Casi di Nova

By Pablo Zaragoza

In the grimy Red Light District of La Zona, Mexico, Casanova, a bumbling cantina owner, sets out to transform his border town and change the lives of its residents. Despite warnings from friends, he embarks on his mission in an unorthodox way, luring vulnerable American women to send money in exchange for long distance love. As his bank account grows and life for the town dramatically improves, will his unwitting benefactors discover his scam? What measures will they take to recoup their losses?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pablo Zaragoza
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393353508

Book preview

Pablo Omar Zaragoza

Susan Giffin, Co-Author

Table of Contents

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ALSO BY PABLO ZARAGOZA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

I’ve watched my son struggle since my death. He’s a fine man, but his heart was never in La Zona. I grew up and worked there, giving myself to men for a price, but I amassed no wealth because I never had a man to protect me. When my son was in my belly, I started the restaurant which I left to him when I passed.

His father always wanted to make me an honest woman, but I wasn’t about to dishonor him. He, like his father, is a good man, looking after him, making sure he doesn’t stray from the right path. He keeps an eye on him for me, and I try to make sure that he stays true to his namesake, Giacomo Casanova, the great Latin lover. But, in that, he falls short of the mark. He’s more like me than I will admit, wanting to change the world, but he lacks the tools to do much about it.

So, I stand each day in front of the Virgin of Guadalupe, hoping that she will hear my petition. She smiles at me, knowing what is in a mother’s heart because she too is a mother. She suffered at the foot of the cross, like I suffered whenever Casi fell and hurt his knee or was bullied in school. Now, from up here, I protect him in other ways, but the world is a cruel place. The same bullies and users are always trying to take advantage of him.

I told his father before I died that I didn’t want our son to work in the trade as a pimp or drug runner. I wanted him to have a respectable trade, but he stayed tied to the restaurant. Nuevo Laredo isn’t about fine dining; it’s about tits and asses that the nice young men from Laredo, Texas, want and can’t get at home. A respectable place is what I tried to run, but there has to be a little showbiz to bring the customers through the door, and so I added the dancers when the tacos and burritos weren’t enough. It isn’t easy for a woman in a town like this to put food on the table. I don’t regret it. I had fun in my day, and when the Grim Reaper came for me, I had done everything I could possibly do, except make sure that Casi wouldn’t have to struggle.

Even in death, we pray for those that we left behind. In Purgatory, that’s all we do. It helps us get closer to God, and it helps the families we leave behind. There is a blue flame that consumes us in this place. At times, it hurts, especially when we see our loved ones back home. But the pain reminds us to pray not only for our redemption but for that of our loved ones, too.

So, as the sun rises in Nuevo Laredo, I stand before the Virgin, praying for Casi, his father, and that woman who loves my son. I pray that they will find their way. There are so many of us praying, millions upon millions of us petitioning every day.

When I was alive, I didn’t believe in this place, didn’t believe in God because life was so hard. Even those who prayed didn’t do any better than I did. I don’t know why they let me in here. I guess that all my good deeds for those suffering on Earth is worth something up here—the food I handed out to whores when their men took their money and drank it all, or the ice packs and stitches I paid for when they got beat up.

It hurts me to see Casi still there, trying so hard to be a good man inside a pit of vipers. People that make fun of him, what he wears, how he walks, not appreciating the things he does for them each and every day. If they come to the door, he will always feed them, and when they don’t have their rent, he takes food out of his mouth, so they can have a roof over their heads. But they taunt him as he comes to work every day. He walks gingerly toward the entrance to that loser of a city. There is a sign: LA ZONA.

Aye, Dios mio! He’s talking to himself again as if he were talking to me, but I can’t answer him. I can’t say how much I miss him and that I’m always close to him.

My son, stop this because the people on the street will think you’re crazy and make fun of you. Blessed Mother, watch over him. Aye, mi hijo (my son), stop!

CHAPTER ONE

I am Giacomo Casanova Sanchez. I will live up to my namesake today and use my powers to help... I am a stout man of medium height. As I walk in the sun toward my small dusty town, I have to walk on the side of the road, a dirt road without a paved sidewalk. Up ahead is a barbed wire fence around the field where animal graze, but the grass has dried up. There hasn’t been a drop of rain for over a month. I know that I’m not an exceptionally handsome man, but I have a brain, I have ambition, and, most of all, I have hope.

As I am saying this to myself—a devotion I’ve been doing for years now—a car passes by me with young women mooning me: my first indignity of the day. Why does this happen to me? I treat them with respect. When they can’t pay, I tear up the bill at the restaurant, and still they give me this display. Is it out of pity? Do they think that I have not seen an ass in a long time? Or is it an attempt to humiliate me, to show me that I am an ass?

This is how each day has started for me since my mother left me alone. Those wrinkled brown asses fly by as they go to work. I don’t shout at them or raise my fist in anger because it would give them power over me, and I don’t want to start the day in anger. Anger eats away at us and makes us no better than those that make us angry. Getting even is only a waste of energy, and I have no energy to waste.

Yolanda, a forty-year-old prostitute, heavily made up with bright blue eye shadow and thick mascara, yells from the driver’s side. Not in your dreams, Sanchez, not in your dreams.

I could have yelled that I live my dream each day standing up and not on my back in a dark room with smelly half-drunk cowboys who throw a few dollars on the nightstand, never to see the whore again. No, I keep walking toward town, toward my work.

As the car speeds by, it hits a puddle of stagnant water which splatters me. The thick putrid water covers my face. I take my handkerchief and wipe the mud from my eyes and ask the heavens why. It hasn’t rained, and yet here is this puddle from watering the animals, which has drenched me. I can hear the women laughing at me. The cackling lingers, as one of the women shoots me the bird.

I can’t let them win. I will make it through this day, and it will be glorious. I must believe, so let me finish my mantra, I, Giacomo Casanova Sanchez, and like my namesake, I’ve been a lawyer, clergyman, military officer, violinist, con man, pimp, gourmand, dancer, businessman, diplomat, spy, politician, medic, mathematician, social philosopher, cabalist, playwright, and writer.

I walk with my eyes closed because the sun bothers me, and I know my way to the restaurant. Even though I know my way, I slip and fall on top of a deposit left by the town’s donkey on the side of the road. I open my eyes and see that my hands and clothes are covered in filthy excrement.

The donkey comes over to the fence, braying, laughing at me. He’s saying to himself, ‘Casanova, you are a fool A fool to believe that you will ever be more than you are right now, a little fat man without a future. Hope is for fools, the ignorant who cling to prayers, devotional candles, and dreams. Yet each day, they suffer the abuse of those around him.’ The donkey turns around, and as he does, he lets out a big fart in my face.

I try to stand, but it is difficult with donkey doo everywhere, including all over my shoes, a nice pair of leather shoes I bought in Laredo on the American side. I finally manage to stand, to keep walking. These minor inconveniences are just that, distractions. What did mother use to say about mierda? ‘If it falls on you, a blessing will come soon,’ but was that only with bird droppings?

The rest of the day will go better. Please, dear God, make the rest of the day better. I’ll scrape the dirt from my shoes and pray that I won’t have another accident.

By now, the donkey has returned to his pasture. I square myself in front of him, speaking as if he understands, "Laugh at me all you want, your stupid animal. I suggest you move to another town before they put you in the sex show tonight for the bitchy gringo tourists that come by bus. I may just send your pathetic carcass to the glue factory. Hijo do puta!" I shake my fist at him, and he laughs at me some more, he goes to a tree in the field to enjoy the shade. I want to throw a rock at the animal, but he’s too far away.

I walk more briskly to the gate that separates La Zona from the other parts of Nuevo Laredo. There they are: the welcoming committee of the ladies of the night, the younger ones closer to the entrance. Their outburst of laughter upon seeing me hurts, but what can I do? I look ridiculous, all covered in filth.

Esperanza is the first to speak. Ah, Dios mio, Casi. You stink. You had no soap at the house this morning or did you fart from that terrible food you make? Esperanza is a beautiful raven-haired woman in her early twenties. The others look up to her because her man doesn’t bother her, doesn’t beat her. She puts her nose up in the air and pinches it.

I can’t hold back. I need to say something. Just a minor setback. I will be fine. How’s business?

Esperanza answers in her usual arrogance, as if she runs the street, It’s okay, two since 7:00 this morning. They were little gringo puppies who came before they even penetrated me. What you call that, pre-mental anxiety?

I chuckle. That’s premature ejaculation.

I don’t know what the fuck you call it, but it was premature, all right, just like you! I would have done a third, but he smelled like you, so I said no.

Gloria comes over with her Miss Clairol red hair and see-through blouse. He didn’t smell all that bad, Esperanza. Casi here smells and looks far worse. Casi, did you bathe in shit this morning or what? Yes, I think you did, and you used Ode de Urine as a cologne.

The other women laugh at me, but I must get to the restaurant. I hold my head up high. I will not allow these harpies to ruin my day. I will not let anything ruin my day because there is something great in store for me today; I can feel it. I move down the street and sense the eyes of women, transvestites, and homosexuals plying their trade, making faces at me as I pass them. They wrinkle their nose and turn away in disgust, as if they had never had a misfortune, as if bird droppings had never fallen on them or a car splash them. Life is filled with accidents and misfortunes. I just happened to get my share of them today. Finally, I turn onto my side street, where I see my sign:

La Paloma (The Dove)

Fine Mexican American Cuisine

It’s a simple painted sign. One day, I will have one of those big neon signs with multiple colors flashing La Paloma, and it will bring in more customers. It will happen. I know it will happen.

CHAPTER TWO

Si a tu ventana llega una paloma.

Tratala con carino que es mi persona

Cuentale tus amores bien de mi vida

Coronala de flores que es cosa mia.

(If a dove comes to your window.

If a dove reaches your window

Treat her with affection that is my person.

Tell your loves well of my life.

Wreath of flowers that is my thing)

My restaurant is an adobe building with a red tile roof. I can hear music from the jukebox, even this early in the morning. Well, let me build up my courage to walk inside with crap all over myself. The doors are always open here. Who am I kidding? La Paloma’s entrance is a multicolored beaded curtain. At night, since I can’t afford a regular door, I put a thick wooden board to cover the entrance.

Recently, we have had to stay open all night in order to make ends meet. The Ranchero music, Las Tres Mujeres, is blaring from the jukebox. Why can’t they play something different, anything but this junk polka music?

I wave at the two tired women dancing on top of old tables, which rest on a dirt floor, making them not very sturdy. The dancers are moving to the music but not very enthusiastically. They wear pasties to cover their nipples, but gravity has taken its toll on both. One dancer has a small belly which hangs over her panties. It wiggles like gelatin and sports a shiny bellybutton ring. The belly on the other woman is tighter, but the wrinkles on her face show that she has aged too soon.

The place is in semi-darkness. The bar in the back has shelves of multi-colored bottles of various sizes. There are three teenagers from Laredo, passed out in a booth after spending their night whoring and then crashing here before going back home across the border. There are three half-asleep customers settled at tables.

Ramon, the bartender, a slim, older gentleman with a handlebar mustache and wearing a stained apron, waits, as I come closer. He shows his ready smile on his tanned leathery face. He’s always been with me. After Mami died, he helped sometimes beyond what he should have done. Even before Mami passed, he helped her in every way he could. He built the bar by hand, sanding the wood, varnishing the surfaces, assembling the pieces, selecting the stools. Ramon built half of this place, and when Mami passed, he cried as if she had been a family member. From that day on, he has never left La Paloma, never asked to be paid, but he is the first one that I pay.

Maria, my waitress and my love, stands next to Ramon. Thirty-something, she is more than I deserve. She’s tall with raven hair tied into two enormous pigtails which hang on either side of her head, olive skin, and almond eyes. Her smile is contagious. She wears an Indian peasant outfit with a long colorful skirt and yellow top, faded from age. I wish we made enough to buy her a new outfit.

We barely scrape by these days. I am ashamed of the fine Mexican cuisine we advertise. I would fare better at Taco Bell. We just don’t have the clientele that requests authentic Mexican food. All they want is what Americans think is Mexican.

Maria’s white cloth apron is stained. Why is everything around me dirty, corrupted? Why? I look at Maria and bow my head. She comes over and stands two feet away. She shakes her head in disapproval.

Did Juana give you her special of the month, when she craps on you before having sex?

No, no, heaven forbid! I haven’t seen crazy Juana in months, only when she comes here. This today was only a minor accident while I was on my way. That bastard donkey seems to have it out for me. I don’t know why the beast doesn’t like me. It is always doing something and then laughing at me.

Get him cleaned up, Maria, says Ramon. He’s already making my nostrils cry for relief.

I don’t know why that animal has it in for me. I feed him, and I even walk on the other side of the street to avoid contact with him, but he just finds a way to get me.

Yes, for you it was a minor accident, said Ramon, but now the restaurant smells like a barn. What will the customers think? Look at those three men at the table, one still sleeping and the other two awake and staring at you.

Ah, yes, we mustn’t upset the early morning crowd of people. Manure smell is a small problem, which I’ll take care of in a minute.

Ramon watches my back. I remember as a child, I would hear him cheering me on at soccer games. After Mami died, he helped me with my homework, made sure I went to school with a good breakfast, and had a decent dinner at night.

Felicidad, the cleaning woman, took care of the apartment above the restaurant, making sure she mopped the floors, put fresh sheets on the bed, and gave me clean clothes to wear. Each morning, Ramon would walk me to school, making sure that I would arrive safely. I was the only child who had someone accompany them to school.

Maria grabs me by the hand and leads me out of the room, as Ramon takes out a can of air freshener and sprays the bar area.

As we walk to the kitchen, Maria looks at me. Minor? If you call smelling like crap and being covered everywhere with mud minor, I pray to the Blessed Virgin I never see what you consider to be major.

I’m not going to let this discourage me because I am…

Yes, we all know that you are Giacomo Casanova Sanchez, and that your mother named you this because Clara the fortuneteller told her that one day, you would be a famous lover like Casanova. Well, how has that gone for you?

I’ve had some minor setbacks in the past, but everything is about to change. I can feel it, Maria.

You have been arrested for pretending to be a doctor and getting half of the population sick with that stuff you made in your garage. All because you had a vision, a voice that told you to make that awful smiling stuff.

The excesses of youth. I received that formula from an angel in an inspirational dream. I misinterpreted the amounts of the formula, and the results were not what I expected.

Maria, shaking her head, says, Like the time you pretended to be a lawyer, and the cartel boys wanted to shoot your ass off.

It was a disagreement among friends, I explain.

As they go through the door, Ramon follows them into the kitchen and says, Youth? Last year you were no spring chicken, and you had a plan to win the lottery. How did that go’, my love?

A minor miscalculation.

A six-thousand-dollar setback is not minor, Maria argues. "That’s a year’s salary for