Chapter 8: The Legacy of Vasconcelos and Tomorrow
Six months later.
The afternoon sun fell obliquely on the hanging bookshelves of the Vasconcelos Library in Buenavista. The smell of old books and wood was my home. But today, I wasn’t alone among the aisles.
Seated at one of the round tables, bathed in light, was Hassan al-Mansuri. He no longer wore his three-piece suits worth thousands of dollars; he wore a simple linen shirt and looked ten years younger. In front of him, a dozen young men from different neighborhoods of the city—Iztapalapa, Neza, Doctores—listened to him attentively.
They were the first beneficiaries of the “Neo Johnson Young Talent Program”.
“Is it true, sir, that Neo blackmailed you into giving us these scholarships?” asked a 13-year-old girl named Ximena, with a mischievous spark in her eyes.
Hassan burst out laughing, which made the librarian gesture for us to be quiet.
“That’s absolutely true, Ximena,” Hassan admitted warmly. “And it turned out to be the best investment I’ve ever made in my entire career. I’ve made more money in these six months following this kid’s strategic advice than in the last three years of my old management.”
I was sitting a couple of tables away, reviewing an export contract on my laptop for some investors in Japan. My mother, Graciela, arrived at that moment. She was wearing an elegant but simple pantsuit and carrying a tablet where she managed the maintenance and logistics operations for three corporate buildings. Her face was radiant. There were no more dark circles under her eyes from tiredness, but rather the glow of someone who knows she is respected.
“How’s that contract going, son?” he asked, giving me a kiss on the forehead.
—Almost ready, ma. I’m just adjusting a few clauses in Japanese so they can’t take advantage of us with the delivery times.
Hassan approached us and put a hand on my shoulder.
—Neo, the Forbes reporter is outside. She wants to know what it’s like to be the youngest consultant in the country. What are you going to tell her?
I closed my laptop and looked around. I saw the young people studying, my empowered mother, and I remembered the hungry afternoons and Hassan’s taunts in that penthouse.
“I’ll tell you, Mexico has talent to spare,” I replied. “What’s lacking are people with the power to stop looking at skin color and start looking at mental capacity. I’ll tell you that my origins didn’t determine my destiny, and from today onward, neither will theirs.”
We walked together toward the exit, leaving behind the silence of the books to face the vibrant noise of the city. A city that, though it didn’t know it yet, was beginning to change thanks to a boy who decided that speaking nine languages wasn’t enough if they weren’t used to shout the truth.
Hassan looked at me one last time before getting into his car.
“You saved me from becoming a monster, Neo. I was rich, I was powerful, but I was empty. You forced me to remember that success isn’t about accumulating wealth, but about building bridges where others build walls.”
“You’re welcome, boss,” I said with a wink. “But don’t get too comfortable. I still have the recorder in the cloud in case you forget the lesson.”
Hassan laughed, shaking his head, and walked away. My mother and I walked toward the subway station, as usual, but this time with our heads held high. Because we knew the world no longer saw us as “the cleanliness.” It saw us as the future.
And the future, at last, spoke our language.
