A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  I smiled. “Then I hope you’ll be too busy for the concert.”

  “Thank you, Ellen.” She gave me a quick hug. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Lisette.”

  I watched her walk up the path, toward the welcome center. Closing the door, I looked around our modest room.

  Modest by my standards. Luxurious for others. Everyone had their own perspective.

  This day had given me plenty of food for thought. A hot shower would give me a chance to chew on it.

  I was in the Room of Many Chairs, reading my O’Keeffe biography, when Tony returned. He came in whistling, grinned, and came over to pull me up out of my chair. I barely had time to set my bookmark.

  “I gather your team won,” I said, as he covered my face in kisses.

  “Uh-huh.” He picked me up and carried me toward the bed.

  “Ah—it’s almost time for dinner,” I said.

  “It can wait.” He laid me on the bed and proceeded to make me tingle in all kinds of delightful ways, stroking his hands along my body.

  “But there’s the concert—”

  “You hungry?” he asked, his breath tickling my ear.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Although he was presenting a serious challenge to my priorities.

  “Me, too.”

  His hands found the button on my jeans and expertly unfastened it.

  We were late for dinner.

  The dining hall was even louder than it had been at breakfast, though there weren’t more than about thirty people. Football Fan—Wesley—was at it again, arguing loudly with anyone who got within range. He seemed in a foul mood, and I deduced that his team had lost the afternoon game. Jeremy, seated next to his father, had withdrawn into his phone, hunched over it with his earbuds in. I didn’t see Lisette.

  Tony and I carried our plates of enchilada casserole outside, and watched the clouds over the mountains turn pink in the setting sun’s last light. To the west, rays of golden white poured through gaps in the clouds, making “glories,” as my mother had called them. Maybe Lisette was capturing them on paper.

  “You don’t have to come to the concert,” I told Tony. “I know there’s another game on.”

  “Eh, not one I care about. I’ll come with you.”

  “Thank you,” I said primly.

  He grinned. “I’d come even if I cared about the game. You’ve got priority.”

  “Do I? That’s lovely.”

  “Too many stray stallions around here,” he added, his gaze following a couple of men in western shirts and chaps who had just emerged from the dining hall, carrying plates. It was the red-headed guy and his friend. The latter shot me a look over his shoulder, but looked away again quickly. They chose a table a couple down from ours, and sat with weary sighs.

  “Why, Tony! Are you jealous?”

  “Of them? Pfft.”

  I laughed. “You’re right. No contest.”

  He took my hand, his dark eyes intense. We sat like that for a moment. Memories of our recent pleasure echoed through my body.

  I watched the sky as I ate my enchiladas. The clouds to the east were now edged with raspberry, and the glories had gone from the west. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the western clouds as it sank. A cold breeze blew by. Once the sun was down, it would swiftly get cold. I was glad I had brought my coat.

  “When do we have to be there?” Tony asked.

  “Seven. We’ve got time for dessert if you like. That apple pie looked good.”

  “Yeah. Can I bring you a piece?”

  “Please. Shall I get us some coffee?”

  “That would be great. Meet you back here.”

  He squeezed my hand, then headed inside. I could feel the attention of the two wranglers as soon as he was gone. Ignoring them, I stood and was about to go in for the coffee when I heard a car engine roaring nearby, coming up the road from the direction of the visitor center. There were signs all over saying not to drive beyond such and such a point, but this vehicle—a dusty Jeep that might once have been red—ignored them all and drove straight up to the dining hall. It stopped, coughed once, and fell still even as a wiry man with gray hair (sticking out every which way from beneath a battered ball cap) and a bushy gray beard jumped out and marched toward me.

  “Told you once I told you a million times. Stay the hell offa my property!”

  6

  I blinked, feeling like a fawn caught in headlights, then realized he was not addressing me. He marched past without noticing me, up to the table where the two cowboys sat.

  “We didn’t go on your property, Ezra,” said the redhead.

  “You came right up to the fence!” Ezra continued at full volume, making me wonder if he might be deaf. His clothes hung on him, as if he’d lost weight in the decade or so since he’d bought them, making him look scarecrowish.

  “That’s where the trail runs,” said the redhead patiently.

  “And any one of your fool tourists could ride right through that gap by the arroyah!” The old man spat for emphasis.

  “Well, maybe you should mend your fence.”

  This suggestion apparently made Ezra’s brain explode. His answer was loud and garbled, and I couldn’t decipher it. Tony returned about halfway through it.

  “What’s up?” he asked, setting a piece of pie in front of me.

  “Neighborly dispute, I think.”

  Tony glanced at the table where the redhead was now speaking in low tones to Ezra, who stood with arms folded and jaw out-thrust. “Great. I think those guys are the trail ride guides.”

  “I think so, too. That gentleman is, um, reminding them to keep the tourists on the trail.”

  Tony rolled his eyes, sat down, and dug into his pie. I went and fetched our coffee, then sat down to enjoy my pie. It was excellent, although the crust wasn’t as good as Julio’s. After a few minutes, Ezra stomped away, got back in his Jeep, and drove off, with unnecessary speed and volume.

  “Didn’t realize this vacation included a free soap opera,” Tony remarked. “Between these guys and the football a—aficionado ... can’t get away from it.”

  I chuckled, glancing at the cowboys. The Hispanic one was glowering over his shoulder at the departing Jeep and its dust cloud.

  “Humans,” I said, quoting Kris. “Hey, I’ve never heard you say ‘aficionado’ before.”

  “Learned it from you. How’d I do?”

  “Beautifully. And very diplomatic.”

  Tony laughed and ate the last of his pie. We took our dishes in, then walked across the road to the Agape Worship Center, a rather modern-looking, angular building where the concert would be.

  It was dusk now. As we neared the building, I saw three deer browsing on the dry grass out front. They casually moved away as we approached.

  Inside, a small lobby area contained a couple of tables, a handful of folding chairs, and a ticket-taker stationed by the door to the main room. We handed over our tickets and went in, shedding our coats.

  The worship center was more of a modest auditorium than a church. A single microphone stood in the center of the stage, with a small table beside it. Toward the back of the stage were a drum set and an electric keyboard on a stand. Despite our being a little early, the hall was already filling up, but we found good seats in the sixth row. A few minutes later, the lights dimmed and a tall man in native dress, his long, dark hair flowing over his shoulders, beads jangling a little and buckskin fringe swaying from his sleeves and leggings, walked out to the microphone. He carried several flutes, a rattle, and a small drum, which he placed on the table.

  The chatter in the room subsided gradually as the man stood gazing out at us. Seconds seemed to tick slowly by. I found myself wishing the last few whisperers would shut up; couldn’t they tell they were delaying the music?

  When the hall was finally quiet, the man opened his mouth and sang. The words meant nothing to me—they’d be Tiwa, the language of Taos Pueblo—but the emotion came through loud
and clear. Passion, love, despair and hope, all jumbled together into a song that was a cry, an invocation, a call.

  I’d heard Bernardo Milagro’s music before, but I’d never seen him perform live. He was amazing. He picked up a flute, and made it sing as he had sung, with deep emotion and power. He played his drum and chanted songs that seemed to rise straight up out of the earth, waking distant memories of childhood visits to pueblo dances at Tesuque, Santa Clara, and San Ildefonso. He danced to the heartbeat of the rattle, chanting. He spoke in the sing-song storyteller’s voice, of his home, his legends, his family. He sang in Tiwa, English, and Spanish, and for the first hour he did all this alone. When he took a break, leaving the stage with the promise of returning shortly, the audience breathed a collective sigh and then burst into applause.

  I looked at Tony.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  We got up to stretch our legs. A handful of kids in scout uniforms were now selling cupcakes at one of the tables in the lobby. Another table held Milagro’s CDs and books, as well as two ornate flutes and a some beaded jewelry, made by Milagro according to a small sign. A young Pueblo woman seated behind this table, dressed elegantly in black, watched us calmly as I looked through the CDs. There were no prices on anything, but I didn’t care. At least one of these CDs was coming home with me.

  I scanned the song listings for titles that sounded familiar. There was no printed program for the night’s music, so I had to guess. A song called “Deer Dance” rang a bell, so I held out the CD toward the woman.

  “How much is this one?” I asked.

  “They’re all twenty dollars,” she replied.

  A bit steep, but the money was going to a deserving artist, and I’d much rather buy directly from Milagro than through a store or online seller, which would take a hefty cut of the proceeds. I fished a twenty out of my purse.

  “Would you like him to sign it?” asked the woman.

  “That would be great!”

  “Bring it back here after,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “Thanks!”

  Clutching my prize, I stepped back to make room for other customers. Tony dutifully admired the CD, and we talked about the first half of the show. He’d been impressed with the variety of Milagro’s music, from contemporary—almost jazzy—to what Tony called “woo-woo,” to what I thought sounded like authentic traditional Pueblo songs.

  The lobby was now fairly crowded. I scanned the faces, looking for Lisette, but didn’t see her. I hoped the pastels were giving her an outlet for her feelings.

  “Let’s go out and get some air,” Tony suggested.

  “OK.”

  The night air bit cold and sharp, reminding us that it was winter, and that we were more than a mile above sea level. I hastily put on my coat. Tony stepped forward, listening to the night. In the light of a high-riding quarter moon, he looked like a warrior: smelling the wind, listening for the footfall of hunter or prey. Then he remembered me, led me a few steps away from the door, stepped behind me, and wrapped his arms around me. I leaned into him, sighing, looking up at a sky absolutely powdered with stars. Despite the moon, I could still see the cloudy path of the Milky Way sweeping across the heavens.

  This was lovely. This was why we had come here. The tearoom and Tony’s job seemed far away.

  The moon stood still as a scrap of cloud slid across it, shades of silver-gray and white against the velvet black night. The colors reminded me of O’Keeffe’s Black Place III. Just as my neck was beginning to complain from my staring at the sky, Tony spoke.

  “They’re blinking the lobby lights. Time to go in.”

  Sorry as I was to leave the glory of the night sky, it was good to return to the warmth and light of the auditorium. We hurried back to our seats as the lights began to dim.

  For the second half, Milagro was joined by a drummer and a pianist, both young men—possibly also Puebloans judging by their coloring—dressed in black shirts and pants. The music became more complex and varied, from rock to classical to improvisational, ranging far and yet always returning to the yearning, wild strains of the flute, the sing-song shapes of traditional melodies. I loved every minute, and was sad when it ended. Milagro did one encore—in English—a plea and a prayer that we could all come together to heal the world of pain and grief. In that moment, I would have followed him anywhere.

  The audience rose to their feet, applauding. I clapped until my hands hurt. After acknowledging the drummer and the pianist, Milagro bowed one final time, hands clasped, and left the stage.

  The lights came up, and the audience filed out reluctantly, talking in hushed voices about the music, unwilling to break the mood. This didn’t last long. By the time we reached the lobby, it was normal chatter again. Saving the world was forgotten; people wanted coffee and to know how the game had turned out.

  A line had formed at the table where Milagro’s CDs were on sale. Most of the recordings were gone, and several of the books, and a lot of the jewelry. One gorgeous flute remained, made of hand-shaped and polished wood, adorned with beadwork and a bear fetish carved from obsidian. I didn’t dare speculate on its price. Holding my CD, I stood to one side and hoped that the young woman selling the wares would remember her offer of the artist’s autograph. I didn’t hear her making the same offer to the other customers, though a couple of other people were hanging around like me.

  “Want to get some coffee?” Tony asked.

  “OK—but I’d like to get this signed,” I murmured, lifting my CD.

  Tony nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. We waited while the crowd dwindled. Tony went into people-watching mode. The young Pueblo woman sold the last of the CDs. For something to do, I looked at the remaining books. One was a memoir, and the other was a book of poetry. I leafed through it, and recognized some of the poems as lyrics of songs that Milagro had sung that night.

  “I’d like to buy this,” I said when the woman was free.

  She nodded, and took my cash. I hoped I would have enough left to get me through Sunday; I hadn’t planned on buying books and music.

  Finally, when only myself and a couple of other hangers-on remained, all of us holding CDs, Milagro emerged from the auditorium. He had changed out of his buckskins into a simple white cotton shirt and jeans, hair still flowing loose. Up close, his eyes were gentle, with fine lines worn by sun and smiles. I realized he was older than I’d thought, maybe forty or fifty—or sixty. Hard to tell. He looked tired, in the satisfied way one felt after a good day’s (or night’s) work.

  He hugged the young woman who’d sold his music, and I noticed a family resemblance. His daughter?

  Then he turned to us, holding out his hands to each of us in turn, greeting us like friends, listening kindly to jumbled words of praise. He must have heard it all before. He was a consummate musician, and more—he had made magic in that hall, that night.

  When my turn came, he smiled as he signed my CD and then my book, asking my name in a soft voice. His gaze strayed to Tony and held for a second, then he gave a nod and returned his attention to me.

  “I’d like to play this at my wedding,” I said on impulse, indicating the CD.

  Milagro gave me an amused smile, then glanced at Tony again. “Getting married soon?”

  “Fall,” Tony said.

  Milagro looked from one to the other of us. “Sure,” he said. “’Dragonfly Song’ is a good one.” He turned to his daughter and said something in Tiwa. She shook her head. Milagro glanced at the table, then reached over and picked up a small necklace of buckskin and beads. He put it in my hands, clasped them for a moment, then reached over to Tony and brought his hand into the clasp.

  “Little wedding present,” he said, gently shaking our joined hands. “Blessing.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling breathless. “I—you honor us.”

  He smiled, then released our hands and turned to the next customer.

  I stepped back, watching, not wanting to l
eave. Tony took my elbow and nudged me toward the door. I let him escort me out, clutching the gift and the book and the music. A magical night.

  The cold air struck me like a slap, startling me out of my dreamy daze. We hurried back to our room as quickly as we dared in the dark. Tony took out his phone and used it for a flashlight, shining its light on the path ahead of our feet.

  Our room was dark, quiet, and a bit cool. Shivering, I put my treasures on the bed and grabbed my sweater out of the closet, pulling it on.

  “Still want coffee?” I asked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “You can make tea, right?” Tony said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then let’s stay here.”

  Grateful, I bustled to put on the kettle. I hadn’t brought anything herbal, which I now regretted, but if black tea kept me awake, oh well. I needed the warmth. I was glad that I’d bought the second mug, and also that I had taken the time earlier to fetch a bucket of ice to keep the leftover milk cold. I made our tea strong and sweet, with the milk for comfort. We sat huddled together on the bed as we drank it.

  “That was amazing,” Tony said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What was it he gave you?”

  “Us,” I said, reaching behind me for the necklace. “He gave it to us.”

  Our first shared possession. I hadn’t looked at it closely. Now, with better light, I saw that it was a dragonfly, its long body a slender, clear crystal, probably quartz. The wings were made of tiny iridescent beads, the eyes two larger black beads, maybe obsidian. It hung from a strip of butter-soft leather, reinforced with more beads.

  I held it out to Tony. He took it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “That’s beautiful work.”

  I nodded. He looked at me, then slipped the necklace over my head. The dragonfly settled over my heart. We shared a long look, then Tony kissed me. A loving kiss. A sweet, gentle kiss.

  Magical night.

  The morning light was softer than it had been the previous day, seeping gradually into the room. I was aware of it for a while before I came fully awake. Music ran through my head—a haunting chanting accompanied by rattle and drum. My body wanted to rise and stretch, but the bed was warm and the air on my face was cool. Tony a furnace beside me. I buried my chilled nose in his shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut.