Las Catrinas
Their laughter came before they did. It was sharp and foreign against the hush of candles and prayer. He felt it ricochet off the stone walls and rush back at them, making him wince at its harshness. But the light here was perfect, gold leaking out of every flame, glowing even with the sun still in the sky, so he didn’t give it a second thought.
Locals looked up at them, their prayers unbroken, unfaltering, as they watched them enter. For a brief moment, he thought he heard their voices in the wax dripping and petals shifting beneath his feet. Then Mads broke through the archway, bright in her white linen, the kind of crisp outfit no one actually wore in November.
“Get a picture of me in front of this one!” she called as she rushed toward a tombstone buried beneath marigolds.
“Oh, dude, those candles give you the perfect glow,” Dan said, stepping into the narrow space between graves. His hands were unsteady as he crouched, squatted, and stood on tiptoes, looking for the perfect angle.
“Move left a little,” he muttered.
“Getting all this, Mark?” Dan shouted back.
A quick thumbs-up was the response he got. Mark’s head had not lifted up from the camera viewfinder since he took the first steps into the cemetery. He knew that looking up or speaking would break the rhythm, break the spell.
His lens zoomed past them, panning slowly, inhaling through sight the altars: the shimmer of sugar skulls, the still bowls of mole, the halo of smoke curling upward like breath. Then he saw her sitting near the cemetery’s edge. She wore her hair in a long braid, the silver hair tied with two ribbons at the end. Draped across her shoulders, she wore a rebozo, striped in faded pinks and grays. Her hands tore marigolds from their stems and crushed them, scattering the petals across the ground. Her lips moved, but not in prayer or conversation; she was singing.
Mark adjusted the focus and held his breath. “So raw,” he whispered. “So authentic.”
The screen went black as Dan walked right in front of it. “What the hell are you even looking at, man?”
Mark looked up at him, hand clutching the camera too tightly. “You ruined it.” Heat climbed his neck. “She was perfect—the lighting, her expression, the background—everything!”
Dan laughed loudly and unbothered. “Plenty of other things to shoot than some old grandma.”
Mads snorted without looking up from her phone. “Yeah, chill. You don’t have to get all artsy about it.”
They didn’t get it. They never did. He wondered why he agreed to come along with them, as he turned away, muttering, “You have no vision.” He was going to get his shot.
She looked smaller up close, but her dark eyes were sharp as she watched him get closer. Mark smiled the way he’d been taught to on shoots, showing enough teeth to be polite but also be able to bite. “Señora?” he said, pointing to the petals, miming the gesture. “Otra vez? One more time?”
She said nothing, her expression unchanged.
He crouched, reenacting the motion in full, scooping up petals and letting them fall. They scattered wrong, uneven, spilling into plates of food and covering faces in frames. He smiled again, but the politeness in it was wearing away, showing the frustration that was mounting underneath.
Her face changed, then. Her brows furrowed, and her sharp eyes became daggers. She rose so suddenly that he rocked back on his heels, catching himself at the last second before crushing her ofrendas. She said something in Spanish too fast that it all sounded like one long word. She shooed him with the end of the rebozo, the breeze of it causing golden petals to alight and dance around him like tiny concheros.
He pushed himself off his heels and onto his knees, weighed down by the camera and all its gear.
“Wait, I just—”
She called out over her shoulder, and a boy appeared, no older than ten. They spoke in hurried whispers, her hands pointing at him emphatically, before the boy turned to him.
“She says you go,” the child said softly, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “She doesn’t want you here.”
He tried smiling again, but his lips twitched. “Just one more time. Ask her, please. The thing with the flowers and the singing. It’s beautiful. I’ll pay.”
The boy hesitated, and Mark’s lips pulled a little farther across his face. He knew money spoke in ways he sometimes lacked the eloquence to express. The little boy turned to the woman again and translated. He heard him say, ‘pagar,’ and instinctively recognized it, his hand moving toward his wallet.
But the old woman only shook her head, repeating the same sweeping motion.
“She says no.” This time, the boy’s eyes met his, no timidity in them.
“Pago bien,” Mark clumsily uttered the little Spanish he knew, opening his wallet so the bills inside were visible.
The woman stopped mid-sweep, and Mark’s grin spread to his ears, all teeth.
He felt Dan’s presence behind him, heavy steps, the obnoxious mocking chuckle that grated on his nerves.
“Come on, man, she’s not into it. Leave the abuela alone.”
He hadn’t traveled two thousand miles to a backwater town for B-roll of bread and candles. That content wouldn’t be enough for the sponsors. Mark reached down again, scooping a handful of petals into his clammy hand. Before he could drop them, her hand clamped around his wrist. It came so fast he hadn’t even seen when she had moved, but the grip was strong, too strong to belong to her small frame. The air around them seemed to tighten.
She leaned down and spoke softly, a string of sounds that might have been a lullaby, if he hadn’t felt the menace that wove through it. The vibration of it crept up his arm, cold as the wind that hissed through the graveyard. He pulled his arm away, but only managed to get it back when she released it. The boy’s voice came next, it was too low for someone so young: “The dead are not a spectacle.” His eyes glared at them, “Leave us.”
Mark rubbed his wrist; it still tingled where her fingers had been. The other two said nothing as dozens of eyes followed them as they exited.
“That was so awkward,” Dan said finally, forcing a laugh that sounded rehearsed, as if practiced for moments like this to cut the tension, but it didn’t quite land. Mads joined him anyway, half-heartedly, already checking her photos on her phone again.
“Let’s grab something to eat. All that food in there made me hungry.” Dan suggested, lifting his shirt and rubbing his stomach to emphasize his hunger. Mark knew it was done to show off his abs. A group of women making their way to the cemetery turned away, blushing as they caught sight of it.
“You’re disgusting,” Mads seethed. She never looked up from her phone, unless Dan was flirting; all his other behavior was invisible to her.
There were not many dinner offerings in such a small town. Mads didn’t like how one of the restaurants looked, Dan couldn’t eat anything from another, and Mark didn’t feel safe setting his equipment down in the last place they visited.
“There’s a taco stand up there,” Mark pointed to an intersection. An older gentleman stood next to a trompo, slicing pieces of meat and pineapple over tortillas.
“We can get tacos anywhere,” Mads argued, “We need to eat something more authentic, more photogenic; no one wants to look at another photo of tacos.” Her voice rose on the last word, nasally, mimicking the local accent.
Mark agreed that tacos were pretty basic, but it was also a safe option.
“It’s been hours since we ate,” Dan attempted to talk some sense into Mads. “And it’s also getting late. We still have to paint our faces, right, Mark?” He shot Mark a desperate look, one that blended hunger with exasperation and fatigue.
“He’s right, face painting is a must for your photos and videos,” Mark added, knowing exactly what to say to get Mads to relent.
Mads pouted and crossed her arms across her chest, her eyes fluttering half closed, “You better take the best pictures you’ve ever taken.”
The taco stand’s grill was old, with perfect circular stains that told its age like tree trunks. If it wasn’t for the savory, smoky scent of the meat and the sweet, refreshing smell of pineapples, they might have just kept walking past it. The taquero smiled at them, his face deeply tanned and wrinkled, sweat collecting in the creased skin.
“¿Cuántos les doy, amigos?”
“Hola,” Dan answered, his smile as wide as the taqueros.
“They only serve one type of taco, here,” Mark deduced as he saw no other raw meats.
“That’s fine,” Dan answered quickly and loudly enough to drown out whatever complaint Mads was going to let loose. “They’ve got this rotating meat stuff back home; we’ve definitely had it before.”
“Are you sure?” Mads dragged her words, glaring up at Dan.
“Yes, they’re umm…” Dan closed his eyes, searching for the words, “al pastor tacos,” he finally said, butchering all three words.
“Si, al pastor,” the taquero repeated enthusiastically.
“I’ll have five,” Dan put up his hand and spread his fingers to show how many he wanted. The taquero pulled out ten small tortillas and placed them on top of the grill. He looked toward Mark and Mads, patiently awaiting their order, with a smile still on his face.
It was a genuine smile, one that showed all teeth, but no threat. The kind that Mark could not pull off when speaking to clients, he lacked the sincerity in what he did, and the taquero did not. He thoroughly enjoyed what he did, and it made Mark feel small and uneasy.
“Tres,” Mark put three fingers, and the taquero added six more tortillas to the grill.
“Two,” Mads added, but kept her arms folded.
The taquero looked to Dan and Mark for clarification. Mark looked away, the kindness in the taquero’s eyes making him uncomfortable. Dan put up two fingers, and four more tortillas went on the grill.
“Babe, why are you being like this?” Dan bent his face low to give Mads a peck on the cheek. But she pulled away.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” She huffed, tightening her arms around herself, “If you’re in the food industry, learn numbers in English, so that you can take orders. How hard is it to learn numbers?”
The taquero moved as if the trompo were alive, the knife gliding through its flesh in swift, certain strokes. Shavings of meat dropped neatly onto the warm tortillas, obedient to some invisible rhythm. When he sliced the pineapple, the chunks fell in golden pieces that seemed to find their place by instinct. Mark watched through his camera, struck by how effortless it looked; how human hands could make a small ritual out of hunger.
The streets grew louder as they waited for the rest of the tacos. People walked past them, many carrying small stools and baskets that clinked with bottles of tequila stuffed amongst marigolds, pan de muerto, or other treats. Then came bursts of laughter, deep belly laughs that were warm and comforting. It came from the mouths of small children running back and forth, playing in between the more solemn elders. And from families walking together, their conversations animated and lively as they met others who joined their walk toward the cemetery. Many of them had painted faces, beautifully ornate and colorful faces that resembled the sugar skulls they had seen on altars around town.
Mark reflexively began taking photos, his hands knowing exactly how many times to rotate the lens and when to hold the shutter down for the best shot. The taquero held his plate of tacos with that patient smile.
“Where are we going to get our faces painted?” Mads asked impatiently.
“There’s gotta be a ton of places nearby.” Dan opined with a mouthful, pointing with a taco in hand at the growing number of painted townsfolk.
Mads turned to the taquero, speaking very slowly, “Face paint. Where?” She pointed to her face and then that of a passerby with makeup.
“Las catrinas,” He spoke calmly, gently, his lips perpetually curved upward even in conversation.
Mark recognized the word, remembered seeing it written on a website when planning the trip, “Si, we want catrinas.”
“Un momento,” the taquero walked over to a stall that was still selling bundles of marigolds. He came back with a young girl with her face half-painted and a crown of marigolds and carnations on her head.
“Seriously, another kid,” Mads quipped, snorting as the young girl looked up at them with eyes too sharp for a face so young.
“You want paint catrinas?” She asked, the words clumsily handled by her tongue.
“Yes, but not like yours,” Mads laughed loudly, grating against everyone present. She stopped when no one else joined her. “A full face, like them,” she pointed to two people coming down the street. They were dressed well, one in a red dress, the other in a black suit, both belonging to a different era. Their makeup was impeccable, with a smooth, white base that resembled real bone, and steady, clean lines. Much nicer than the work seen on the other locals.
The taquero shook his head as he saw them pass by, and spoke gently but quickly to the young girl.
“He say, not like them, not for you.”
“We will pay good money,” Dan flashed them his wallet. “We’ll also tell everyone about your great food, we’ve got lots of amigos.” He laughed, that same grating, performative laugh, and Mads joined him, hers high and hollow.
The taquero kept shaking his head, but the young girl pleaded softly, her small hands gesturing in quick, deliberate motion. His smile faltered before he sighed and nodded once.
“I take you,” she told them and led them away. The taquero did not look at them as they departed, his gaze downcast, as he cleaned his grill.
The air had changed as they followed her deeper into the narrow streets; it was thicker with incense and other herbs that Mark couldn’t name. They passed groups of painted faces, each one more striking than the last. Some smiled warmly as the trio passed; others only stared, their eyes dark beneath the layers of makeup.
“Why is your face only half-painted?” Mark’s curiosity got the better of him as he saw more and more full-face makeup.
The young girl finally looked back at them with the side that was painted, “Balance,” she stated simply, “Life and death together.”
“So what does a full face mean?” Dan asked the question they were all thinking.
“Death,” she answered without looking back at them.
Mark rolled his eyes at the simplistic and obvious answer. What was he expecting from a child with a limited grasp of another language?
“Where are we even going?” Mads complained, her voice rising above the murmurs.
The girl turned sharply down an alley that opened into a courtyard, where a carpet of marigold petals led to a small wooden building. She walked to one side of the flowers, but Mark and the other two walked right through them.
A sign leaned against the door: Las Catrinas.
Inside, it smelled of rosewater and something faintly metallic. The walls were lined with mirrors so old their glass had begun to gray around the edges. Tables were cluttered with brushes, sponges, powders, and paints in bowls that gleamed faintly under the flickering light.
Three women stood behind the tables, their faces painted so beautifully that it was almost impossible to tell where the makeup ended and the bone began. Their eyes, dark and still, followed them wordlessly.
The girl said something in Spanish, and one of the women nodded, motioning to the chairs.
Dan grinned, rubbing his hands together and taking a seat. “This is what we were looking for. Authenticity. Make sure to get some good content here, Mark.”
Mads sat in the chair next to him, “Make sure to make me look good.”
The woman behind dipped her fingers into a bowl of pale cream and began to spread it over Mads’s skin in smooth, deliberate strokes. The air grew heavy with something floral, but rotting underneath.
Mark sat last, after having set up his camera to film their transformation.
The laughter from the streets outside drifted in, muffled but constant.
“Damn, this stuff’s cold, but also burning,” Dan said, flinching as his painter drew a dark line along his jaw.
“Beauty is pain,” Mads quipped, checking her reflection in her phone camera. The screen flickered, distorting the image for a second—white where her skin should’ve been. She frowned and wiped it, but the distortion stayed.
“Ugh, this stuff’s burning,” she said, her tone playful at first, then strained.
“I told you,” Dan quipped through gritted teeth.
Mark watched from the mirror as Mads pushed the woman’s brush away, though her face looked complete. “What the hell! Is it supposed to feel this way?” Her voice grew shrill as she grabbed a towel from the table and pressed it into her face. She rubbed hard against. When she pulled it away, chunks of her face came off and stuck to the towel. She screamed as she touched the places where flesh was missing and bone shone through.
Dan started laughing.
“What the hell—dude, they spiked us or something! Oh, shit, this is wild!” He turned toward one of the women, “What’d you put in this stuff, shrooms? Mark, are you seeing this too?”
The woman only stared, her head tilting slowly to one side, her painted face emotionless.
“This isn’t funny,” Mads shrieked, her voice trembling. The paint was spreading, veins of white branching under her skin, flaking and cracking as if drying from the inside.
Dan kept laughing, but it sounded forced now, too loud. “It’s fine, it’s just the shrooms or whatever they laced the paint with, it’ll wear off.” His laugh stopped when he touched his own face and came away with a wet, fleshy piece of cheek.
Mark rose slowly, afraid to touch his face, but his skin felt like it was being eaten away by flames.
Mads was sobbing now, her words broken into hiccups. “Stop it, stop it—please, it hurts—”
Dan tried to stand, but his knees gave out. His skin was sloughing from his arms, peeling in long strips that curled like paper. Beneath it, bone glimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Mark stumbled backward, his vision swimming. He wanted to run, to get outside, to breathe air that wasn’t thick with rose and rot, but the door was gone. The mirrors stretched endlessly, showing him a hundred versions of himself—each one further along in decay, until there was nothing left but grinning skulls, beautifully painted and ornate, wearing his clothes.
“You wanted Catrinas,” the young girl said softly. “Now you are.”
The laughter from outside swelled, louder and louder, until it filled the room completely. It was loud, unending, and hollow.
Mark heard Mads sob and Dan whimper, then he heard nothing.