Vignette #1: Palace Menagerie
We approached the Federal Palace, hustling in between countless armed bodyguards and political personalities, all converging on the same neoclassical edifice towering overhead. I hurried alongside the president of Morena in the state, distinguished guest at the presentation of the parliamentary commission charged with the ambitious overhaul of the State Constitution. He wasn’t someone known to tolerate tardiness, in himself or others, so we made haste.
Surveying the assemblage of amored SUVs to my left, I noticed three women emerge from one of the vehicles, balancing an elderly gentleman in a bloated gray suit. Rubén Aguilar, patriarch of a dying political dynasty, leaned on his daughters, taking feeble steps on the cobbled street. His signature red tie dangled in front of him as he wobbled along: a clumsy walrus escorted by his daughters, all three uniformed in the vivid crimson and gold of the family franchise — the Workers’ Party.
As we marched by, I noticed the old man’s whiskers twitch, like some critter sensing a threat. Frowning, he looked up and to his side toward us. His thin glasses did little to disguise his animal gaze. Synchronized, the three women shot us an icy glance. Their piercing harpy stares left me unsettled. They had the same effect on everyone; as unscrupulous political mercenaries, their glacial comportment was a sort of defense mechanism.
Sensing their eyes boring on our napes, I half expected the president to turn around and acknowledge them with a hello. But hypocrisy was not his style and there was no affection for the political mafia the Aguilar family represented. Electoral alliances were merely dried ink on the ballot; they died immediately the day after the election. Unperturbed, we hurried up the stone steps toward the glass entrance behind the neoclassical marble façade, narrowly avoiding one of the hulking bodyguards speaking into his earpiece, his ursine frame erect and immobile like the Tuscan columns next to him.
We entered the Palace to bright light and a bustling crowd.
Camera clicks and camera flashes punctuated our every step. Photographers contorted their necks and twisted their hands to capture the perfect shot of politicians sporting their practiced smiles, eyes glinting with a predilection for attention. Magistrates wearing grave expressions glided carefully through the crowd, their movements distrustful, like scavengers about to take flight. Vultures, all of them. And all around, the feral presence of countless dignitaries with the shifting facial expressions of those well-seasoned in the art of deception… The Federal Palace had transformed into a menagerie of political beasts of all kinds.
It took me a moment to adjust. In these events, I still felt like an outsider operating on the inside. Not only had I just arrived to the party, quite literally, but I was also used to being on the other side, amidst the reporters and photographers, not the politicians. With this in mind, I weaved through the crowded hall looking for the press area.
Among the motley arrangement of suits and gowns, congressional aides carrying cameras and notepads scurried between the multitude, heels clacking with each step. I heard Elena approach before she had the chance to say hello.
“Hello, my dear! Good to see you, let me show you where the president’s seat is,” she motioned me to follow. I watched herfrom behind, awkwardly fumbling through the crowd until we got to the spot.
“He’s a guest of honor. Front row,” she quipped.
His seat was front and center, looking straight at the podium, and next to the other party president’s seat. Ruling party and opposition, neck in neck, side by side. Political courtesy and symbolism, well-thought out.
I returned to the president, still greeting political acquaintances and signaled him to follow me.
“Here? The front?” He narrowed his beady black eyes in distaste. An unassuming union professor, the president reviled the fanfare and ritual of these events that brought together power-brokers from all walks of public life.
“You’re a distinguished guest. Cuauhtémoc will be speaking, he’ll be in front of you on the stage,” I pointed to our parliamentary coordinator’s nameplate on the podium.
The party president grumbled something inaudible behind his face mask as he took his seat, arms crossed.
“I’ll be around if you need me,” I said as I started making my way toward the press area, where I recognized a familiar white face peeking out through the crowd.
My former boss was standing upright in front of the reporters’ table, holding his phone with both hands, engrossed in whatever he was typing away. He looked up through his glossy brunette curls just in time to catch my gaze.
His eyes broadened, clearly surprised to see me. I grinned behind my face mask; I loved catching people off guard, especially old acquaintances. Nothing like an amicable surprise to keep alive those old bonds.
“Paul! How have you been?”
“Huizar! My man! All good, reporting from the trenches,” he laughed, still clutching his smartphone with both hands in front of his dark blue vest.
An important event no doubt, the chief of the newsroom had to be present, uniformed in the signature Oxford blue of the family company. Not merely working, but on a mission. One could tell by the acuity in his demeanor, by the attentiveness of his dark brown eyes.
“Who’s scheduled to speak, do you know?” I hoped to elicit something interesting in response.
“Jáuregui, certainly. I saw his name first on the roster,” Paul replied more at ease, unclasping his hands. He was referencing César Jáuregui, the boorish Secretary General of Government, a sort of cross between Interior Minister and Secretary of State, though even combined, both titles fell short of his true responsibilities.
“He didn’t go to Washington?” I alluded to the Governor’s surprise visit to the United States. She had announced the secretive trip merely a day prior and took the whole Cabinet with her. Well, almost all.
“They don’t take Jáuregui out on the offensive. He always protects the rearguard,” Paul laughed. “But she did take Serrato,” he winked.
The public nature of our interaction conditioned us to brevity. But that was enough. I’d gotten something interesting back. That was two trips outside of the country with much to uncover if you knew where to look.
On a previous trip to Spain, the Governor had taken no one. She applied a media blackout and disappeared for ten days, right in the middle of a terse and much publicized falling out between President López Obrador and the Spanish government. During the trip, she sent just two official press releases about vague foreign investments while negotiating God-knows-what-else with the Spanish. Except I did know what, in part because I’d been given private information by someone else back then too, much more than today.
It was clear now that the Governor was on the offensive, not quite fishing for tourists or investments. No, that was easy work. And she had taken Luis Serrato, her Chief of Staff, irrevocably in conflict with Jáuregui for control of the administration. Serrato was a Governor-in-Waiting of sorts, clearly in over his head, avaricious and egocentric, but enough of a sycophant to remain on the Governor’s good side. He hadn’t sold her the idea of running for President of Mexico in 2024 — those were her own delusions of grandeur — but he certainly used the urge to his advantage.
And that, of course, was a key piece of the puzzle to understand their trip to Washington.
“We’ll see when they get back,” I muttered to myself aloud.
“What was that?” Paul was craning his neck over his phone again, typing away furiously. He needed to get back to work.
“I said I’ll be right back, I’m going to say hello to some colleagues.”
“Always a pleasure!” he replied, waving a quick goodbye.
A woman’s voice came through the speakers urging attendees to take a seat. I cut my way through the crowd toward the marble stairs, greeting several reporter friends along the way.
The mezzanine was deserted except a lone security guard and a woman watering some plants. I looked down at the gentry assembled below. It was a bird’s-eye view, removed from the multitude and yet somehow intimate at the same time. With their heads exposed, their hands on their laps, stiff bodies arranged awkwardly on uncomfortable chairs, unaware of anyone looking down on them, I sensed they were strangely vulnerable. Too concentrated in their ritual to notice me, they were unsuspecting, I was undisturbed. An outsider’s view from the inside… Perfect. I’d follow the event from up here.
