The Cisneros clan has still been prominent in the Valverde area—not one of the “Five Families” that still dominate the valley, but more upper middle class than most of the people who live there—planting cotton and wheat down along the river, and running cattle and horses on the drier plateaus.

Marisol always knew she didn’t want to be a ranchero’s wife, so she studied hard and won a scholarship to the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México in Mexico City. Then she went to Boston University Medical School and did her residencies at Massachusetts General and Hospital México Americano in Guadalajara, specializing in internal medicine.

She married a contract lawyer from Mexico City, moved back here, and went into practice with three partners in lucrative Polanco, although she volunteers time at a clinic in Iztapalapa.

“Rough neighborhood,” Keller says.

“The people look out for me,” Marisol says, “and it’s only on Saturday mornings. The rest of the week, I take care of rich people’s small complaints. But I’ve been talking and talking. What about you?”

He tells her a little more than he did at the Tapias’ party, “confessing” that his job at the embassy is with DEA.

“We know a little bit about drugs in the valley,” Marisol says. “The Juárez people have been operating there for years through the Escajeda family.”

“Is it a problem for you?”

“Not really,” she says. “Over the years, you work out a modus vivendi. You know how it is—you leave them alone, they leave you alone.”

“I work mostly on bilateral policy issues,” Keller says.

“I like the U.S.,” Marisol says. “Let me see, I’ve been to El Paso, of course, San Antonio, New Orleans, and New York. Lived in Boston. Of these, I liked New Orleans the best.”

Why? “I’ve never been.”

“The food. The gardens.”

The divorce, she tells Keller, was more her fault than her husband’s. He thought he knew what he was marrying, and so did she. In all fairness, he gave her the life she thought she wanted—a two-professional household in a trendy neighborhood, successful friends, dinners out at the best places…status.

“He was exactly what I wanted him to be,” Marisol says, “and I punished him for it. Anyway, that’s what my therapist said. I was a real bitch toward the end—I think he was quite relieved when I moved out.

“I always thought that Valverde wasn’t enough for me,” Marisol continues. “Then it turned out that it was Mexico City that wasn’t enough for me. I was bored and boring—I was just a consumer. I need to…I don’t know…contribute something. So what’s your story?”

“The usual cop story,” Keller says. “I was married more to my work than to my wife. You’ve seen it in a dozen movies. It was my fault entirely.”

“Well, we’re both just guilty bastards, aren’t we?”

They finish the linguine.

“Do you want to escape?” Keller asks. “Or would you like dessert?”

“I’d very much like dessert,” Marisol says, “but I’d also like to walk this meal off. Perhaps we could go for a stroll and find a place?”

“Sounds great.”

Keller pays the check, likes that she doesn’t offer to split it, and they walk down to the Pendulo bookstore. He enjoys watching her prowl the aisles, seriously perusing the volumes on the shelves.

She looks good in glasses.

“I love doing this of an evening,” she says. “Looking at books, having a coffee. This is a very nice date, Arturo.”

“I’m glad.”

Marisol picks out a volume of Sor Juana’s poems and they sit at a table in the little café and have coffee and pan dulce.

“There’s a bakery in Valverde,” she says. “Best pan dulce in the world. Maybe I’ll take you there sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

Afterward, they stroll down Avenida Nuevo León.

“This is what they did in the old days,” she explains. “A courting couple would walk on the paseo in the evening. Of course, the watchful tías would walk behind—out of earshot but within sight—to make sure that the boy didn’t try to steal a kiss.”

“Are there any tías behind us now?” Keller asks.

She turns around. “No.”

Keller bends down and kisses her. He’s just about as surprised as she is, and he doesn’t know where he found the nerve to do that.

Marisol’s lips are soft and full and warm.

—

Two days later, Keller answers his phone to hear Yvette Tapia say, “Please tell me that you’re free on Sunday.”

“I’m free on Sunday.”

“Good,” she says. “And do you like polo?”

Keller laughs. Polo? Seriously? “I’ve never been asked that before.”

“Martín plays,” Yvette says, “and we’re getting up a group to go watch and then a little party at our place afterwards. Shall we say Campo Marte at one?”

We shall, Keller thinks.

But he doesn’t know why.

—

Campo Marte sits on a plateau in Chapultepec. A rectangle of green field with the high-rises of the city looming in the background.

Keller sits with Yvette Tapia in the shell of an amphitheater that makes up the spectators’ section. She’s resplendent in a white summer dress that shows off her legs and a white bonnet that sets off her jet-black hair.

The rest of the hundred or so spectators are equally well-heeled—the rich, beautiful people of Mexico City—sipping champagne or mimosas, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres served by white-liveried waiters.

“Explain polo to me,” Keller says to Yvette.

“To the extent that I understand it myself,” she answers. “Martín just took it up about two years ago, but already I think he is quite good, a ‘one’ handicap, whatever that means.”

“Do you own the ponies,” Keller asks, “or rent them like bowling shoes?”

“You’re making fun of us,” Yvette says. “That’s all right. It is a bit much, isn’t it? But Martín’s passionate about it, and a wise wife never denies her husband his passions if she wants to stay his wife for long.”

“And a wise husband?” Keller asks.

“Lo mismo.”

The same.

“Some husbands buy sports cars,” Yvette says, “or planes, or whores for that matter. Martín buys horses, so I’m lucky. The horses are very pretty and we meet some very nice people.”

Which is the point, isn’t it? Keller thinks. Golf and tennis place you in one social circle, polo takes you into another stratum altogether.

Keller sits back and watches the flow of play, a swirl of color with the riders’ bright green or red jerseys, and the horses themselves—varied shades of white and brown and black. He barely understands what’s going on—four riders on each side try to knock the ball into the opponents’ goal—but it’s fast and dramatic.

And dangerous.

The horses bump each other or flat-out collide, and several times—to the gasps of the crowd—it looked like one or both were going down.

Martín does look like a good player, a graceful rider, and aggressive in going after the ball. Keller learns that he’s a “number two” on his team, responsible for feeding passes to the leading scorer and also for defense. It’s the most “tactical” role on the team, Yvette tells Keller, who’s not surprised.

The score is tied 4–4 at the end of two chukkers—halftime.

Yvette stands up. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a tradition.”

With the rest of the crowd they walk onto the playing field for the “divot-stamping,” replacing the sod that the horses’ hooves kicked up. Everyone does it to make the field clean and safe for the second half, but also to socialize.

Yvette introduces him.

Keller meets bankers and their wives, diplomats and their wives, he meets Laura Amaro.

Laura and Yvette are good friends.

“Where is your husband today?” Yvette asks.

“Working.”

“Poor man.”

“The president keeps him busy.” She turns to Keller. “My husband, Benjamín, works in the administration.”