TODAY IS NOT FOREVER

The dark-haired young man stood firmly in front of the imposing iron gate, his eyes full of determination but with uncertainty in his heart. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other, like a salsa dancer ready to step onto the stage. Every muscle in his body tensed as if he were bracing for an imminent storm.

Although he wanted to run, he stayed firmly pinned between the building's wall and the dozens of cars racing past him down the street, all honking horns, roaring engines, and filling the air with a thick cloud of gasoline fumes. It was as if the city itself was daring him to choose: fight or run away. Do what is right, or give up and be a coward forever.

He wiped his palms on his jeans and shifted his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

“Hard to say what's weighing me down more right now, my backpack or my anxiety. Take it easy, mate, and just ring the bell!” he urged himself as his hand kept reaching for the bell, then dropping back.

"The people in there are just regular humans, not some flesh-eating zombies. They look, walk, and feel exactly like you. They won't have a go at you. Take a deep breath, mate. Everything will be fine. Just keep in mind they really need you," he reminded himself.

It was hot — the relentless heat soaked his neck and shoulders like boiling water, and there was nowhere to hide. He couldn't see who was watching him through hidden surveillance equipment concealed among the bougainvillea that covered the barbed wire on top of the fence and spilled down the brick wall in a purple cascade.

The mansion's history appeared to emerge from the cracks between the bricks, whispering tales of love, loss, and unresolved mysteries.

According to local legend, the house was built in the mid-16th century for the Mayan mistress of Juan de Retamal, a Spanish conquistador. It miraculously survived several earthquakes with almost no damage, bravely resisting the deep rumblings in the earth's bowels that destroyed sturdier and newer structures around the city.

But the reality was far from romantic. In the early 1800s, Mexican stonemasons built the grand mansion for Benjamin Smithson, a wealthy English businessman whose wealth came from selling tea grown thousands of miles away from his island's damp, cold climate. He and his fellow English traders became connoisseurs of a drink that became a basic necessity for every Englishman and Englishwoman, whether they were relaxing in Bath, busy in Birmingham, or enjoying the sea breeze at the White Cliffs of Dover. Tea was not just a beverage; it was like the crown jewel of British identity and social status. When enjoyed with just the right amount of pomp and a dash of witty banter, it became a symbol of sophistication and class, making even the dullest moments feel like a country funfair.

Noblemen sipped the golden nectar from fancy cups with golden rims, accompanied by a dash of milk or lemon wedges. Dock and farm workers guzzled it from tin pots, chasing down chunks of bread slathered in strawberry jam or bites of sharp cheddar. Watered-down and wimpy, tea was served at orphanages and almshouses around the country. In fact, no self-respecting Brit could survive a day without at least one “cuppa,” whether it was the fanciest Oolong or the most questionable tea dust. Even now, the British are convinced that any little hiccup or full-blown disaster can be fixed or at least made more palatable with a nice cup of tea.

In the early 18th century, English traders heading to the Americas to sell the precious leaves stumbled upon a surprising new item to add to their commercial inventory. On the Yucatán Peninsula, they discovered xocoatl, a molasses-brown product that the rest of the world would later know as chocolate. When Columbus introduced this sweet wonder to European courts, it quickly became a must-have for any fashionable gentleman or lady. Tons of cocoa were traded in major cities like London, Paris, Rome, and even Moscow, and those who entered the trading business early struck gold, becoming overnight millionaires. Such was the case with Mr. Smithson, the mansion’s first owner.

After five years of running his business from Newquay, Smithson, who was born and raised there, decided it was better to establish his chocolate import business in Mexico City. He might have lived happily ever after if not for a tragic accident where a wooden crate filled with coca leaves fell directly on his head, splitting it open like a ripe watermelon when he was just thirty-five.

Ten years later, knee-deep in debt and scrambling to give her daughters a respectable dowry, Sir Benjamin's widow decided to sell the mansion to a Mexican junior minister, who then had the clever idea to offer it to the government of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Since then, it has served as the official residence of British ambassadors, trade commissioners, and a string of diplomats, along with a mix of major and minor visiting royals, parliament members, ministers, and a bunch of VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE, affectionately known as VIPs.

Looking around, the young man knew he didn't belong in Coyoacán, one of Mexico City's most eclectic and bohemian districts, with European-style homes just steps away from Dolce & Gabbana and Ralph Lauren boutiques, international banks, grand restaurants, and everything else one needed for a relaxed and stress-free existence. Although the area was home to others, it felt utterly alien to him.

The map he had previously checked indicated that the house, with its intricate curlicues and gargoyles, was just five streets away from La Casa Azul, also known as the Blue House, the home of the flamboyant Mexican painter Frida Kahlo and, later, her muralist and philandering husband, Diego Rivera.

The young man loved Kahlo's work, which included over fifty self-portraits of Frida, featuring several with tropical birds and other jungle animals, as well as the painter herself, shown in a corset after a tram accident, her face twisted with distress. Despite her difficult childhood and years spent confined to bed in a spine-hugging steel device, her paintings were full of beauty and hope. After her untimely death, they were acquired by the world's most famous art galleries and institutions, fetching huge sums and gaining international recognition.

He promised himself he would visit the Blue House someday, but he was always busy—whether with school, helping his mother, or doing odd jobs to earn money. Many excuses came up, and most were valid. In the meantime, he hadn't had the chance to visit the museum or see the paintings on the walls of the house, which were painted electric blue from top to bottom.

As he waited in front of the mansion that once housed the English chocolate and tea baron and his family, he wondered how its current residents would react to his tattered clothes and hair that badly needed a trim.

“They were all born into a life of privilege and prosperity, growing up in a world that allows them to enjoy wealth and success without really having to do much at all. They've no idea what it's like to try to make ends meet, considering everything has always been handed to them on a silver platter. But does that mean they don't care about other people? I'm not so sure about that. A lot of people who grow up with privilege can still relate to others who are going through tough times, even if they haven't lived it themselves. But I’d never have met them if it weren't for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

Despite his anxiety, he was eager to discover who lived behind those massive walls.

“Are they friendly and easy to get along with? Or maybe full of themselves and intimidating? What do they usually eat for breakfast? Do they go for chilaquiles, deep-fried tortillas in a spicy tomato sauce, or do they stick with the classic gringo breakfast of cornflakes, milk, and black coffee?” he wondered.

He'd find out soon enough.

“Not the breakfast thing, of course, but how they are, how they feel and behave!”

He crossed his fingers, hoping they would find him nice enough to hire, because he really needed that paycheck! He promised his mother he would help her cover some bills, so she wouldn't have to spend so many hours hunched over her sewing machine.

“I'm going to do my best to win them over, so they’ll want to hire me.”

He pictured himself shaking hands with the ambassador, the potential student's father, saying, "It's clear where your daughter gets her smarts from!"

He'd impress the diplomat with his quick wit and charm by addressing him as "Sir," knowing it pleased those who considered themselves better than others.

“I’ll just nod and smile because who doesn’t like a friendly smile, right?” People like being around upbeat, self-assured people. So here’s the plan: I’m going to become the most positive and self-assured person in Mexico City, if not the whole country!"

“It’s important to make a good first impression," he told himself confidently, though he didn’t truly feel it.

Luckily, he had no idea that the man he was about to meet was a snob known for being very judgmental. If he had known, he might have been even more nervous or possibly considered leaving while he still could.

Although he had visited this part of the city before, this was his first opportunity to step inside one of the magnificent homes. It was a neighbourhood where ivy-covered houses peeked out from behind hedges, and well-dressed chauffeurs in shiny Bentleys and Buicks skilfully navigated the turns, parking their spotless cars in driveways hidden behind tall walls. It was a place he had only seen on TV – a place where politicians, visiting rock stars, and famous football players from top European leagues were photographed entering or leaving the lobbies of five-star hotels or Michelin-rated restaurants. Meanwhile, the paparazzi took their photos and sold them to international newspapers for a lot of money.

He sometimes fantasized about being wealthy, flying first class, driving a red Maserati, dining out whenever he wanted, and buying things he didn't need—like suits, cufflinks, and ten pairs of shoes all at once—all made of suede in various shades of brown.

“I’d own a boat and rent a paradise island in the Caribbean or book a trip to Tokyo and then decide not to cancel it because something more interesting came up in Bogotá. Or London…”

Instead of hunting for loose change in his pocket, he’d pull out a wad of cash to pay for something small like a coffee, and leave the rest as a tip. Not just a dollar or two, but hundred-dollar bills that would make servers, valets, and doormen say, “Thank you so much, sir!” He might even have paparazzi following him, trying to get photos of his latest girlfriend.

But despite his occasional daydreams, he viewed wealth with detached interest rather than envy—similar to how a scientist observes an organism under a microscope or an astronomer looks into the sky through a telescope.

If everything went as planned and he became a well-known writer, he would draw on the insights gained from observing places like the one he was in and relate them to his daily environment. Things like his neighbours walking miles to work every day or holding onto the steps of crowded buses to get there. Or women with faces marked by hard work who were often too exhausted in the morning to bother about their appearance, leaving little time to apply makeup or dress fashionably. They were too busy selling their bundles of second-hand clothes or dragging old supermarket carts full of tomatoes, garlic wreaths, and various bric-a-brac, the purpose or utility of which was hard to determine, as they needed to make a living. He understood because his mother, Rosario, had to do the same.

So there he was, gazing at the mighty gate that looked like it could resist everything from raging storms to a band of pirates on a treasure hunt. Not to mention humble tutors like himself trying to boost their bank accounts by teaching rich but lazy girls the art of writing and speaking in Spanish and showing them the lyrical beauty of the language and Mexican culture. Making sure they understood the complexities of syntax and corrected their pronunciation, which he was sure would be so gringo.

He debated whether to press the bell or bolt for sure when a slot in the gate slid open. Curious brown eyes, similar in colour to his own, scrutinized him cautiously, assessing his clothes, awkward posture, and the backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Yes? Are you looking for someone?"

The voice behind the gate was stern.

“Hi, yes. My name is Tomás. Tomás Ortiz. I was supposed to come to see Brenna...”

He stumbled upon the name and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.

"I was supposed to come to see Miss Brenna Armstrong."

"What is it about?" demanded the disembodied voice.

"I'm her tutor. I mean… I've been told Miss Armstrong needs reinforcement classes. In Spanish... I’m a university student and a part-time teacher."

He carefully selected his words to emphasize his credentials and Miss Armstrong's need for more training, folded the paper, and slipped it back into his pocket.

"I've been told to come today and start…"

"We'll see about it first," the voice cut him off half-phrase.

"I need to check with the ambassador. Don’t move!"

The tone, which carried a slight threat, was as hard as steel.

The gate slot shut with unsettling finality. Tomás wasn't sure if the man—if it was a man—was checking his credentials or if he simply didn't like him and decided to leave him outside, as the figure in Dante's Divine Comedy who had the pearly gates slammed in his face forever.

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