that the girl was no longer where she was. Otherwise, you wouldn't have even had time to get out. They would have let you escape. I was stunned, but the black suitcase, the errands, everything else. It's part of the job. He replied. Getting people out, moving evidence, making shady deals to get one released and another arrested. It's not nice, but it's necessary. If he had presented himself as a Good Samaritan, I wouldn't be alive now.
I leaned back in my chair. I had to process everything. Everything that had seemed dirty to me. It wasn't what I thought. It was something else. Dangerous. Yes, even crooked-looking. But not in the way I thought. The girl looked up. "He was watching me too," she asked. "Since you left with the documents?" "Yes," Mario said. "He was following you from afar to see who else was following you, but at a certain point, that wasn't enough for him anymore."
That's why you ended up here. She lowered her gaze again. I don't know if she felt relieved or worse. Suddenly, the light in the room flickered and went out. A second. Two. It went dark, that awful internal darkness. There was a buzzing sound, and then the light came back on. "See," Mario muttered. "That's never a good sign." A few seconds later, several quick footsteps could be heard in the corridor. Then a familiar voice on the other side of the door. It was Mario, the one with the hat.
The guard opened the door a crack. I stopped dead in my tracks. The man in the hat peered out, his expression still serious. “They've already found her,” he said. “Those outside aren't yours.” “How many?” Mario asked. “Enough to make this more than just gossip,” he replied. “They arrived in a car without license plates. They don't seem agitated; they're asking about the girl.” I felt a tingling sensation. “How many do we have?” Mario insisted. The man in the hat made a quick calculation, staring at the ceiling as if he heard footsteps.
Minutes, he said. Maybe less if someone makes a mistake. He turned to me. Not with hatred, but clearly. “He knows how to drive properly,” he asked. “He knows,” Mario answered for me. “He just gets a little nervous, but he’ll get over it.” I swallowed. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry. The man in the hat entered the room and closed the door behind him. Mintu Sinto. Up close, he seemed less cold, but just as tired as everyone else. “Look,” he said, “there’s no time for drama.”
Here's the thing. The people outside think the envelope is still here with you, Mario. If they find out you've already given it to them, they'll be even more worried. They must be holding on to something or someone. He glanced at the girl. She flattened herself against the wall. "Well, they better hold their breath," Mario replied. "It's not coming out." "If it were up to me," said the man in the hat, "I'd already be on my way to another country, but now the first thing you have to do is get out of this building." Mario turned to me.
“Julian,” he said, “do you remember the garage exit? Where we parked the car?” “Yes, it’s not the only one,” he added. “There’s another one behind the warehouse. From there, it leads out onto a street that almost no one uses. That’s where you’ll go. I saw it without really understanding it. What about you?” The man in the hat crossed his arms. “We’ll stay and receive visitors,” he said. “With something to entertain them.” Mario approached the table and pulled another Manila envelope from his jacket.
Just like the first one. This one's empty, he explained. But it looks the same from the outside. If they see this in my hand, they'll come with me. The girl's eyes widened. She didn't say anything. Don't stay, please. Mario crouched down a bit to look her in the eye. Honey, if they don't linger here, they'll get us out there. And there are no walls out there or lights going out. There are bullets out there. He paused. I'm not doing you a favor, I'm doing what I have to do.
The man in the hat looked at him respectfully, which was unusual for him. “You’re going to get yourself into a mess I can’t get you out of so easily,” he warned. “I’ve been in trouble since I was born, buddy,” Mario replied. “One more, one less.” Then he looked me straight in the eye. “Julián, as soon as I walk out that door with this bag, take the girl and go to the cellar.” He pointed to the man in the hat. “He’ll block my path as much as possible.”
Don't look back. Don't wait for signs. If you hear screams, keep going. Got it. I felt my legs shaking, but I said, "Got it." The girl shook her head. "I can't leave him here," she repeated, almost crying. Mario put a hand on her shoulder. "I've been left alone in worse places," he said with a sad half-smile. "And at least here I have an advantage." "What?" I asked, finding none. He straightened his jacket, slipped the fake envelope into his coat pocket, and replied, "That this time I know why I'm doing it." The man in the hat approached the door and, before leaving, took his hat off for a second.
I don't know if it was out of respect or because his forehead was sweating. He put it back on and said, "When you hear the commotion start in the hallway, that's your moment. Not before, not after." Mario left. He stood there for a second, looking at us, not like a boss, not like an artist, but like a man. From that moment on, he said, "Everyone goes their own way. Mine stays upstairs. Yours must end far from this building." He took a deep breath, put his hand on the doorknob, and that was it.
The man I suspected was up to no good was about to do something no one would applaud, no one would record, no one would believe if told, but it was the kind of thing he'd chosen to do, even if it felt like something else. When he put his hand on the doorknob, time seemed to slow down. I don't know if it was seconds or minutes, but I felt like we were stuck there, like the world was waiting to see who would move first: them, the people outside, or us.
Mario gave me one last look. “Don't be a hero, Julián,” he said. “There's already one hero too many here.” I wanted to say something funny to lighten the mood, but nothing came to mind. I just nodded. “Yes, Mario.” He slowly opened the door. The corridor was dimly lit, illuminated only by those flashing yellow lights. I glimpsed the guy in the hat a few meters ahead, talking in a low voice to the guard. They were signaling to each other, as if they'd rehearsed everything.
Mario came out first, the fake envelope tucked under his arm, clearly visible. He wasn't hiding it; in fact, he carried it as if he were carrying something he knew everyone wanted. He closed the door and left me and the girl inside. She took two steps toward the door. "No, I didn't tell him. Wait, not yet." She stood in the center of the room, hands clasped, pacing like a caged tiger. From the other side, in the corridor, voices began to be heard, first soft, then louder.
I couldn't make out the words, but I could hear the tones. One was calm, and I recognized Mario's. Others were brusque, harsh, the kind where men don't come to negotiate, but to see who's ready to surrender. Then, many footsteps. The echo in the corridor made them heavier. "I'm here," I murmured. The girl covered her mouth. I approached the door without pressing my ear, but close enough. I didn't want to miss the signal. The man with the hat was heard. No one comes in here armed.
And to another joker. Oh, please, you're the first to bring a rocket, buddy. Then Mario's voice, firm. You know why you're here. Here's what you want. I imagined him lifting the envelope. Slowly. Put it on the table, someone said. A brief silence. No, Mario replied. We'll talk here first. My heart was in my throat. That way of speaking was very typical of his character, calm but cutting. The same way he used when someone was trying to take advantage of a worker or a child.
“You’re in no position to make conditions,” one of the others snapped. “I didn’t come here to ask permission either,” Mario replied. At that moment, there was a sharp thud. I don’t know if it was a chair, a wall, or if someone had been pushed. The girl jumped. “They’re beating him,” she whispered. “I don’t know,” I said, “although I could imagine it.” Then came what we’d expected. Chaos. Voices upon voices, running footsteps. Someone shouted, “Calm down!” And another responded with something mean.
There was a strong push, a body hitting the wall, a "let me go" that I think came from the hat. It all happened so quickly. That was the signal. At that moment I said, "Let's go." I opened the bedroom door just enough to peek out. The hallway toward where they were was filled with moving shadows, but the other direction, toward the cellar, was empty. I signaled to the girl clinging to me. Don't run away, but don't stay either. We left.
I closed the door silently. My legs felt soft as cotton. We walked down the opposite corridor, hugging the wall. I could hear the screams behind us, but I didn't turn around. Halfway down the corridor, she whispered, "What if they kill him?" I couldn't answer. If I said no, I'd be lying. If I said yes, she'd sink even deeper. So I simply said, "If we go back, they'll kill us all." We came to a metal door with a small square window. The glass was frosted.
The view from the other side was poor. I pushed carefully. It was heavy. It was the warehouse. Inside were boxes, old filing cabinets, piled-up furniture, everything smelled of dust and damp. "This is where we exit, onto the side street," I told her. He'd already checked. I trusted him. We walked through the warehouse in near darkness. There were only a couple of rays of light coming in through high slits. I was in front, groping, and then a sharp sound, three thumps as if someone was kicking something. The girl stopped.
“Was it a gunshot?” he asked. “No, I didn’t lie. They’re doors.” I didn’t know for sure, but I needed him to continue. We finally found the metal back door with a horizontal bar. I pushed. It opened easily. It led us into a narrow, dank alley with a single light bulb hanging at the end. To the right, I saw the back of the building. To the left, the street entrance was where Mario said almost no one went. “That way,” I told him. We started walking quickly; not running, but almost.
The alley seemed longer than expected. Before reaching the corner, I stopped. I peered out cautiously. There were no cars, no people, just a dog lying in the middle of the sidewalk that didn't even glance at us. "Let's go," I said. We stepped out onto the street like someone surfacing for air after emerging from the water. At the end, around the corner, we saw the back of the garage where we'd left the car. And Mr. Mario asked again.
It was then that I felt the question pierce me. He stayed there for this. I said, so we could do this, walk, get in the car, leave. If we go back, we will have wasted his sacrifice. I think he understood then. Not because he calmed down, but because he stopped insisting. We reached the garage. The guard inside looked surprised. "Are you leaving already?" he asked. I simply replied, "Okay, open up." He already knew. He didn't ask any more questions. He raised the metal shutter. The car was still where I'd left it, facing outward.
