* * *
BELLACOSA was in the old Jeep, driving away, thinking about women, and considered visiting his only female friend, Ximena. He was out of touch with modern dating, and didn’t enjoy going to bars, or being around the kind of people who hung around those places. The truth was Bellacosa got along fine being alone. When he really missed women he’d talk to his dead wife, which often helped. It was a form of self-therapy he’d discovered worked for him. He admitted women were the sole reason he enjoyed eating out more than cooking at home. He enjoyed talking to the waitresses, making friendly conversation with them. Rarely did he otherwise get the opportunity to talk to strange young women, without feeling imposing or like a creep. Bellacosa remembered how in society people are taught that anyone can be a creep—women are taught this, especially, from the moment they are born, and with good reason. He blasphemously wondered if it was for the best that his loved ones weren’t around all this corruption and degeneration anymore.
Bellacosa realized he was driving back home and didn’t want to go back there quite yet, wasn’t ready to see what condition the Trufflepig was in. He drove past Will Shuppe Park, where a family was having a birthday celebration with barbecue and balloons, while kids in dark jackets and flannel were flying colorful kites shaped like Quetzalcoatls, and Bellacosa headed downtown.
* * *
BABY GRAND CENTRAL was bumbling busy. People ran around buying grains and nuts and beans and fruit, with the frantic disbelief seen in silent films. Bellacosa found an empty spot along the yellow counter of Marselita’s. Colleen Rae and Anastasia, the young woman from Detroit, were on staff. He ordered only a cup of coffee and sat out the rush. The two young ladies refilled his coffee as they ran around, and snuck him an eight-ounce glass of mineral water. Bellacosa looked beyond the kitchen in the back, and at the workingmen in suits who ate hurriedly and often tipped lousily. He overheard the waitresses whispering among themselves what was up with the people today, saying something about a leviathan being upset. He wanted to ask what this meant, but they seemed too busy for conversation.
After it died down a bit and the waitresses looked less stressed, Bellacosa asked Anastasia, “Excuse me. Earlier you two were talking about the people today and said something about a leviathan. What did you mean?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know, people are being weird today. Isn’t that right, Colleen? She blames it on the leviathan. Tell him about it.”
Colleen Rae set a bus-tub of dirty dishes under the counter and said, “You know, all of us are living inside the leviathan, as the leviathan swims along the sea of the universe. Sometimes the leviathan is happy or good-humored enough to tip well, and other times none of these rude assholes tip a damn red cent, because the leviathan is being temperamental. And you see it everywhere in the world, right away. Working these kinds of jobs, especially here in particular, you get to see what the overall vibe of the world around us is. All these guys that come in here, like those assholes you got into it with the other day, they’re corporate over at the Hatfield’s Supercenters office building. You know, that big chain you guys have all over down here. We don’t have anything like those stores in D.C.—”
“In Detroit either.”
“Anyway, those corporate guys make a fuck-ton of money. They even have a cafeteria over there, where they can eat for free, but a lot of them come here anyway. They probably don’t even consider it a different business than where they work, they’re so self-centered. They tip less than a dollar and leave their change like they’re the center of the world. It’s bullshit.”
A few other men in suits arrived and were attended to. Bellacosa sipped his coffee and watched them. There was something comical about the way these suited men took themselves and their jobs so seriously.
Anastasia passed him by and said, “You sure you don’t wanna order anything? It’s about to die down real hard here in a bit.”
“You know what, sure. I’m having a tamal veracruzano today. I’ve never had it here. Was thinking earlier of the banana leaf used to wrap them, and that smell they carry.”
“Okay, all right. I’ll put that right in for you.”
Moments later, while unwrapping the tamal, Bellacosa told himself this little place, Marselita’s, from the people employed right down to the food they served, was one of MacArthur’s hidden treasures. Though they deserved more attention and nicer clientele, he was glad it wasn’t better known.
Without question, the meal satisfied him, and he let the staff of Marselita’s know. By that point, Baby Grand Central had died down significantly and the waitresses were more relaxed, folding silverware and restocking the condiment bin. As she was removing his plate Bellacosa asked Anastasia, “What do you ladies do outside of working here? The both of you?”
“Oh, yeah? You’re that kind of nosy, huh?” Anastasia smiled. “Well, Colleen Rae here’s a musician. And I’m a painter. I actually did the cover for her new record. My parents are Haitian immigrants. They were artists there, before moving to the States. They still are, but not full-time, since they decided to have a family.”
“What part of Asia?”
“Asia? No, Haitian. From Haiti. You seriously believed I said I was Asian? That’s the best, I’m gonna tell my mother that one.”
“Hey,” Colleen Rae cut in, pointing wrapped utensils at Bellacosa, “was it with you that I had that conversation about reading the tarot cards? Remember, I had that book with me about learning the tarot, and you were kind of a jerk. You said I’d only be able to learn the technicalities of the deck if it was handed down to me, from someone who knows. Like how you learn karate or something and you need a sensei. Anyway, after thinking about it and getting to know the cards more and more, I think what you said makes a lot of sense. You said you knew somebody, right? A woman? Can you introduce us? I mean, you think she’ll be down for taking me in as a protégé or something? I’d pay her monies for her troubles, of course. Who is she? Do you mind telling me?”
Bellacosa nodded. “She’s an old friend.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“All right, well, can I get her number?”
“If you want. I can take you down to meet her at the end of your shift.”
“Really? You don’t mind? That’ll be great.”
“No, I don’t mind. If you don’t mind riding in a car with an old man.”
“You hear that one, Anastasia?”
The waitress from Detroit said, “Whatever, I’ve seen Colleen Rae leave here with men a lot older than you.”
Both waitresses laughed and smiled at Bellacosa. He was confused as to what part of the conversation was the punch line and felt like the butt of their joke. Nevertheless, twenty minutes later, Colleen Rae excused herself and in the ladies’ room at Baby Grand Central changed to her street clothes. While Bellacosa waited he sized up the new customer at Marselita’s, another man in a suit, this one older and dark-complected. Bellacosa listened to him ordering, and thought he recognized that high, singsong voice. As he leaned closer he saw the man had the face of Tranquilino, the Aranaña Indian man living in Calantula County.
Bellacosa made an abrupt move toward him with a greeting gesture and said, “Tranquilino, hello.”
The man jerked backward as if about to get robbed. He replied, in perfect English, “Excuse me?”
“I’m the one that wanted the 7900 Rig at your place. In Calantula County.”
The man, visibly scared, said, “I’m sorry. You have me confused with somebody else.”
Bellacosa thought the suited man was joking. He was the carbon copy of Tranquilino. As Colleen Rae came out of the ladies’ room, Bellacosa watched the suited man walk away, with an air that he’d been offended.
Bellacosa, embarrassed and perplexed, apologized to Anastasia for chasing away her customer, and Colleen Rae said, “What was that?”
* * *
ON THE WALK to the car Colleen Rae said, “It’s funny how powerful images can be. Espe
cially if they’ve been around for a long time, like a crucifix, or the Statue of Liberty. Even images in the tarot. Social archetypes that you start noticing patterns of, like the Hermit, or the Hanged Man. Those images are so relevant and powerful to us, still to this day. And it’s funny, what our ideas of certain images become. Sometimes our idea of them has nothing to do with what they originally meant. A swastika is a perfect example of that, how the party in Germany just stole a symbol that had existed for a long time. And the Hanged Man. I always had the impression that the Hanged Man represented something like a doomed fate, but that’s not what the reality is at all. The Hanged Man is a transition, of beginnings and endings. Saying goodbye to one life you knew for another. It’s mostly a good omen. But you see some doomed person on a movie or show visit a creepy person and the character draws the Hanged Man in the Celtic Cross spread, and everyone back home thinks, ‘Damn, he drew the evil card.’ Not so. That’s just bad research, and bad writing by the show’s writers.”
“También como. What’s his name in English? Janus?”
“Janus? The figure, like with the two faces? Yeah. Changing one’s face into another? Oh, no, one face looking to the future, one to the past. Saying goodbye to one thing and hello to another. There must be a middle point in there, too, right? That middle point where you’re switching from one face to the next? Must be painful in the middle of the transition there, your face and bones all contorting. But then afterward, you’re looking ahead with a better face.”
They arrived at a good evening hour, and Ximena was on her porch, having golden pear tea and reading. She chuckled lightly and wrung her hands when Bellacosa’s old Jeep pulled into the street. When she saw there was a young woman as well, she yelled, “Buenas tardes, come in. Come in, mijita, come in.”
Colleen Rae had never seen a house in South Texas with so many artifacts and plants, managing to look well maintained and malnourished at once. When she introduced herself she noticed Ximena’s different-colored eyes. One was pearly gray and the other a dark blue, and her auburn hair carried a long white streak down her left side.
There was an extra cup on her tray and Ximena poured some tea for Colleen Rae. Bellacosa greeted Ximena and excused himself to the restroom. After using it he walked to Ximena’s tidy and rustic kitchen, like it was his own.
On the sill above the dish rack Bellacosa saw five ceramic cups, all with dry coffee grounds. They were the cups Bellacosa had drunk from at different points and were arranged chronologically. The one on the far left had a fine line growing from the center of the cup, toward the lip, and with each consequent cup the line became more and more chaotic, until the final one on the right, which was like the seismograph of a small earthquake. Bellacosa ran the hot water and washed each one of those cups as best he could, arranged them carefully on the rack, and dried his hands with a small green towel hanging on the oven handle.
Bellacosa decided he was going to cook dinner, and while Colleen Rae and Ximena got to know one another he drove not to Hatfield’s Supercenter, but to Corner Mart. He picked up four carrots, two potatoes, a stalk of celery, a red onion, jalapeño, garlic, and a pound and a half of beef chunks. He cooked caldo de res the way his mother used to make, but added potatoes because that’s what Lupita would have liked. Ximena demonstrated to Colleen Rae a few of the lesser-known tarot spreads and explained their uses. Bellacosa left the stew simmering and smoked a Herzegovina Flor standing on the sidewalk in the darkening evening, as loud ranchero music blared somewhere down the block.
Though he’d been chopping, running to the market, and making noise in the kitchen, both Ximena and Colleen Rae were surprised when the smell of the caldo de res wafted in the air around them. Bellacosa announced dinner was ready.
Colleen Rae shuffled her tarot deck and put it away. Ximena helped set the table and grabbed soup bowls with the appropriate cutlery. She set gingham towels next to the silverware, and each of them ladled their own bowl. The ladies were very complimentary and thankful for Bellacosa’s meal, and he felt grateful, too, saying it was nothing. The three of them had dinner and spoke very little. Candlesticks were lit in the middle of the table, erect as majordomos.
Bellacosa insisted on washing the dishes, but the three of them took care of the cleanup together. The conversation between the two women was waning, and everybody became aware of the late hour. Ximena exclaimed what a nice surprise it had been that they dropped by, and reminded Colleen Rae she could visit anytime for another talk. She thanked Bellacosa for the dinner once again, and he kissed Ximena’s hand and thanked her for always being hospitable. Ximena and Colleen Rae exchanged numbers, and then she and Bellacosa rode off in the old Jeep.
“Wow,” Colleen Rae said, “what an intense, wonderful woman. Thank you so much for doing this for me.”
Bellacosa grinned and said, “It’s not a problem. If I didn’t go to Marselita’s and visit Ximena I’d probably never talk to wonderful women.”
Colleen Rae wasn’t put off by this comment, and when they got to her apartment she thanked Bellacosa again and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He felt like a vulnerable, shy boy and slightly blushed, telling her he’d see her again someday.
* * *
BELLACOSA PARKED along his street in north MacArthur, and as he opened the door to his shack felt something kicking inside his chest—he was ready now to deal with the Trufflepig. When he walked in, he half expected the bathroom to be filled with the animal’s piss and shit. The Trufflepig was on the towel in the tub, just the way he’d left it, only the carrots were all gone. The water was untouched, and Bellacosa sat on the seat of the toilet.
“Pinche Huixtepeltinicopatl. Pinche animal cola pelona,” he said to the Trufflepig, and considered that it was just another dumb creature of the earth. Yet he couldn’t help feeling attached to the thing, and he petted it as if it were a pet dog. Clear residue leaked out from the Trufflepig’s eyes and Bellacosa said, “Why are you crying, huh? You’re such a gentle little thing to be crying,” and it wagged its stumpy tail. He petted the Trufflepig, thinking about his brother, and said, “Ay, hermanito. My poor little brother.”
Now that he was home, his mind and body gave in to being tired. Bellacosa decided not to do anything until the morning. He shut the door to the restroom, leaving the Trufflepig in there, and fell asleep on his bed, unable to believe it had snowed in South Texas the night before.
* * *
HE DIDN’T REMEMBER his dreams, but he awoke with a clear image in his mind’s eye of the sea. It was calm, with many different shades of kerosene-blue, and for the first time the idea of the sea didn’t strike him as romantic, but chaotic and unforgiving, even in its most placid state.
Bellacosa took a shit with the Trufflepig watching from the bathtub and chuckled, deciding the creature was, in its own way, quite lovable. He took the Trufflepig back into the living room and then bathed, shaving off his graying mustache of over ten years.
He sat in front of the Trufflepig in the living room and felt the creature was really making eye contact with him. Bellacosa thought he understood what it intended by its gaze, and went over the things he’d seen over the past ten days. He felt very much in touch with his entire life now, felt that all the bad things and the good things had accumulated into something bigger, something towering and looming over all of life since the beginning of time. Looking into the eyes of the Trufflepig, he saw his daughter, his wife, his entire family, and then the Mexican and American people. And crouching behind all of them was the native Aranaña tribe, always moving toward a singular prophecy.
Bellacosa grabbed the Trufflepig and walked outside. He put the creature in the passenger seat of the old Jeep, buckled it in. Bellacosa drove northwest, toward the Ballí Desert. On his way there he shifted from the oldies station to the rock, then conjunto, country, and as he approached the desert found the talk radio station, where the host said, “I am King Solomon, I am the King of Israel,” in a very life-affirming manner. Bellacosa turned up the
volume as the host continued: “This is the new model among young, ambitious professionals, which has been dubbed as Power Mantra Now. It began in meditative circles in New York City and Seattle, where young professionals would choose a historical figure, and take on the power their name and imagery derives. For instance, John Rathers, in North Carolina, evoking the ex-president, when he looks in the mirror each morning repeats, ‘I am Teddy Roosevelt, I built the Panama Canal,’ and the feeling gives him a breath of confidence that carries over to the office. Another believer in the practice is Delilah Affront, from New Port, Michigan, who before a business meeting repeats, “‘I am a strong woman, I am Eva Perón—’”
He shifted the dial. The folk station was airing music from Hawaii, and Bellacosa cranked it up even more, looked down on the Trufflepig, winked at it, and petted its head. When the tune ended he shifted the station again, and a news anchor said, “The arraignment is scheduled for next week. The American president also approved a Border Protectors convoy to escort the thirteen stolen Olmec heads, along with the Mexican Marines, to their rightful locations. Although both governments deny internal knowledge of the thefts, they agreed to conduct a joint investigation on the matter. Meanwhile—”
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Bellacosa arrived at the edge of the Ballí Desert, the land many people claimed God had yet to finish. Looking at the gold, glittered sand and blurry horizon, Bellacosa was sure that not only was the land finished, but God had already destroyed it many times over. That’s why the Aranaña disappeared, carrying the Trufflepigs they’d saved from their collective dream of the fiery Huixtepeltinico volcano—they escaped one destruction only to enter another.
Tears of the Trufflepig Page 23