The father of my child is drunk.

At 11:37 AM, according to the slanty digits of my runner’s watch.

On a Sunday, with church bells pealing through the smog, a holy appeal to the vast and overwhelmingly Christian population of Mexico City.

Not that Nick cares about the religious implications. He’s an agnostic when it comes to the beliefs of other people, but an atheist for himself. He refuses to acknowledge any higher power in his life. There is no God to make or unmake him, only Nick Roberts. The “ultimate accountability” he likes to call it.

I’m not amused by his ultimate accountability right now. As far as I can tell, it’s indistinguishable from just doing whatever he wants. This morning he wants to get drunk with Elliot Parner, his new best friend. After he got drunk with Elliot last night, which is why we stayed overnight here. I’ve already heard their excuses. Last night it was drowning the pain of UCLA’s defeat in the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. This morning it’s fending off the hangovers. I’d have more respect for Nick and Elliot if they just admitted it — right now their lives seem better drunk than sober.

Elliot I can understand. He smiles without using his eyes, laughs too loud, brags. Every five minutes another reference to missing his wife and kids, missing America. Then why take a job here in the first place? For the money, Elliot claims. But I don’t believe him. He’s fleeing from his life. All the way to Mexico City and into a bloody mary with a beer chaser.

Nick doesn’t have that excuse. His life is happy now — or it’s supposed to be happy, anyway. As happy as mine. We’re in love and having a baby! I understand why he worries about the future, because I worry about it too. Finishing his Ph.D. and supporting a stay-at-home mom, if that’s what I turn out to be. But is that any reason to get drunk and stay drunk? Grandfather’s voice is booming in my memory, a Farsi proverb. Lotfan be rajioye zaban velayat, moraa-je’e konid. Every day is full of worries, and just as many joys.

I scowl with resentment and avoid their rowdy presence. It’s easy to do. I’ve never been in a condo this big before. 3,000 square feet. Every room seems to lead into another room. Now I’m in a bedroom — the third I’ve discovered. Taupe walls angle together and apart at weird angles. The queen-sized bed hides under a goosedown comforter, a necessity in this frigid air-conditioning. A teak dresser wider than tall is empty. So is the walk-in closet.

Male voices invade my seclusion. “Nooshin!” yells Nick. “Nooooooo-shin!” echoes Elliot. I ignore them until I can’t anymore. Then I retrace my steps through the condo, marching angrily, until I reach the foyer. I grab my purse and slam the front door behind me.

The elevator discharges me into the parking garage. Oops. I meant to get off in the lobby. When I spin around, it’s too late. The metal doors won’t open again. Not unless I have a building key.

I follow the sharp incline, past rows of bumpers to the exit. It’s easy enough to duck under the gate arm. I emerge into the baking noonday heat. The cobblestone street pulses in rhythm to a nearby traffic light — awash in vehicles belching exhaust, then deserted, then awash again. I begin to stride down the sidewalk.

At the end of the block is La Casa Cultura — the House of Culture. The museum is unmistakable, an arabesque relic dwarfed by the grimly modern buildings that surround it. The portico greets me with a pair of immense wooden doors bound with iron. Convinced of their mass, I push forward with both palms…and discover they’re almost weightless on their hinges, losing my balance and stumbling inside.

The museum’s interior is quiet and cool and dim. Floodlit displays of natural history stretch from the Big Bang in the very first panel to the evolution and migration of humans in North America. About half of the panels are dedicated to cultures of Mexico’s eastern seaboard. Usually I’m underwhelmed by excavated ceramics, but one pre-Colombian culture made very unusual and beautiful pottery in animal motifs, especially feline and fish shapes. I’m surprised we didn’t see reproductions in the tourist markets of Veracruz.

At the far end of the museum is a stone staircase. I climb its worn treads to an overwrought wonderland. The entire second floor is dedicated to paintings and sculptures from the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries, religious in nature and baroque or rococo in style. A Muslim girl can only take so much Catholic iconography, but I force myself to stare at every single cherub and saint. For a few seconds, at least.

The third floor shows a modernist shift. The traditional religious themes are gone, replaced by portraiture and landscapes inspired by the breathtaking beauty of Mexico, volcanic eruptions and craggy mountain ranges and flowered plains by glossy lakes. I linger in front of the landscapes, trying to identify their locales, wishing I could recognize them from my travels with Nick. But everything seems strange, unfamiliar, just plain off. Even panoramas of the Central Valley are unrecognizable, since Mexico City now laps over its rim.

On the fourth floor I arrive in the 20th century. There are several murals on display, all painted by socialistic Mexican artists in the 1930s. Another room features art from the 1960s — photomontages, soft sculptures, paintings studded with materials that project from the canvas. I circle the floor, trying to pick out my favorite work. Finally I decide on a cubist rendering from the 1920s. It depicts a train winding through Copper Canyon, the humongous gorge that’s four times bigger than the Grand Canyon and twice as deep. Squared-off shapes slide into each other, a dynamic rendering of massive green mountains and tiny orange train.

There is no fifth floor, no 21st century. I’m forced to retrace my steps down the stairs. My sandals echo in the deserted galleries. I feel a pang of disappointment when I discover the gift shop is already closed, its interior dark. That’s Mexico for you — employees close when they feel like it. The girl working the gift shop probably had a date with her boyfriend or something. I’m shocked when I glance at my watch and discover it’s past 4 PM, closing time. The entire afternoon passed unnoticed while I drifted through the exhibits, and the museum apparently closed without even a cursory check to see if everyone had left.

A security guard is sitting behind the entryway desk. I watch him admit a pair of visitors. Noticing me his eyes widen momentarily, then narrow to slits. “Vaya, vaya!” he says irritably, pointing at those heavy-looking wooden doors. I realize he’s illegally keeping the museum open after hours so he can pocket the entrance fee.

The street outside is empty now, only filled with long shadows and quiet. I sit on the curb in front of the museum, unwilling to return to Elliot’s condo. A lone street vendor is pushing his burrito cart down the opposite sidewalk. He pauses to wave at me. I shake my head. I’m not hungry enough to eat dinner — even though I missed breakfast and lunch. Around me is a forest of office and apartment buildings, all going dark darker darkest as the light wanes from the sky.