“Juan, how are you?” The voice was noble and refined.
“Just wonderful, Alfonso, and yourself?”
“Can’t complain. How is the family?”
“Excellent—and how is yours?”
“Wonderful. I trust that Marisela and Antonio are doing well, and Rosa?
“Yes, yes. Well, what can I help you with?”
“I just called to congratulate you on the economic boom you’re experiencing.”
“Economic boom?” Guerrero chuckled slyly. “Uhh . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No need to be humble, Juan, everyone this side of the border has heard about the Sino-Aztlan trade deal you just inked with China. Your port cities are crammed with vessels, your per-capita income has just exceeded that under former U.S. rule . . . no need to dissemble with an old friend,” Alfonso chided goodheartedly.
“Oh, that economic boom.”
“Yes, yes. How did you manage to pull that off after you expelled so many Chinese-Americans from Aztlan? They weren’t offended?”
“Perhaps. But bear in mind that the people we removed weren’t harmed, they were compensated for their property, and the governments of China and Korea viewed them as Americans, rather than their own, anyway.”
“Interesting. So how long do you think this economic boom will last?”
“Honestly, Alfonso, I think we’re only just beginning to realize our economic potential—sky’s the limit.”
There was silence for several moments.
“So, eh, when will the parent country begin to see the fruits of this twenty-first century mercantilism?” The president of Mexico’s laughter boomed into Guerrero’s ear. “We sent you to colonize the American west, now we want to see some dineros . . . hand them over my friend,” Caballero teased.
“Not so fast,” Guerrero laughed, and smiled, “I’ve got to save all my money for Marisela’s Quinceanera —the girl plans to bankrupt me with some kind of crazy ski trip.”
“Really? Where does she want to go?”
“Hasn’t decided yet.” Guerrero examined the cultural mural on the sword blade with approval. “I believe skiing at Squa Valley, but I’m not sure.”
“Well, she’s a beautiful, intelligent young lady, and I wish her the best.”
“Thank you, Alfonso. You’re a real friend.”
“Yes, and all joking aside, I seriously want to congratulate you. I fill with pride when I hear of your latest accomplishments—both economic and military. Until recently Aztlan has been a mere abstraction—a metaphor for hope and change in Hispanic lore. But you crystallized and reified that abstraction. Juan, you have been blessed by God—you are a savior of our people—and a role model.”
“No . . . I’m merely a caretaker of our race. I live for my people—they mean the world to me. But I’m no savior—leave that to the Nazarene.”
Again, there was silence, and Guerrero’s brows knit after many moments.
“Which brings me to something else I want to discuss with you,” Caballero said slowly.
“Si?”
“Juan, since the fall of the Vatican in 2052 to Muslim armies, where do you think the seat of Catholic power has resided?”
“Tenochtitlan.”
“Er, yes. Call it Mexico City, por favor.” Caballero’s voice was cold and metallic. “I’ve heard rumors for quite a while now that you’re imposing some kind of racial paganism in Aztlan. Is this true?”
“I’m imposing nothing, Alfonso. The people can believe what they wish—I want harmony between Christians and pagans.”
“Pagans?” The Mexican president’s voice was bitter. “I can see by your facile use of the term that there is truth to these rumors. Since when have Mexicans been pagans?”
“Since when have Mexicans not been pagans?” countered Guerrero. “We were coerced into Christianity in the mid sixteenth century. So we’ve been Christian for about six-hundred years. Pit that chronological eye-blink against the thousands of years of our polytheism. The people want to return to their roots, Alfonso, and I’m not about to stop them.”
“That’s a very morbid and blasphemous stance for a much-admired leader,” challenged Cabellero. “Thousands—millions of people look up to you. You should be a strong Catholic. I’ve heard of ‘romantic nationalism,’ but this is a travesty—a blasphemy! And I’m going to be frank with you. Your people’s heathenism seems to be contagious, because it’s spilling south into Mexico and farther south still into South America. Church attendance is sparse but the ruins of Teotihuacan are packed with men, women, and children dressed in robes and feathers trying to reconstruct some God-forsaken, primitive devil worship.”
“It’s not diabolism, Alfonso. Don’t apply Christian notions of God and Satan to the Mesoamerican faiths.”
“Damn it, listen to you. You sound like some kind of pagan apologist. For all I know you’ve signed a pact with Lucifer and are leading black Masses yourself—maybe that explains your economic prosperity.”
“Alfonso, calm down.” Guerrero laughed. “You sound loco.”
“No, I won’t calm down! Our Catholic faith is dying, you don’t give a shit, and not only that, you’re obviously facilitating its destruction by grooming and nurturing this hideous paganism within your country. And it’s spreading south like a damned plague wind. The people are beginning to worship Satanic gods and goddesses out of mythology instead of our savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Okay, your ignorance is starting to aggravate me.” Guerrero choked the hilt of the sword, his face suddenly stern. “First of all, you may call it mythology, but to our ancestors it was a vibrant, legitimate religion. Second, as I told you, it’s not Satanic. The idea of Satan was alien to our world view. If you don’t personally subscribe to Mesoamerican religion you should at least respect it. It’s the religion that our people devised. Those gods and goddesses that you call evil are the theological repositories of everything our ancestors held dear—their hopes and dreams, their fears and nightmares. Our religion is sacred, and if the people wish to apostatize, and choose to reject Semitic-Anglo Christianity for their own indigenous faith, I say may the gods bless them.”
There was momentary silence.
“Well, God, Juan . . . damn it, you don’t understand!” the president of Mexico garbled. “Hispanics are practically the only Catholics left. How can you be so cavalier about the death of our faith?”
“My friend,” consoled Guerrero, “I think that if you’re perceptive, you’ll begin to notice a substantial change in our world—a return to the old. For better or worse, as the white man dies his ideas die with him. We, the people of bronze, are taking back our land, our honor, and our faith. After six-hundred years of oppression, we’re finally beginning to realize our identity. You couldn’t stop our people’s rediscovery of their religion if you tried—it’s the spirit of the times, and it’s sweeping over everything with vengeance.”
“Well, in case you’re ignorant on the subject, a reinstitution of our ‘sacred’ indigenous faith will bring with it a reign of blood. Haven’t you ever read any Aztec codices? They look like comic books but are far more violent.”
“I’ve read the codices—I’ve had them explained to me in Nahuatl.”
“Of course you had them explained.” The president of Mexico’s voice wavered with emotion. “Because you don’t even have the reading skills of our cretin Aztec ancestors.”
Through the phone, Caballero heard a swipe through wind, the splintering of wood, and the snap of electricity.
“I’m revoking my offer from a few months back!” Guerrero’s voice was sand paper. “I don’t need your help conquering Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas—so you better keep your troops the fuck out of there. You’re not getting the smallest sliver of U.S. soil. That’s because you’re an obstructionist, self-loathing race-traitor, and you don’t deserve it. Despite everything you do, your people are going to break free of your prison. They will come to Aztlan, where they will b
e uncaged and permitted to fly. And by the way, if our ancestors were cretins, how could they have mastered calendrics and built a capital city more populous and in some ways more advanced than the European cities of that era?”
The president of Mexico was equally livid. “I’ll take Texas if I want Texas! I’ll take Arizona and New Mexico if I want them! I don’t need your approval. So make sure you keep your troops the fuck out of there because I’ll personally rout your rag-tag pagans from the field. Damn it, Juan, you’re leading our people into darkness—you had so much potential and you’re ruining it all.”
“I’m leading no one into darkness. Of their own free will, our people are marching into the primordial mists of their history—chronology is inverting, and what was new is now old and what was old is now new. You’re a fool if you think the Reconquista is limited to military conquest. The land, the borders, the economy—they’re secondary. First and foremost is the Reconquista of our identities, of our souls.
“We are on the cusp of a new century—the Aztec century! And if you try to position yourself in the path of our people’s upward growth with your papism and outworn notions of proper religious practice, prepare to be knocked the hell out of the way. Not by me, but by the people, because they’re not going to relent until they’ve ascended to the stars!” Guerrero thundered.
***
Teo dug his fork into the last soggy piece of cake. He mopped the forkful around in the shallow bowl, sponging up the cream. Then, he pushed the dripping piece into his mouth, chewed, and smiled.
“That tres leches was delicious, Rosa. Thank you,” he complimented, nodding at the two females at the kitchen table.
“Actually, I made it.” Marisela smiled, her chin resting on her open palms.
“What a great post-workout snack,” he noted.
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, you should have said something—I would have offered you something else,” apologized Rosa.
“No, I’m serious—I meant what I said.”
“Really?” asked Marisela, incredulous. “I’ve had nutrition class, and I don’t think tres leches would qualify as an ideal post workout meal.” She laughed. “It’s so full of sugar.”
“Precisely.” Teo grinned, easing back in the chair. “High glycemic sugary foods, low in fat, are good for weight lifters like myself after training. After a heavy workout, muscles are depleted of glucose. So you’re supposed to help yourself to carbs with a high glycemic index to replenish the glucose and speed recovery. And the protein in the milk was an added bonus. What a nice treat.” He winked at the girl.
“But I thought sugar was bad for you,” Rosa commented.
“Only if you’re diabetic,” he explained. “Give me real sugar any day over chemically-engineered artificial sweeteners.”
“There are a lot of diabetics on both sides of the family.” Rosa frowned.
“Yes, same here. It’s very prevalent among indigenous peoples, unfortunately.” The man sighed. “But until the day, the gods forbid, that I become diabetic, no one’s gonna’ keep me from my real sugar.”
Everyone laughed.
“So you’re really into nutrition and working out?” asked the girl. “I love to workout too.”
“I lift five or six days a week. And I really enjoy nutritional science. I’m into the organic and whole foods, vitamins, minerals—all that stuff.”
“That’s wonderful.” Marisela’s eyes gleamed. “It shows in your build. You don’t look like the other priests of Aztlan.”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Well, that’s probably just because I’m pretty young.”
“How old are you, Teo?” asked Rosa.
“Twenty-seven, ma’am.”
“And where are you from?”
“I was born in Vera Cruz but grew up in Tenochtitlan.”
“And how did you end up here in Aztlan?” Rosa sipped her coffee.
“Uh, kind of embarrassing, really.” The priest’s face was a fleeting red. “I was studying for my doctorate in religious studies at the University of Mexico. Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t flunk out.” His eyes widened at the look of concern on Rosa’s face. “I just was kind of, well, burned out on academia for a while and wanted to get away. When I heard about the resurgence of Aztec religion here in Aztlan, and how your husband is sponsoring it, I knew I had to check it out. And, well, here I am.”
“But how did you manage to become a priest so fast—that’s not an easy feat, as I understand.”
“Well, the priests are elected by a council. The council is elected by the people of Aztlan. I speak fluent Nahuatl and several other Mesoamerican dialects—I know that helped my ascension big time. But yeah, there was definitely some disapproval and skepticism going on because of my age. Then I managed to get a few articles published in established theological journals, and they started to appreciate me. So, I guess it’s been a struggle, but more and more of the other priests are starting to accept me. And besides, other than age, what do the other priests have that I don’t? I’m far more learned than they are in just about every facet of Aztec culture and religion.”
“You’re so smart! Do you enjoy what you do?” the girl inquired.
“Uhm, yes. You know, we don’t have a lot of the strictures of Christian priests or ministers. But the pay is still pretty pathetic. And the people have this high expectation of me—lots of them think I have supernatural powers. It’s kind of funny sometimes, because like people come up to me on the street and ask me to predict the future of our people. And I’m like, ‘the hell if I know what’s going to happen.’”
Teo led the laughter.
“Hey, what happened to Mictlan?” asked Rosa.
“Yeah, Antonio still has his knife.” Marisela snickered, but felt a chill course up her spine.
“Well, I don’t really know. He did quit the priesthood, though, because he’s no longer at the meetings or services.”
“He seemed so troubled. I bet the other priests really mocked him for his radicalism,” Rosa conjectured.
“I wish they had.” The man exhaled sharply. “But unfortunately his views are embraced by many of the priests and council members. I need to speak to your husband about this as a matter of fact. Things could spin out of control. Not today, but maybe months from now—all hell could break loose.”
“Really?” Rosa gasped. “So you’re telling me they want to kill the Spaniards who live in Aztlan?”
“Some of them do.” He nodded.
Marisela dropped her fork and it clattered in her bowl.
“But not many of them do. Unfortunately, the minority tends to bully the majority. The biggest debates revolve around how faithfully to resurrect our religion. As you can imagine, the most contentious subjects are not the historical accuracy of our regalia, or the favoring of certain architectural styles. The biggest debates revolve around ceremonial procedure—the blade, the victim, the heart.”
Rosa’s daughter scooted her chair away from the table, and her face grew ashen.
“Many of the priests, myself among them, believe the taking of the heart should be a symbolic ritual only. Unfortunately, some of the most influential priests believe otherwise. Some of those who believe otherwise argue that victims should be pulled from our prisons—others believe it is high time we take reprisal against the Spanish living here.”
Marisela folded her arms around her stomach, and her face was tense.
“I feel sick,” she whispered. “I hate it . . . why does daddy have to be a part of this?”
She glared at her mother defiantly until her resolve broke, and a tear skimmed her cheek.
Teo sighed, and spoke quickly. “Hey, don’t worry Marisela. I’m going to talk to your father about this and I’m sure he’ll do something to stop it. Don’t worry; everything’s going to be okay.”
“Daddy won’t do anything!” She addressed her mother. “And before you know it people’s hearts are going to be ripped out and their bodies will be kicked
down temple stairs.” More tears spilled over her cheeks, and she wiped her nose. “I’m sorry, I have to go . . . I must look like crap.”
She rose and walked briskly from the room.
“I’m so sorry, Rosa. It seems like every time I come here there’s a blow up. I’m two for two now.”
“Oh, no, it’s not your fault,” she assured him. “These problems have been latent in our family for quite a while. You need to tell my husband what you just told my daughter and me. He has no idea.”
“I will, you can count on it. But why did you invite me here this afternoon?”
Rosa felt his heavy gaze, and she turned away.
“My daughter . . . you probably already know . . . she has a crush on you.”
The priest smiled as the thought, and its implications, registered.
“Well, she’s a little young. But, admittedly, the daughter of a president is . . . whoa.” He blinked. “There’s a lot of power there. And she’s certainly pretty and intelligent. Beauty and intellect are attributes I look for in women and . . .”
“Teo,” Rosa’s voice was cold, “we don’t want you to court her. You’re too old for her.”
“Oh,” he murmured, a bit defensively. “Well . . . who do you want me to court, then?” His brown eyes stared unabashedly into hers.
“No one,” she replied firmly, sipping her coffee. “Tell me what you know about firearms and hand-to-hand combat.”
“What?” He choked, sputtering droplets across the table. “Didn’t see that one coming. Uhh, not much really.” As he rose to napkin the spilled coffee his eyes lingered on the curves of her blouse. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He smiled.
“How nice.”
“Yes, it has its advantages.”
“And its disadvantages. This day in age, with all the upheaval and war going on, I believe that we all should have some fighter in us.”
“Well, I’m sure I have some fighter in me . . . somewhere.” He rapped on his left pec with his fist. “But I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Marisela wants you to be one of her bodyguards on a ski trip for her Quinceanera. Would you be willing to accept some classes in firearms training and hand-to-hand combat?”
The Gods of Color Page 19