Julius Caesar Sold Me a Jaguar January 27, 2022
Julius Caesar says the jaguar costs fifty pesos, which seems to me rather expensive. However, this is Real de Guadalupe, where prices tend to be higher, so I should not be surprised. The cat fits in my hand, whereas the salesman stands at barely four feet. He must be nine or so. He acknowledges that jaguars perhaps ought to be cheaper, but the cost is determined by the supplier, who supposedly produces the beasts in mass somewhere near Teopisca. As it stands, Julius Caesar and his mother will only make a commission of 10 pesos for the sale. We share some guacamole as we consider the transaction.
Julius Caesar lives with his mother near San Juan Chamula, but their place of employment is here on Guadalupe, in the heart of the tourist district of San Cristobal. She sells clothes and tapestries a few blocks away, also in the street. It makes good business sense that the little boy works alone, as sales tend to improve if people think he might be a homeless orphan. He plays the part well, devouring the complimentary chips as if he has not eaten in days.
Of course, this Tzotzil child belongs in school today, as do all of them working the streets for essential family income. He allows me to pepper him with questions—about his mother, his home, his education—but the boy is trained to always turn the subject back to his inventory. There is only another hour of daylight, clouds are descending, and these jaguars are not going to sell themselves.
“Your name is very interesting. How did you come by it?”
“My mother.”
“Do you know who Julius Caesar is?”
Now the boy stops chewing and looks confused. His knowledge of history may be lacking, but he is no fool. Of course, he knows who Julius Caesar is. Julius Caesar lives with his mother near San Juan Chamula and sells jaguars to tourists. Perhaps I am the fool, he thinks. After all, who in their right mind would pay fifty pesos for a child’s toy?
It is not unusual for Catholic children to be given the name of the saint on whose day they were born. Most of these names are unremarkable—Juan, Pablo, Pedro, etc.—but some are truly bizarre. For example, a birthday of December 28 earns the name Innocencia (nickname Chencho), after Day of the Innocents, when Herod executed his infanticide decree. July 4th babies are welcomed to the world as Refugio, whereas Primitivo is popular among July 28 newbies. But perhaps the strangest name to spring from a calendar date is Anivdelarev, which I am informed is no joke. The date is November 20th, the anniversary of the Mexican Revolution—Aniv. de la Rev. The mother who chose this name may likely have been selling pieces of painted plastic on the street when she should have been in school.
Julius Caesar does not appear on any Catholic calendar. His mother must have her own reasons for naming her son after the notorious Roman conqueror, but her son has nothing to say about it. The rain is starting to fall, and he needs to head up the street to help his mother with her garments. The Colectivo fares to their home would chew through his meager jaguar profits, so maybe they can catch a ride on one of the Guadalupano chicken trucks, or maybe they will walk again.
I give him his asking price, and he wraps up the jaguar in a newspaper from Merida. Perhaps this is where the souvenir is really made, but, again, the boy is noncommittal in his business affairs. I explain that this will be a gift for my new grandson, Theo, who I intend to meet next week in Salt Lake City. The Catholic name for Theo’s birthday is Sylvester, so it is agreed that the jaguar shall be called Sly the Jaguar. It seems like a tender moment, but only to me. We exchange a greasy fist bump, and then Julius Caesar departs with his remaining spotted cats toward the Temple of the Holy Mother.