Tomorrow, I’ll be dead.
Four floors below, the tarmac on Zócalo Square buzzed with life. Tiny dots strolled around the touts who tried their best to outshout the off-key street organ. There lay a promise of anonymity, the luxury of instant freedom. All I had to do was merge with the crowd, but I stuck to my hotel room, as if it offered more than a bed, free coffee and tiny bottles of shampoo.
Is this really the only way out?
Part of me wanted to abandon the plan, go back home and do what Jimmy asked, but I’d come too far to give up. Betrayal didn’t come cheap, especially not within the family. If Jimmy found out what had happened, he’d track me down. Nino would help him, no doubt, like an obedient little brother. My name and picture would blast the news until the message would sink in. There’s only one way out for a Morretti.
That’s why I had to shed my old skin. Changing my appearance was the easy part. New clothes, a different haircut, a new name. What about the rest? Could I change what’s beneath my skin? The things I’d done? Who I’d become? The closer I came to breaking away, the stronger the tug in my gut.
Once a Morretti, always a Morretti.
I emptied the miniature shower gel into the bathtub and opened the tap. Bending my knees, I buried my face in the foam bubbles, a warm liquid hug that smelled of honey-dipped cereal. The water twirled around my legs, reminding me of the endless canals that snake through my hometown. I’d miss Amsterdam, my beloved Mokum, but Mexico City had a lot to offer, too. A blank page, for starters. When I walked the streets, no heads turned, no words were exchanged under the breath, no prying eyes searched for a different, better version of me.
The memory of home made me scrub my skin so hard my fingernails left long, reddish marks on my arms and legs. I submerged my face and surrendered to the warmth. The water didn’t care about my name or Jimmy’s drug business. I soaked in comfort until the water turned tepid and my fingers wrinkled like wet paper.
Once out of the bathtub, I wrapped myself in a towel and took out my make-up kit. I’d done this often enough, so my movements became effortless. The thrill of putting on my secret armour hasn’t diminished. With each new layer, I blot out a part of the old me, mould it into something else, someone else.
First, I put in the lenses, a dull brown, the colour of mud. Blue would have been nicer, but too memorable. Next, I hid my eyebrows under a thick layer of powder. I worked my pencil to change their shape and enlarge the space between my eyes.
I slipped plumper into my mouth, a piece of silicone that makes my jaw appear wider. Then, I dabbed cosmetic glue over my chin and jaw and stuck on a curl of my hair in its natural colour, a mousy brown. I cut it to size and repeated it, till it all came together in a simple stubble beard, the ‘carefree’ kind, popular among hipsters.
For the final touch, I put on a Panama hat I’d bought at the market. A young guy’s face blinked back at me from the mirror. I had to make an effort not to smile. It’s the first give-away, when you’re pretending to be a man.
‘Hello there,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Will you keep my secret?’
