I’m writing this from Mexico. I made a snap decision to come, since I was feeling as much a prisoner in Texas as I would in a real jail. Texas in particular, and America in general, just wasn’t the Land of the Free. My men, Mikey Squeaky and Freddy, felt as did I, and they were thus easily persuaded to move to Mexico too.
For me, this move is the beginning of a new life, even though I’m 114. I’m not, however, your average 114 year-old, for I’ve re-discovered youth (well, relative youth) by exercising mind and body daily and eating healthily. If I hadn’t, I’d be long dead. The only threat to a long life was my being caught by the American police killing many men, and being hanged. Doubtless the Mexican police have files on me, but I hope they are less vigilant than their American counterparts.
Despite feeling so confined in Texas on account of having to live as an outlaw with my four men in the basement of an almost demolished house in a dilapidated part of a city (which I couldn’t name in my postings because of security concerns) I nonetheless felt the sweet pangs of final separation, when, for the last time, I drove away from our little home.
Banks in Texas were getting increasingly difficult to rob, given all the new-fangled security technology. I and my men managed to rob only one large bank, the yield from which we couldn’t forever live off. So we had to rob small-scale, like in mugging pedestrians, and robbing all-night convenience stores. Because these takings were small, we had to do several robberies a week. This being taxing on the nerves, I saw little future in Texas.
Whether Mexican banks will be easier to rob, I don’t know. If not, we’ll have to resume small-scale robbing, with the difference that those we rob will be Mexican.
In going to Mexico, I realised I was taking an irrevocable step, for America would, forever after, be barred to me, since to re-cross through American Customs would, for me, in effect, be a death sentence.
As I drove our van through the border crossing, unhindered by Mexican officialdom, I thought that if there was any land which offered refuge to the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to be free, it was Mexico, not America, for, if you are a foreigner encountering American officialdom at any point of entry, you know that America isn’t a welcoming country.
A few miles over the border, I stopped our van, stepped out, and breathed the air of Mexico, which I hadn’t breathed in over four decades when I was stationed in Washington DC as British military attache to America – when John F Kennedy was president. I used regularly to fly to and from Washington and Mexico City, to visit Dolores, a beautiful Mexican lady with whom I was having una gran pasión.
I’m remembering now those afternoons in Dolores’ apartment overlooking Mexico City’s zocalo, and the love we made langourously throughout those afternoons. Dolores was for me a goddess, and I was her slave. In the evenings, after our afternoons of love-making, we would go out to dine and drink, then to dance, then back to Dolores’ apartment around midnight, to make love until dawn, when I would leave to catch the aeroplane for Washington – and back to my quotidian and prosaic life with Gladys, my wife.
What has become of Dolores? Given she was twenty-five years younger than I, she would now be 90, and perhaps even dead. How different might my subsequent life have been, had I complied with Dolores’ entreaties to leave Gladys and my life as a high-flying military attache, for a permanent life with her, Dolores, in Mexico.
While a romantic, I knew that to incur disgrace in the eyes of my fellow Englishmen by abandoning Gladys and my diplomatic and military career for an isolated and precarious expatriate life with Dolores, would give her a power over me at which later I would chafe. While a slave to Dolores, I still saw her need to control me. While being controlled by a beautiful woman is fun, it’s only so for a short time. I’m no King Edward the Eighth.
But, Dolores won’t go away…………