Kingdom Cons

by Yuri Herrera

  “It’s time,” he said. “Hustle up, and ask the boys to accompany you.”

  The Artist stood nervously and walked to the stage. On the way he sensed the shape and the scent of a different sort of woman but refused to turn his head and look, tho the heat lingered. He stood among the musicians, said Just follow my lead, and launched in. People already knew the story, but no one had ever sung it. He’d asked endless questions to find out what went down, to compose this song and present it to the King. It told of his mettle and his heart, put to the test in a hail of bullets, and had a happy ending not only for the King but also for the down-and-outs he kept under his wing. Beneath that enormous vaulted ceiling his voice projected, taking on depths it never had in the cantinas. He sung his song with the faith of a hymn, the certainty of a sermon, and above all he made sure it was catchy, so people would learn it with their feet and their hips, and so they, too, would sing it later.

  When he was done, the crowd showered him with whistles and applause, the elegant musicians clapped him on the back and the Lords accompanying the King headbobbed in contentment and pooched their lips in—the Artist hoped—envy. He climbed down to pay his respects. The King looked him in the eye and the Artist bowed his head.

  “I knew you had talent as soon as I saw you,” said the King, who, it was known, never forgot a face. “All your songs that good, Artist?”

  “I do my best, sir,” the Artist stammered.

  “Well, don’t hold back, then: write; stick with the good guys and it’ll all go your way.” He nodded to another man standing nearby and said, “Take care of him.”

  The Artist bowed again and followed the man, fit to burst into tears and blinded by bright lights and his future. Then he took a deep breath, said to himself, It’s really happening, and came back down to earth. That was when he remembered the silhouette that had caught his attention. He looked around. And at the same time, the man spoke.

  “I’m the Manager. Take care of accounts. You never ask Señor for money, you ask me. Tomorrow I’ll take you to a man who does the recording. You give him everything you write,” the Manager stopped, seeing the Artist’s eyes wander. “And don’t stick your snout where it doesn’t belong; don’t even look at a woman who doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Who does that one belong to?” The Artist pointed to a trussed-up girl to cover his tracks.

  “That one,” said the Manager like he was distracted, like his mind was on something else, “belongs to whoever needs her.”

  He turned back to the Artist, measuring him up, then called the girl over and said, “The Artist here has made Señor very happy; treat him well.”

  And falling prey to an absurd panic, fearful of what he sensed was about to happen, but more fearful of succumbing to that other aroma, the Artist accepted the Girl’s delicate hand and allowed himself to be led from the hall.

  ‌

  What was all that about having been here before, in another life? About God having a chosen path for each of us, since the start of time? For a while, the idea kept the Artist up nights, until he beheld an image in the Palace that freed him: an exquisite apparatus, a turntable with diamond stylus that played thirtythrees and belonged to the Jeweler, who one weekend forgot to turn it off, and, when he noticed two days later, found it no longer worked.

  That’s it, thought the Artist. That’s all we are. Contraptions that get forgotten, serve no purpose. Maybe God put the needle on the record and then went off to nurse a hangover. The Artist already had clear that there was no one high in the sky or down underground looking out for him, that it was each to their own, but now, at the Court, he was starting to see that you could have a little fun before the diamond turned to dust. Not just wait around.

  The gift the King had given him days earlier was the sign: his wait was over.

  The Girl’s blood was a delicate brook trickling over pebbles, but her body inclined to an uncommon skill that took the Artist’s breath away for two days straight. You’re learning, she’d say, and after each swoon he’d want to drop dead or get married, and would weep. The girl portended so much world, even in the farflung way she spoke, and she’d laugh: I just gave you a nudge and out came a stud, songman. She, too, had been saved by the King; rescued from a hovel by the bridge and brought to the Palace. Now the Girl named her enthusiasm with words newly learned:

  “It’s amped here, singer, it’s trick as shit; man, it’s all sauce; it’s wicked, slick, I mean this place is tight; people here come from everywhere and everybody’s down.”

  How she thirsted for happiness, but the Artist could see in her eyes that she also yearned for other affections, for things not found in the Palace.

  For the first few days almost all the Artist did was eat. From the start, he would show up in the dining room when the guards were being fed and share their rations. But all that did was awaken a hunger that had long since skulked within. The Girl told him to do as she had, when she first arrived with a stomach empty for years: turn up as soon as the King, who also ate there—occasionally even with the others—was done, and finish anything he’d left untouched. There were always several dishes, and the chef allowed them to be eaten provided nothing was taken out of the hall.

  Spending so much time there, the Artist began to hear the stories people told as they lingered over the table after mealtime, and he used them to weave the fabric of his songs.

  “Fools take me for a chump, I lose my shit,” one said. “The other week a mule tried to short me, so I took a pair of pliers and tore off his thumbs. No need to kill him, but at least now he’ll have a hard time counting his cash. Shitbag deserved it for playing dirty, right?”

  “Deep down, I’m a sentimental guy,” said another. “So to keep track of the dogs I smoke, I pull a tooth from each one and stick it in my dashboard; wonder how many smiles I’ll end up with in my truck.”

  They loved each other like brothers, they scratched each other’s bellies, they gave each other nicknames. One was a guard who’d been caught poking a calf so they called him the Saint, since animals loved him.

  “Damn, Saint, you’re sick,” they taunted, “I just realized this barbecue tastes like you.”

  Some poor fatty who’d had his arms ripped off as payback now worked there as a messenger; he wore a backpack and roamed the Palace making deliveries. They called him Danger Boy and when the guards saw him coming they’d shout, “Danger! Danger!” And Danger Boy would laugh.

  The Artist realized that people saw him only when he sang or they wanted someone to hear how tough they were; and that was good, because it meant he could see how things worked in the Court. Like a cat in a new house, he gradually began to venture out beyond the dining hall and the Girl’s room. He got lost constantly. The Palace was a simple grid with a courtyard at the center but there were so many unpredictable corridors that sometimes when he thought he was headed one way, he’d end up at the other end of the building. To keep from being overwhelmed by the Palace’s grandiosity, the Artist began carrying one of the Girl’s tiny mirrors, observing details over his shoulder: carved furniture, metal doors, candelabras. That was also how he was able to observe, unnoticed, visitors from the cities, suits with briefcases, officers of the law who’d come for their kickback, the business never ended. It was like being invisible.

  He discovered that in addition to the King, his guards, the girls and the servants, several courtiers lived there as well. The one he always bumped into was the Manager, ever busy ensuring things ran smoothly. He took him to meet a band that was to record his lyrics so he could make sure the songs came out the way he’d heard them in his head; he even recorded a song himself.

  “Then the Journalist will promote your music with his contacts on the radio,” the Manager said.

  The Artist went back to his digs only once, to keep the dogs from taking over his box; but since no one seemed to notice him at the Palace, or else they’d grown used to him, he brought his few belongings—a notebook with his songs, a dres
sy vest—and settled in.

  ‌

  To no courtier did he deny his talents. He wrote a corrido for the house Gringo, a master at devising routes for product. The Gringo had cozied up to a gang of young buzz-seekers who crossed over every Friday to kick it this side of the wall. You got a caretaker in me, you sure do; they trusted. The wildest one was a freckled kid, son of a Consul who the Gringo would send back home with fatherly affection and car seats stuffed with weed. Nice little setup, till freckles got lost in a fleapit shooting gallery. Top-notch corrido. He wrote one for the Doctor, the Court’s Número Uno stitch-it man, who the King sent to treat a triggerman that got shotgunned in the stomach. The punk was double-crossing, but didn’t know they knew. The Doctor eased his pain but also slipped in a gift for the shits he worked for. So when the two-timer went to see his handlers, the poison in his belly blew up on cue and brought them all down, no glory. He wrote one for Pocho, the guy with gringo airs who used to say, as if it were his name: I didn’t cross the border; the border crossed me. Pocho had been a cop on the other side but one day he found himself in a jam, and justice shone its light on him: three of his men had surrounded the King, who was prepared to die with honor rather than go down, but a snitch came up to Pocho and said, Who says you got to be on their side? So he emptied his clip into the uniformed thugs, and has been with the good guys ever since.

  To no courtier did he deny his talents, but the Artist recounted the feats of each man without forgetting who made it all possible. Sure, you’re down, because the King allows it. Sure, you’re brave, because the King inspires you. The only time he didn’t mention the King’s name was when he wrote little love songs that some courtier requested in hushed tones. After, they’d slap him on the back or hook his neck and say, Whatever you want, Artist. Of course he also couldn’t use the King’s name when he wrote words for little jobs requiring letters. Things like We’re sending our cop, so don’t sweat the authorities—and he knew to spell authorities au; or Write your personal details here, on a bogus passport. The Artist knew how to make himself useful. And knew how to gain respect: if he said Not just now, I’m working on a corrido, the courtiers listened.

  Only two men in the Court didn’t ask for corridos. And damn if they didn’t deserve them. He saw them together on a Palace balcony tossing back a couple of whiskeys. When he told the Heir he had a story almost ready for him, the man said:

  “Later.” Clenched his jaw as if holding back the words that followed and simply repeated, “Later.”

  He was spine-chilling, the Heir, with his impeccable solid-colored shirts, never a single stain, tho his eyes foretold explosion. The man contained himself as if always on his best behavior.

  And the other one who declined, the Journalist, the man who maintained the King’s good name, said:

  “Better not, because if you paint my picture then I’m no use. Imagine: if people on the outside find out I’m on the inside, who’s going to believe I don’t know what’s what?”

  The Artist understood. He had to let the man do his job. In order to keep fools entertained with clean lies, the Journalist had to make them seem true. But the real news was the Artist’s job, the stuff of corridos, and there were so many yet to sing that he could forget whatever didn’t serve the King.

  “No offense,” the Journalist said, “I don’t mean to insult you. And since you like to write so much, I’m going to bring you some books, if I may.”

  The Artist could feel his guts seize up in excitement, but he was good at concealing things so you couldn’t tell.

  “You’ll love them, just wait,” said that Journalist. “When a person likes words, they’re like booze for your ears.”

  Just then all three turned their heads, because down the hall came the King, at a furious pace, looking haggard. He was followed by a woman with long gray hair and a long dress; badass, with a blistering air. The King stopped for a second, turned to look as tho surprised to see them there, then continued on his way and entered the room at the end of the hall. It’s time, the woman said, and then followed him. They slammed the door.

  The Artist hadn’t seen him since the day of the dance. He hadn’t missed the King’s presence because the King was always present: in the devotion with which he was mentioned; in his orders, which were all carried out; in the luster of the place.

  “There they go,” said the Journalist, pulling on his drink. “This about the Traitor or is it the same old thing?”

  The Heir gripped his glass and nodded but seemed to be responding to nothing.

  “That witch,” he finally mumbled. And then, when it seemed he wasn’t going to add anything else: “But things are changing.”

  The Artist, who knew to keep his mouth shut, gazed out at the desert and didn’t move until he knew that the others had gone back into the Palace. Then with feline patience, he stared at the door the King and the Witch had disappeared behind. Not a sound. He approached, trying to see shadows in the light streaming under the door, pressed his ear. Nothing. He knew he shouldn’t go in, but his urge beat out his fear and, heart pounding, he went to open the door, stopping his hand just before it touched the handle and jerking it back as tho he’d been burned.

  He went to find the Girl. On the way to her room he caught whiff of the same scent as the other night, and on turning a corner the aroma came to life for a few seconds: first it hit him like a gust of insolence, eyes that devoured him then spat him out; then it was harmony, long hair pulled back and a spine that curved in the start of a curl; and then a sudden frost that numbed his gut. He kept walking, instinctively, without thinking, floating, and when he got to the Girl asked mechanically about the intrigue, though he’d already forgotten it. She said:

  “They say there’s some hotshit who didn’t like the new deal, I don’t know; I heard he’s selling in the plaza without the King’s permission. Can you believe that? Idiotic, disturbing the peace like that… What’s wrong?”

  The Artist took a deep breath and this time asked the question that was really on his mind:

  “Who is she?”

  No clarification required. The Girl sat in fuming silence for a few seconds and then said:

  “Some commoner. A tramp.”

  ‌

  They are. There. So many letters together. His. Put there for no reason but to penetrate his brain. They are. There. Milling the sheets between rolls of insomnia, they signal, scratching at the wasted white of the paper, at his eyes. And what was each sheet if not a working tool, like a saw for someone who builds tables, a gat for someone who takes lives? Ah, but never this bluff of sand, the spirit and ambition to uncover. So many letters there. They are. There they are. They are a glimmer. How they jostle together and overflow, soaking each other and enveloping his eyes in an uproar of reasons. No matter if they’re perfect, or unruly, they incriminate, fearing disarray: words. So many words. His. An uproar of signs bound together. They are a constant light. There. They are. (Books were something he already knew about, but they had spurned him, like an unwelcoming country. And now he’d let himself be led by the hand to the council of secrets. A constant light.) Each with its own radiance, each speaking the true name in its own way. Even the most false, even the most fickle. Aha. No. Not just there to penetrate his brain. There. They are a constant light. The way to other boxes, far away. The road to ears hidden right here. (Like the bugs that bite him.) No. Not just there to amuse his eyes or entertain his ear. They are a constant light. They are the lighthouse flare cast over stones at his command, they are a lantern that searches, then stops, and caresses the earth, and they show him the way to make the most of the service that is his to render.

  ‌

  It was like an omen: the day they skewered Pocho’s head the pain that had wracked the Artist’s own since he was a kid came back full force. Hit him like a two-by-four, knocked him out. Even the cricket chirps were deafening and no witches’ brew could ease the pain. At the Girl’s alarm the Doctor came, inspected the Artist’s pupils
in search of diagnosis. Leave me, Doc, leave me, it’ll pass, said the Artist; and the Doctor asked When did it start and how often and brought on by what, and prescribed pills to soothe him and said:

  “You need tests, I’ll talk to the Manager so he can fix it up with the hospital, meanwhile, take the medicine.”

  Screw the medicine, no way was the Artist going to take it, not him. He wouldn’t even drink tepid water. He knew: Deal with it, this is just the way it is. Let others find elixirs for their sorrows or pains, he was no judge; but he chose to govern his insides on his own. He’d already had his go at tinctures: smack from some well-off drunks, the kind who are fast friends after a bottle and three songs. The Artist had lost all sense of distance, and music—his music—sounded like moaning. It scared him so bad not to know his own body that he resolved: no venom, no matter what. He handpatted at the Doctor to say Sure, sure, so that the man would leave him alone, and fell asleep.

  Hours later he awoke with the terrifying clarity that told him, from the second he heard the first screams: something awful was going down.

  He followed the frantic mob to the Palace gates. And before he saw Pocho’s body, the Artist sensed the crowd’s fear. Very few voices broke the courtiers’ petrified silence, swearing as they stood beside the body. His eyes were open and his arms crossed as though he were cold. A curved dagger went in one ear and out the other, with almost no blood. There was no bag or blanket, as usual, and they hadn’t tied his hands, nor could you see any singemarks from the wires used to make men talk. Behind the throng came the King with his retinue. The Heir shouted, loud, and the sea of rubberneckers parted. The King observed Pocho. He stood there awhile, hands on his waist, with the expression of a man who wished he hadn’t already seen it all. Then he said: