“No, of course not. But it was a dream. You just know things in dreams. I know they were Toltecs. And this preacher said he had a Christian-Toltec temple.”
“You haven’t been reading The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Toltec Wisdom, have you?”
“What’s that?”
“One of those self-help books whose system is inspired by Toltec philosophy. The author was some suburbanite woman named Rosenthal—no doubt from Long Island or Redondo Beach.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Don’t ask. Just believe me, the Toltecs have been exploited by the shaman tourism industry, exoticist self-help gurus, and antiscientific anthropology for several decades now.”
“Now I’m even more confused. Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
“Let’s just say it’s stuff I knew about at some other time, in some other place, and I’m not the least bit interested in rehashing it.” She sighed. “Besides, I try to steer my students away from it. If I didn’t, we’d have more generations of little Carlito Castanedas running around the hills playing Nagual, and that, I can assure you, is something we don’t need.”
“You could at least give me a clue. What’s this Toltec knowledge that even an idiot can master by reading some cheap paperback?”
“It’s a series of techniques to following the ‘Path of the Toltecs,’” she said, making a face. “Literally hundreds of books, CDs, and movies are available to indoctrinate anyone gullible enough in the secrets of alleged Toltec prophecies, gospels, and oracles.”
“Barry mentioned prophetic visions.”
“There are also guides to using Toltec wisdom for inner peace, personal transformation, knowledge, happiness, freedom, manipulation of body energy, and even for having the same glorious, magical sex the pre-Columbians had, which, as we all know, was truly spectacular,” she said with a snort of laughter.
“Okay, this isn’t helping.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Who were the real Toltecs?”
“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?”
“And the answer?”
“Complicated, complicated…complicated.”
“Try me.”
Alondra sighed deeply and ran a hand through her thick black hair.
“Where is this going to get us?” she asked.
“Humor me. I think it’s important.”
Alondra walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and took several long gulps. Taking a deep breath, she looked lovingly at Joaquin and told him the story of the Toltecs:
“The mistake most people make is to think the Toltecs were a people, a civilization, or a nation. For a long time those in Mesoamerican studies accepted this view, placing their civilization in Tula, Hildalgo. You can even find a book called Art of the Toltecs, which furthers this misconception.”
“Okay, they’re not a people. What are they?”
“They’re really a mythology created by the Aztecs to lend quasi-religious weight to their quest to conquer the disparate peoples of Mesoamerica. It was one of the tools they used to build an empire.”
“Wow! Really?”
Alondra nodded.
“Doesn’t sound very ‘New Age.’”
“Hardly.”
“So how did it all work?”
“Well, the Aztecs claimed that there was an ancient civilization called the ‘Toltecs.’ And I could go into the myth of the Toltecs in detail. But what really matters is that they were an ancient civilization with vast cities and empires. So everything that suggested art, city development, or any centralized government was Toltec. Toltec equals ancient nobility. Hence, by supporting the drive for empire, you are noble.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“The Aztecs were smart dudes.”
“And it went beyond that, because the word Toltec meant ‘artist’ or ‘artisan.’ In common parlance, it could probably be stretched to mean ‘bricklayer.’ So the Aztecs used language to co-opt the very workers who were building the edifices of empire.”
“Wait a second,” Joaquin said. “We’re all battling this today. We’re becoming Toltecs even when we think we’re fighting them.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“It’s so clear. Don’t you see it?”
“Not really.”
“We think we’re so smart and progressive. But when we idolize technology, even for good reasons, or for silly reasons, even for Ghost Radio, we’re pushing forward the phalanxes of empire. We’re becoming Toltec.”
“I think you’re right,” Alondra said with a solemn nod.
“Wait, it goes beyond that.”
Joaquin looked around the room. His eyes darted from floor to ceiling, they snapped into the corners, and traced the moldings.
“What’s the matter?”
“They’re here: sliding between day and night, light and shadow, dream and reality.”
“The Toltecs? That makes sense,” Alondra said. “The Toltecs supposedly believed that life is a dream.”
Joaquin remembered Barry’s words:
The dream disappears when the dreamer stops dreaming.
“They believed that our lives aren’t real. We’ve been trained to believe in a reality that someone else has dreamed. That way, when we finally wake up, we can take control of the dream and be happy. I guess.” She shrugged.
“That’s what Barry said, that the dream disappears when the dreamer stops dreaming. What I hadn’t mentioned yet is that after the pastor died, the world stood still.”
“Okay, unless your pastor was Pope Benedict himself, I think we can assume that what happened was a dream of your own. Do you think everything really stood still?”
“After Barry said that, I left, and the streets were completely deserted—like an abandoned city. Tell me more about the Toltecs. Do you believe in that stuff?”
“I never believed in it, but someone else in my life did. Forget about it. You know how I hate talking about the past.”
Joaquin leaned forward. “Right now I’m asking you to make an exception.”
“I’m no expert on the Toltecs, but like I told you before, these cults exploit the concept of lucid dreams.”
“Lucid dreams?”
“It’s the notion that you can dream and be aware and in control at the same time, and thus experience your dreams as a sort of ‘alternate reality’ where you can do anything: you can fly; you can fulfill your most perverted, wild sexual fantasies without any danger.”
“I feel like I’ve been living out the nightmares of other people, but not of my own free will.”
“Joaquin, I think it’s natural, up to a point, that when you listen to horror stories every day, your mind starts playing tricks on you.”
“But where are my visions coming from?”
“No doubt the same place as the rest of our stimuli: the environment, TV, movies, video games. What do I know? Maybe The Matrix. Insisting on seeing that trilogy fifty times in a row couldn’t have done your imagination any favors. You’re turning into a Neo of the airwaves.”
“This isn’t funny.”
She stopped smiling, but not very convincingly.
“Fine, fine, it’s a matter of vital importance and not simply indigestion of the mind.”
“They’re not just images or visions or echoes of the media, Alondra. They’re living experiences that drag me from place to place complete with smells, colors, filth, pain. Everything. Look at these.”
Joaquin pointed at the mark on his face and lifted his shirt to show her the bruises the preacher’s fists had left behind.
“What happened to you?”
“I fought with a fat man in a bathrobe on a today that never happened.”
“Well, sometimes we psychosomaticize events. We can physically manifest things we’ve imagined. Or maybe you just hit yourself on something. It could be plenty of things.”
Alondra carefully ins
pected the bruises on Joaquin’s torso. They definitely looked like the marks of a beating and not the cutaneous symptoms of emotional disturbance.
“You didn’t fall down some stairs?”
“At this point, I don’t know what to believe.”
chapter 42
INSIDE THE CANNIBAL HOSPITAL
The hospital had long, endless corridors. The facility had been army property, and during World War II, it had seen its share of action. Joaquin and Gabriel spent their first wheelchair ride without nurses slowly exploring the many wings on their floor. They read the commemorative plaque that hung in front of the administration offices and watched the nurses. Especially one who they both agreed had the most impressive breasts in the hospital. They did everything together as long as they could avoid talking about personal things.
After days of anxiety and loneliness, watching game shows, talk shows, and soap operas, Joaquin went looking for Gabriel again. He felt the need to be close to him, to get to know who he was, what he did, where he went to school, and what music he liked. What worried him the most, though, was the question he couldn’t muster the courage to ask: What was going to happen to them after they left the hospital? At that time, he had no idea what arrangements were going to be made for him: How would his custody be resolved? Where would he live? It still felt as if his parents’ death had never happened. He had to believe that Gabriel was going through a similar, excruciating process, coming to terms with a new reality.
As soon as he had permission to move about more freely, Joaquin searched for Gabriel in his wheelchair. One morning, he found him in one of the gardens reading a book. Joaquin stopped a few yards away.
“It’s good to see you. I just finished this novel that I borrowed from the guy in the bed next to me,” said Gabriel.
“What is it?”
“Stories by Stephen King. Do you like horror stories?”
“A lot. And I like Stephen King too.”
“Do you want to read this one? Just give it back to me when you’re done or my neighbor will hit me with his crutches. That was literally what he said.”
“When you’re in a wheelchair, that’s a serious threat.”
“Don’t you have anything to read?”
“No. To be honest, I didn’t plan on being here.”
Gabriel chuckled.
“I didn’t plan on this vacation either.”
They talked a little about music, trends, the techniques used by certain guitar players, and the equipment used by keyboard musicians. They went on to discuss styles and reasons to make music at a time when the field was completely saturated. The conversation didn’t end there; in fact, it became one of those critical elements in their relationship—a contentious point that was impossible to resolve but vital to the way they made music.
“I think that as long as you feel the need to express yourself with music, as long as you’re having fun and like it…” said Gabriel, whose attitude was more relaxed.
“That’s fine, but it’s important to know that what you do is important, innovative. To say something that no one has ever heard before.”
“Why would that be more important? First and foremost, you make music for yourself.”
Joaquin was dismissive.
“That’s bullshit. Everybody makes music for an audience. Maybe on a certain level it gives you satisfaction, stimulation, maybe you even need to do it, but I think that if you don’t consider the listener, the whole thing is meaningless.”
“No, that’s secondary. First you have to enjoy it and feel the satisfaction that what you’re doing is good. Then you can see if someone else likes it.”
“Well, maybe that’s fine if you play classical music where what matters the most is the technique. In that case you can view it like a sport that you try to perform with more and more grace, speed, and agility each time. Or I guess if you’re a mariachi or studio musician, without any aspirations beyond playing a gig and collecting a paycheck.”
“No, you’re completely wrong. You have a very mercenary vision of music.”
“And you’re just talking nonsense. The only person who could fulfill your idea of ‘playing music for yourself’ is a retarded sixteen-year-old girl who’s never had her period.”
The argument was endless. It varied in intensity and typically lost coherence until suddenly one of them would lose patience, become irritable, and tell the other to fuck off. A minute or two later, they would be talking again as if nothing had happened.
Gabriel and Joaquin began conquering more territory within the hospital. They spent a lot of time together, and eventually arranged a transfer to a semiprivate room.
Most of the nurses were affectionate and gave them more attention and privileges than the other patients. They didn’t force them to be on ridiculous diets, they let them use an old radio with a tape player, and one of the nurses even lent them a guitar as a friendly gesture. Of course she thought they would start singing popular songs for the rest of the patients. It was a bitter moment for her, hearing their first strange collaborations, in which they incorporated organic, metallic, guttural, even gastric noises. There was a lot of Zappa-like humor, but there was also a seed of what would become their future sound. Regardless of being the favorites, they soon lost their musical privileges; apparently it annoyed the patients, the medical staff, and the neighbors. Gabriel built a very simple synthesizer with electronic parts he’d liberated from a storage room full of old medical equipment. He used tape recorders to amplify the sounds made by his invention. Joaquin, for his part, constantly collected cans, bottles, pieces of metal and wood, and other objects he would use to improvise percussion instruments. Unfortunately, on several occasions he returned to the room to discover that his instrument had been tossed into the garbage. Gabriel had heard about the tape cut-up technique used by beatniks like William Burroughs; he explained to Joaquin the endless possibilities that existed if they incorporated rhythms, textures, and voices appropriated from the radio into their music.
“Sounds a little like what the Dadaists did,” responded Joaquin enthusiastically.
“That’s right. Something like that—like found art.”
When your hours are long and idle, it’s almost inevitable that you make your own entertainment, one way or another. A poor man with an advanced case of pancreatitis had a collection of cassettes; apparently his daughter preferred sending recorded messages to writing letters. Joaquin and Gabriel figured that given his condition, it was unlikely he would miss some of the tapes, so they “borrowed” a few. They recorded hospital noises, voices, radio interference, then used a sharp knife and cellophane tape to make some loops, and played them on the tape player.
One night, when they’d been up late talking, Joaquin was fiddling around with the radio. He turned the dial idly, searching for patterns that could be incorporated into a piece they had composed that day, when he came across Ghost Radio, a program in which the public would call in to retell all kinds of horror stories, unexplainable anecdotes, and macabre experiences. Some tales were fascinating, some unbelievable; some defied description. In general, the broadcast was enthralling and they were hooked from the first moment. After that, they listened to the show faithfully, every night. Change was important because it broke the stifling monotony of the hospital, but doing something regularly gave them a pleasant sensation of normalcy. Soon their horror session was the day’s most exciting activity.
Of course, stories of horrible deaths, phantasms, and accidents seemed like the last kind of entertainment one would recommend for a couple of teenagers who had just tragically lost their parents. But in a certain way, the stories were like vaccinations that helped them share the pain. Most had a naive, camp element that neutralized the horror and transformed it into something acceptable, human—even ridiculous. Gabriel and Joaquin listened attentively to the callers and drank Cokes they’d smuggled into their room.
Every once in a while, a nurse would walk in and catch them. Most o
f the time the nurses just let the boys continue listening, although on occasion they objected and tried to impose their authority, turning off the treasured radio or even threatening to confiscate it. Fortunately, none of them ever followed through.
Sometimes, the boys even managed to get a hit of weed acquired from one of the janitors in exchange for the most diverse and unusual objects that they could get their hands on, from almost full boxes of chocolates to electric razors that they “found” while they were left unattended somewhere.
Gabriel often claimed that his school friends would visit him soon. He said that he would introduce Joaquin to the members of his band, but days went by and no one ever came. After some time, Joaquin realized that it was a delicate subject. He didn’t know the details, but evidently Gabriel’s friends didn’t miss him that much. Gabriel made several calls to his friend Mike; each time, Mike promised that he would visit. Joaquin, on the other hand, had no expectations that any of his friends would come, but he waited anxiously for his grandmother to pick him up. The situation had been explained to her, and he had spoken with her on the phone, and it had been an extremely difficult conversation. Neither of them had cried. Both made a tremendous effort to be restrained, holding in their feelings, as if a single tear would unleash an uncontrollable avalanche of emotions.
One morning, Gabriel appeared.
“Come on, follow me. You’re not going to believe it.”
Joaquin followed him down the corridor and up a ramp; when they reached a doorway, Gabriel spoke.
“Here we are. What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
“The track, you idiot,” he said, pointing to a path surrounding a part of the garden that was not well traveled.
Abruptly Gabriel lunged down the ramp, picking up speed and propelling himself with all the strength in his arms. Joaquin was startled; he had thought Gabriel was about to tell him something personal, and suddenly he was going full speed down an empty hospital corridor. His natural reaction was to race after him, trying to gain the fastest speed possible. He had no idea how strong the wheelchairs were, and the thought of what would happen if he ran over someone didn’t even cross his mind.
Ghost Radio Page 17