Loving Pedro Infante

 

by Denise Chávez

COPY: I grew up with Pedro Infante movies. My mother would meet her sister, my Tía Chita, in El Paso on occasional weekends when my Tía Chita would come into town from Redford, Texas, to visit the doctor or do her many mandados, non-stop errands. I was happy to leave Las Cruces behind and pack up an overnight bag to head out for the Big City, El Paso, where my mother, sister and I would check into the McCoy Hotel. The McCoy was the hotel where all our West Texas relatives stayed. The elderly gentleman at the front desk knew my Tía Chita, sayingNice to see you again Miss Madrid.

The McCoy was next to the Plaza theatre in that mysterious Bermuda triangle that was the vortex of energy downtown: the Plaza with its torpid ever-present alligators, the Cortéz Hotel where President Kennedy stayed in the sixties, the Kress Five and Dime Store, with its endless wonders for a girl in her teenage years. Within a few blocks was the White House Department store and the Popular, the Oasis Restaurant and the first cafeteria I ever ate at, whose name I have forgotten. Not far was The Big Boy hamburgers, with their unique barbecue sauce. And somewhere else, in that undefined universe, was some boy or man who was waiting to find me.

I've written about the faded glory of the McCoy and still look longingly at the old place, wondering how so much time could have elapsed since I was a young girl, fearfully entering into those ancient elevators by myself. The later, with great bravado, ranging up and down the various floors, nothing better to do, as my mother and aunt talked non-stop in their two adjoining rooms. I spent a lot of time sitting in the simple, but clean lobby on hot summer days, peering out of the large window that faced the El Paso bridge watching the steady stream of people of all ages going south and north on El Paso street, looking for work, a better life, food or a good bargain at the countless Tiendas de Abarrotes with their Mayoreo y Menudeo signs.

Often, we would head over to the Plaza Theatre to see a movie in the elegant darkness of that impressive theatre with its dark red velvet drapes and long cords that roped off the place where you could enter, here or there. A movie like Imitation of Life with Lana Turner might be playing, or a comedy with Jeff Chandler-one of my favorites. The heroines and heroes in those Plaza movies were always Anglos with a terrible past, trying to find a new life, and not sure quite how to go about it. There was an element of fantasy in that theatre that played itself out constantly. I first saw Walt Disney's "Fantasia" there.

But most of the time we would walk the short distance past the Plaza to the Teatro Colón, three blocks further south, past the chicharrón place with the big windows revealing an enormous number of chickens roasting on a spit near the front door. The smell of the savory food assailed us as we moved down the street to El Colón, a short distance that belied centuries of struggle.

In the Plaza you felt a reverential silence that made you feel a little insecure, as if you were out of your league or maybe had ended up in right place-looking a little shabby-at the wrong time, eyes full of wonder.

It was different at El Colón. Inside that large space, with its gold curlicued ornaments over the stage, a large C in the middle, you felt you were with family. And you were. You were there to laugh, to dream, to scheme. In the darkness everyone longed for a better life, one of passion, of hope, of love. And when you sat in El Colón watching a Pedro Infante movie everything was possible.

I had no idea that those early wistful movie-going years would lead me to write a novel about El Colón and Pedro Infante. All those movies have contributed to the background of my story about loving the wrong person and the difference between the illusion and reality of love.

Teresina "La Tere" Avila is a teacher's aide at Cabritoville Elementary School. She is the secretary of the Pedro Infante Club de Admiradores Norteamericano #256. And she is in love with Lucio Valadez, an insurance salesman in El Paso. What could be more romantic? Or more crazy?

I had a wonderful time writing Loving Pedro Infante. I enjoyed re-visiting the spirit of El Colón and that dream life La Tere experiences when she is in the dark with her hopes for both Pedro and Lucio, her flawed lover.

I hope that readers will take delight in the wonderful legacy of the Mexican cinema, with its passion, fury, anguish and glory, and those unequaled movies of la época de oro, the golden age. Who can forget movies like Nosotros Los Pobres, Ustedes Los Ricos, La Oveja Negra and No Desererás La Mujer de Tu Hijo, or Un Rincón Cerca Del Cielo and Ahora Soy Rico. Pedro Infante made movies for all of us. Each of them was distinct and part of the great legacy of the life of our antepasados/our ancestors whose stories are our own. We enjoyed the comedies like El Inocente or Pablo y Carolina just as much as we did the drama of Pedro1s last powerful movie, Tizoc, for which he won best actor, El Oso de Berlín.

One can only imagine the continued glory that Pedro would have enjoyed if he had not died in the plane crash on April 15, 1957 when he was 40 years old. The 44 years since then have not dimmed the love of Latinos as well as non-Latinos for Pedro Infante, as each year thousands gather at El Panteón de La Republica de La Capital in Méjico City to honor the man of myth who brought us so much joy.

I really can1t remember when the idea of writing about Pedro Infante came to me. I like to think it was in the dark of a movie theatre, perhaps seeing a movie like No Vale Nada La Vida, in which Pedro plays that restless loner who leaves so many lives and loves behind. I have dreamt that, after the movie, I have walked on that lonely beach with him. And another time, I dreamt we danced. I treasure those dreams. They are part of my Pedro story. Each of us has our own 3Pedro2 stories and that is what is so magical for those of us who are real Pedro-files.

Some say Pedro Infante still lives. Some say he was killed in the plane crash. Some say the left side of his face was mutilated and that he now lives in hiding (age 87) in the Sierra Nevadas. Some say he was having an affair with the President of México1s mistress and the Mexican mafia was after him and he had to go into hiding. The stories go on and on. . . I just heard from a friend in El Paso that she knows someone with impeccable credentials who has testified FOR SURE that Pedro did not die on that plane! And not only that, but her friend has lunch with him three or four times a year! Hey, have you heard the story about viejito who lives in Juárez and has a metal plate in his head like Pedro did, the aftermath of his first plane crash? And you know what, that viejito can really sing!