I’m not the murderer— A match burned, lighting up a cigarette and the face surrounding it: haircut like a skinhead, face with shining eyes, silver rings, unshaven cheeks. I think I should explain this right now to avoid confusion. Neither am I the butler. I suppose I should say this right at the beginning, because, you know, in mystery stories the murderer is the butler … or the other way around. I’ve never been a housekeeper, but I have been a goalkeeper, and I sometimes played that position in the soccer games at the local government in La Garrucha. In the beginning I didn’t know what was going on, but every Sunday, after praying at church, there was a big noise among the children and a lot of talking in Tzeltal among the adults. I only understood the part about “Zapatista campamenteros,” and then everyone went out on the playing field. Though it’s not really a playing field. From Monday through Friday it’s the paddock, but on Sundays it’s the soccer field. As if they knew it was Sunday, the cows would move to the neighboring field, leaving us a minefield of cow shit.
