The center of Miraverde is divided into five neighborhoods. Needless to say, these were the first neighborhoods in the city. The ones that started it all. They're not as big as the rest. You know the type—narrow streets, small squares with wrought iron benches, parks where the light seems filtered through another era. It's the kind of cityscape that once tried to look like Europe and almost pulled it off. Almost. The neighborhoods are: Las Luces, Bohemio, La Magdalena, Isla Rue, and Alcanfores. Names that sound like old novels or cheap perfumes, depending on who's saying them. Over the past centuries, people of all kinds have lived here.
Before the First World War, Las Luces and Isla Rue were sacred ground for the Verdian aristocracy. (Yeah, Verdian, that's what you call anything from Miraverde.) A ridiculous aristocracy that strutted around pretending to be highborn, and didn't even know how to play mus or sueca. This was the class that claimed to be direct descendants of the Spanish or Portuguese crowns, depending on the surname they got stuck with at birth—even if, in reality, their ancestors were backwater hicks who had no idea who the hell the king was or where exactly Madrid or Lisbon even were when they boarded the ship. On the other hand, Bohemio and La Magdalena were middle class. The old kind of middle class: civil servants, teachers, postal clerks who acted like they were running the whole country, failed poets who threatened to write a novel they'd never actually write, mediocre painters who thought they were geniuses because they quoted Rubén Darío, smoked pipes, and name-dropped Schopenhauer without having read a single word. And lastly, Alcanfores. The poor neighborhood. Houses packed together like rotting teeth, alleys where the dogs had names and character, the smell of stew and coal from dawn till dusk, and old women who knew more about politics—and other people's misfortunes—than any minister with a chest full of medals. Back then, for some absurd reason, most ministers were washed-up generals who couldn't have won a war even if the enemy had handed them the damn victory on a silver platter. You know, like any good-for-nothing who decides to make a career as an officer in the armed forces, they were idiots.
But everything changed when the city started to grow—or "expand," as those pompous architects like to say. The center was taken over by the upper class, the upper-middle class, and those new fortunes that needed a neocolonial facade to hang their original paintings acquired through the black market and imported Lyon tapestries. The rest of the people, of course, were pushed to the north. Not with bayonets or decrees. Much more refined than that: by raising rents, charging for the shade of the trees, turning life into a luxury only the well-born heirs and the opportunistic capitalist predators could afford. And so, Bohemio, La Magdalena, and even Alcanfores went up in rank. They reached the same status as Las Luces and Isla Rue. They became classy neighborhoods. Shorthand for money. For elegance. But then the years go by. And nothing lasts forever. The migration comes.
"Goddamn world wars! But also, thank God for them," said old Baltasar Almeida y Figueredo, patriarch of the Almeida y Figueredo family, a fat Verdian businessman, a self-made man—as they love to say about those born already smelling of fine leather. And he added, with his cognac glass and his proud belly: "War always brings money. For the countries that aren't in it. Or those that get involved just enough to profit. I made a killing in the First. And in the Second too. Selling what the Europeans couldn't make anymore. And making what was needed to keep the carnage going. I made money on both sides. That's called having a predator's soul. Being the hammer. Not the nail." And then, with a trace of bitterness: "But of course, there's always something that ruins the party. And who are the joy killers? Those people who lose everything. Those who are left without a country, without bread, without teeth. And they come here. Hungry. Filthy. And screwing like rabbits. All of them with ten kids. Fertile bastards, with wives who look like factories. They get on a boat full of hope or whatever. What do I know? I've never been poor. Don't ask a lion to think like a zebra. And so, they arrived. To Laquinta, to Saint-Capriano, to Cala du Loup, to Bravestone, to Sun Hueso, to Valgardo. Some stayed. Some didn't. A lot of them got the word: 'Miraverde. That's where the good life is.' And they came. Thinking that here, houses and coins were handed out like communion wafers. And of course, when they saw that no, that this wasn't paradise, they didn't leave. They stayed. They settled. 'Well, since we're here, let's be poor here.' And that's when the plague started. My beloved neighborhoods in the center, taken over. We had to flee. And we moved southeast. And we founded new neighborhoods. Clean neighborhoods. Our neighborhoods. And this time, no one will kick us out. I'm old now. But my bloodline isn't. My kids and my grandkids. And I've made it damn clear to them. I told them: if a third world war comes and New Brisenia stays out of the fight, don't let them push you out again. We need laws. Tough laws. No migrant carrion. Even if they're starving to death on a boat off the coast. Never again. Carrion isn't welcome in this country." That Baltasar was Joaquín's great-grandfather. The same Joaquín who, in 2005, is riding inside a Porsche with his buddy Tato Martins, the car sliding through the city streets like a bullet. But we'll get back to those boys later. Let's stick to the story of Miraverde's center for now.
The European wars brought migrants. Lots of them. And as the logic of the world dictates, they first ended up where no one wanted to live: La Inmaculada and La Concepción, northern neighborhoods, right next to the center, smelling like sawdust and prayers. Then they started to spread. They took over Alcanfores—it was just a matter of time—then La Magdalena, later Bohemio, and finally, they set foot in Isla Rue. The only neighborhood that didn't fully fall into the hands of the new Verdians was Las Luces, which held its ground thanks to the fierce pride of its residents. People convinced that being born in Las Luces is like being born in Florence with a double-barreled surname. A beautiful neighborhood, if you ask me: theaters, cafés with waiters in white gloves, restaurants where the servers knew how to keep their mouths shut and the pianists actually knew how to play. And so, the center became a little Europe. Languages from everywhere. A Tower of Babel with a Verdian accent. And of course, time goes by. Migrants put down roots, open businesses, have kids. And now they're the ones who don't want migrants. Now they feel like they own the city. True Verdians. And they don't want more people coming in to ruin their little conquered paradise. They don't want migrant trash. Yeah, that's what they call the people coming in from other countries. People like their grandparents. Even their parents—who also came to New Brisenia running from misery. "Migrants come here to steal. To take our jobs. To kill. To rape our pretty women. And we don't need more problems. We've got enough with the ones our own people cause," they say. And they're not lying. Because there are problems. Plenty. The center has become a hotbed of crime, drugs, alcoholism, prostitution, and sordidness—degradations that would leave even the worst degenerates speechless. The whole package. The seventies and eighties, in particular, were a free-for-all. You could stab someone in an alley and walk away whistling.
An old woman with her knee-highs sagging around her ankles goes down to throw out the trash and finds a corpse in the dumpster. The bag slips from her hand. She covers her eyes. Screams. Screams like screaming could erase what she just saw.
And from a balcony, someone yells at the top of their lungs:
"Shut up, you old hag!"
That's how things are. Chaos. Disorder. And no, there's no Charles Bronson coming to clean up the streets. Nobody's shooting for justice. They're all shooting to protect what's theirs. Or to take what isn't. And that's how it stays. Until the nineties roll in.
In the late eighties, the sharp boys put their game faces on. They started buying up entire buildings in the center for next to nothing. What's worth millions today, they snapped up for chump change. They weren't idiots. They didn't roll dice. They didn't believe in pipe dreams or kumbaya bullshit. They knew. They saw it coming a mile away. And they moved. Fast. Cold. Calculated. They didn't throw money around like clueless MBAs jerking off to their own spreadsheets. Not them. They were Gordon Gekko clones, Verdian accents, slicked-back hair, gold watches, numbered accounts in Switzerland. And a mantra tattooed on their souls: greed is good if you know how to work it. And oh, did they work it.
And then there are the suckers. The people from the neighborhood. Poor folks. Lower middle class. The usual losers. The punching bags. The ones who never throw a punch. And, like always, they had no clue what was being cooked up. They lived in their grimy little bubble, stuck between a static-filled TV and a pot of burnt rice. They never see the scam coming. Never spot the hustle. Never realize the ground they're sweeping is already being sold out from under them. And let's not sugarcoat it: if they get fucked—and without lube—it's because they showed up with their pants down, their dignity in tatters, and their heads stuffed inside a plastic grocery bag.
And then, the black magic kicks in. The slick bastards, in cahoots with city hall, flashing fake smiles and perfectly pressed suits, set their master plan in motion: harass, evict, polish up, and flip. All wrapped up in pretty little names. They call it revitalization. They call it urban renewal. They call it "the new cosmopolitan life." But you and I know what it's really called: GENTRIFICATION! In all caps. With champagne. And the poor packed up and shipped off to the outskirts like old, busted furniture.
The nineties roll in like a fairy godmother in a power suit: click, click, click with the heels, and suddenly, ruins become lofts, shitholes turn into artisanal cafés. Everything starts changing again. Las Luces goes back to being high-class in the blink of an eye. Then Isla Rue falls. Then Bohemio. Then La Magdalena. And finally, Alcanfores. The center is reborn—but not for everyone. It's reborn the way cities are reborn in postcards: pretty on the outside, untouchable on the inside—unless you can pay the price. Now it's upper-middle-class territory and up—all the way to wannabe oligarchs. Sunday brunches, gluten intolerance, and dogs in designer coats. They open boutiques selling ripped T-shirts for three hundred bucks. Fancy restaurants where a truffle risotto costs as much as a set of dentures. Art galleries with ridiculous names, as if bad taste were part of the concept. And that old warehouse where the Russian mob used to chop people up? Now it's a cultural center. With conceptual art exhibitions. Once, they hung used tampons under red lights and called it "Sacred Pain." Standing ovation. And of course, the rich-kid universities don't miss a beat. They move in, refurbish old buildings, and set up their shrines to ego: schools of music, acting, sculpture, literature, painting, design, photography, dance, film studies... All that crap rich kids study so they never have to get a real job.
And then, the nineties bow out under warm lights and promises of an even brighter future. And the 2000s roll in. No war, no crisis, no inflation—or so say the technocrats with their Excel faces. But suddenly, everything, absolutely everything, costs twice as much. Or three times. Or whatever some asshole decides to slap on the price tag. Take two pounds of bananas, for example. Bananas, for fuck's sake. The most basic fruit on the planet. Suddenly, they cost as much as two pounds of filet mignon just because they've got a sticker that says "organic" and were picked by barefoot cooperatives on a sustainable farm in the Amazon jungle. And people pay it. And they smile. And they blog about it. And they tell the story over dinner like they just got back from Tibet. The city isn't a city anymore. It's a catalog. And anyone who doesn't get that? Out.
And there they are—our protagonists: Joaquín Almeida y Figueredo and Tato Martins. Fifteen years old. Can't grow a single fucking beard hair, but they feel hard. Hard like a music video. Hard like a magazine cover. Here comes Daddy Martins's Porsche 911. All music. All volume. Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes blasting like it's the national anthem of the new empire. Boom. Boom. Boom. They roll into the center of Miraverde like they own the place. And in a way, they do. Because princes don't conquer—they inherit. And these two have inherited the world, all wrapped up with a bow and the scent of brand-new car interiors.