by Yuri Herrera
The King rose and strode toward the hall, the people’s pleading looks trickling down to his feet; behind him, the Manager consoled those still in line: Next month, next month.
“Come on,” said the Journalist.
They rushed to the back of the royal entourage and the Journalist approached the King.
“Señor, it seems we have a problem with the Artist…”
The King stopped, arched an eyebrow.
“Well, not with the Artist, what problem would we have with him,” the Journalist grinned, “it’s the DJs who have the problem. They won’t play his songs.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” said the King, as if to say, What’s new.
“Same old story: they mustn’t be seen speaking well of you to the people.”
The King glanced back toward the Gallery, to where people were heading home, laden with favors.
“As if we need those asses in order for people to speak of me,” he said. “Don’t you worry about it, the Manager here will arrange things with our friends to move your music on the street… After all, isn’t that the way we do business?”
The King looked tired, but also full of restrained power. He smiled, and his smile seemed a protective embrace that said to the Artist, Why sugarcoat the ears of those fuckers? We know what we are and we’re good with it. Let them be scared, let the decent take offense. Put them to shame. Why else be an artist?
They’re dead. All of them, dead. The others. They cough and spit and sweat their deaths, rotted through with self-satisfied deceit. As if they shat diamonds. They grin with bare teeth, like corpses; like corpses, they figure nothing bad can happen to them.
Word.
They have a nightmare, the others: the men here—the good guys—are their nightmare; the smell here, the noise here, the hustle here. But here it’s more real, in the flesh, alive and kicking, and them, they’re not even close, nothing but bags of bones, pappyjacks with no color. Pale reflections, lifeless cut-outs, held up by pins.
You don’t ask dead men for their say-so. Or at least not dead shitbags. You just do what you do. You swagger and you strut, you speak the name out loud, and don’t take any notice if it wigs the others out. Or you do: just to feel their fear, right, because their fear is what you feed off and makes clear that the flesh of the good is brave and necessary, that it shakes things up and fills the space.
They should be snatched up by the hair and have their faces rubbed in that vile truth, that ruthless putrid truthful truth, let them be lured in by it. They should be stuck on the spikes of our sun, drowned in the ruction of our nights, have our songs inserted under their fingernails, be lain bare with our skins. They should be tanned and hided. And caned.
It spooks them to hear talk of their bad dream, which takes words and lives. It spooks them for One to be the sum of all their flesh, to have Him be as strong as all of them together. It spooks them to see who He is and what He’s like and how He’s named. They only dare to admit it when they abandon themselves to their truths, in juice, in dance, in heat, they’re fucked, that’s all they’re good for. They’d rather hear just the pretty part, but the songs we sing don’t ask their say-so, a corrido aint a painting that hangs on the wall to look pretty. It’s a name and it’s a weapon.
If it spooks them, cool.
Either way. In the end they’ll find out they’re nothing but maggoty flesh.
Softly, moving from one side of the roof to the other, head rising and dipping, the Artist sang his roughneck song about a rich lady who threw a party at her house. It got crashed by two little bigshots hoping to make their name in the business; looking smooth, the bucks slipped in and hooked a couple of stuckup honeys who were rich and well-to-do, which was the name of the song, “Rich and Well-to-Do”, tho, the Artist acknowledged, it could also have been called “Luscious and in Love” or “Left in Love”, or at least that’s what he thought. So the bigshots started working their silverspoon ladies, using them as mules to cart junk here to there, and man was it perfect cause these girls loved to shake it, and they looked—went the song—like movie stars, tho they were really just corrido queens; thing is, it couldn’t last forever, no, not a setup that sweet, because of course they really fell for it, the gear, the front, they wanted it all to come true and started sticking up their noses and watching who they went with, and what good were they then, if changing their ways meant leaving cash on the table? So, psh, what are you going to do? The bigshots stuck the girls on a bus, Be there in a flash, they said, y’all just get off round that bend, but no, no sir, next stop was the other end of the world, and they were sorry as they watched the bus pull out, but there wasn’t nothing for it—a job’s a job.
He’d struggled to smooth out the song’s rough edges, especially at the end, when they realize they got to go it alone. But he had it down now, and once he had it he all of a sudden stopped and looked around the roof and took in the burning Kingdom with his eyes: the long strip of sand surrounding it, the acacia trees, the sky that raced and raced in all directions, one side still bright blue and the other flaming rose, and he thought: far as the eye can see, that’s how far the King’s reach extends, and with it, my words, and considering this quietly he added: Bastards.
The Artist stayed there until darkness began to eat up all the color, feeling so small and so free, and then he went down. He passed the area where the study was, close to the gallery, then the area where the games room was, skirted the wing where King’s quarters lay, close to the terrace, and finally the guards’ quarters and the girls’ rooms. Though there were corridors he had yet to explore, he no longer struggled to find his way to the Girl in the Palace. She was going to love this song! The Girl hadn’t wanted him to write about how when she was little she was sold for a clapped-out car, but with hooks like the ones in his corrido, she would surely see he was making amends for her, too.
He watched her folding clothes on the bed and it filled him with tenderness: her slight waist, her slender shoulders, the taut, pale skin that he’d been so excited to touch in the early days and that now made him want to comfort her and make her happy, even if he couldn’t. He slid a finger down the pebbles of her spine. She turned and instead of surprise wore an expression that said Oh, you.
“Listen to what I wrote to get even.”
He sang his corrido a cappella.
As he sang, the Artist slapped his thighs and made faces he hoped were witty, but when he saw the Girl’s wrath he felt ridiculous. In the end, silence and more silence, brief but unyielding.
“You don’t know jack, do you?” she said with scorn.
“What is it I should know?”
The Girl turned her back and kept folding. The Artist began to serenade her, circling as tho taking a stroll through the room. He was giving his best shot at getting the Girl to smile but she wouldn’t even glance his way and he saw it was best to stop playing cute. So he kissed her shoulder and headed for the door.
“Come on, fool. What do you think?” she asked before the Artist made his exit, adding, “They’re badass motherfuckers and you’re nothing but a clown.”
The Artist turned, perplexed more at the venom in the Girl’s voice than her scorn for him or the way she insulted the King.
“I thought you were happy here.”
“That’s what we tell all our customers,” she shot back bitterly. Then wheeled to face him and said, “Have you heard yourself recently? You talk like every other asshole around here. Making jewels.” She jerked her chin up, challenging. “Now step off; I don’t want to see you near my bed again.”
The Doctor stopped prodding his eye sockets and said sullenly:
“If you refuse to let me examine your head with the proper instruments, I can’t tell what the problem is… Though I have my suspicions.”
This last line he added in a tone both harsh and sad. The Artist wouldn’t let anyone near him with a knife or anything like one. They spent
the next few seconds in silence: a dialogue of suppressed premonitions. Then the Doctor shook it off with a smile.
“What we can do, in the interim, is take care of the obvious problem.” He bent over a desk and took out a box which he set down a few feet from the Artist. “Because it is obvious, even if not to you.”
A pyramid of letters and numbers decreasing in size, down to tiny at the base. The Doctor said:
“I haven’t used this for a long time; nobody here wants to wear specs. Cover one eye.”
The Artist covered his left. The Doctor carried on.
“I’m surprised the courtiers don’t spend all day running into each other in the corridors. Read me the letters you see.”
“En, jay, gee, kay, three, tea, one, why, are, tea, pee.”
“Though now that I think about it, there certainly are some run-ins, as I’m sure you’ve realized, eh? Next line, other eye.”
“Aitch, oh, see, queue, doubleyou, en, zee, ex.”
“Good. See, sometimes you get the impression that each man’s got his own knife and fork now, altho no one should be thinking about a banquet. Next one, back to the left again.”
“Jay, a, two, tea, ess, see, eight, a, zee, eff… bee?”
“Close: three. I wish things were like back in the day, but, between you and me, seems like everyone’s lost it. Next line.”
“Dee, e, why, e, one, are, vee, seven.”
“El, not one. See, the Traitor’s making deals with the crew from the south, but there’s no way to know if that’s because he’s been told to by someone here. They’re different down there, they’re new at this, do things on the down low. Next.”
“Jay, e, eff… ess again, three, why, nine, pee, doubleyou, four, dee.”
“Hm. Here we go. So on the one hand, top dog is getting nervous, best not even to go near him when he’s all het up like that, boy’s been trigger-happy since he was a pipsqueak… And on the other, That Woman is there, and who knows what her angle is. Next.”
“En, e… zee?, e, you, jay, el, en again.”
“Tsk, tsk. That’s enough. Time to dust this thing off.”
The Doctor went back to his desk and pulled out a contraption full of glass slides and wires. He removed and replaced lenses and slid it over the Artist, on his nose. Suddenly the letters on the card were clear, but jumpy. They’re jiggling, the Artist said. The Doctor switched lenses again. How bout now? Now they’re slurred. More lens changing. Now? The Artist made no reply. He was no longer looking at the letters. The shock of so much new minutiae unsettled him: a slight crispness to the walls, gold dust dancing in the sun’s rays. And suddenly: the Heir, standing there in the doorway.
“I what?” he asked.
The Artist couldn’t help but notice his threads. And now, with these eyes, he saw better what they said: his pants linen not denim; soft, crème-colored shirt, not checkered, no stitching. Like the cut of the cloth revealed what the Heir was made of, told of a past different from the rest, more genteel days, troubled blood, a tense way of being there.
“Nothing. Just giving the Artist here a check-up,” the Doctor replied.
The Heir smiled broadly, but it was like an accident on his face.
“Course you are. That’s your job,” he nodded slowly. “Your job, right? Yours and no one else’s. Not the Witch’s, for example.”
He took a few steps in until he stood before the Doctor.
“What is that bitch trying to cure the King of?” He placed his hands on the Doctor’s shoulder. “Tell me.”
The Doctor met the Heir’s gaze for a second, no more, and then his eyes quivered, watering.
“I don’t know, I’m just a doctor, I don’t know about that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing, Doc? Explain yourself, See, apparently I’m just a dumbfuck who imagines all kinds of stupid shit. A minute ago I thought you were talking about me, but I’m glad I was wrong, cause when I don’t know what’s going on, I get a little fucked off. So I prefer straight talk.”
“I swear I don’t know,” the Doctor seemed to hunch over himself, a slight tremor rattling through him. “I’m not that close.”
The Artist saw goosebumps rise on the Heir’s neck, and the first thing he thought was that it was the sort of rage felt by a man with no game in the sack.
“Well, as soon as you find out, you let me know, because you and I are that close.” He removed his hands and headed for the door. Before leaving, he added, “And don’t worry: it’s all a question of learning your place before it’s too late.”
Ever since the Girl kicked him out, the Artist had been bunking in the guards’ quarters, slipping into the cot of whoever was on rounds. That night he’d been abruptly awakened by a guard just getting off, but sleep had forsaken him so he decided not to move to the newly abandoned bed. He began to wander through the Palace in search of a spot with enough light to reread the books of stories and poems on loan from the Journalist. Carrying them with him was like walking with a compadre who knew all manner of secrets.
He leaned over a balcony looking out over the courtyard, which had lights on all night, and picked out a garden bed. The Artist was about to head down and get comfortable when he heard the shouting.
“Where? Where?” The Witch appeared from one end, a walkie-talkie at one ear. From the other, just beneath him, emerged a guard, dragging the Commoner.
“Picked her up as she was trying to hitch a ride on a semi,” said the guard, clearly overconfident. He stood, waiting. Perhaps thought this was when the Witch would thank him, but all she did was point to where he’d come from: Out. The guard left. The two women gazed at one another in silence for several seconds. Then the Commoner said:
“Those dogs can’t go telling me whether I can leave.”
The Witch executed a powerful arc with one hand, striking the Commoner down with her slap.
“It’s not the dogs who are telling you. It’s me.”
She crouched, yanked her daughter up and ragdolled her shoulders.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull? Can’t you see there is no other train? Is this what I waited so long for?”
She let her go with a weary look but then took her daughter’s hands and, more sweetly, said:
“Do you know what’s out there? Trash. Here, it’s all going to be yours, soon as I fix that man. Sit tight a little longer. When the rich blood I give him puts his seed to rights, you’ve got to be ready, too. Even if his damn peacock doesn’t work I’m going to find a way to leave all of this to you.”
“When did I ever say I was interested in this dump?” the Commoner asked, head still bowed. Her mother stood. On doing so she saw the Artist watching, but showed no surprise.
“I didn’t see you turn your nose up at it either,” she said, “so if you ask me, you are interested. And even if you’re not, we’re in it up to our necks.”
She lifted the Commoner up by one arm, and as she pulled her towards their rooms cast a quick glance back at the Artist.
“You are not going to fuck things up,” she said. “No way am I going to let it all be ruined by some deadbeat.”
He went with her back to the City.
“I know how to get out without being seen,” he told her, and tho he knew it was playing with fire, the way her eyes lit up gave him the confidence to continue. She wanted out so bad she didn’t even ask why he offered to escort her.
The Artist led her to the end of one of the gardens and they leapt the fence at a spot he’d seen on a walk where it wasn’t electrified because a stream ran beneath.
When they got to the City, the Commoner led him by the hand, as tho he were the one needing to be shown around the cantinas by the bridge. With fairground glee she showed him cherished sights in each one: a jukebox old as dirt, a turtle-eyed barkeep, a wooden bar carved with cuss words, a band whose members were all midgets, a bathroom where women stood to pee. And at places she’d never been to, she still walke
d in as tho to size up the tables, holding the Artist’s sleeve in silence.
The Artist saw pass before his eyes the world that by the belt he’d learned to survive, and could not share the Commoner’s delight. He did see new things, tho, or perhaps the same things were revealed with new force, as if he’d had a callus skinned off his eye and now the whole of him absorbed details he’d never before perceived, things that had been blurred like a bad photo. He picked up on the wounded pluck of the girls who worked it solo and the apathy of pimped old pros; he understood the cold felt by the old codger on the floor, moaning but unable to ask for anything; and a sign for a lost little girl brought home the horror of being tortured by cowards. He recognized himself in an ashen boy coaxing squalid notes from a trumpet but could tell this kid had it worse than he ever did, because he had a littler one to look after, curled up on his back. The Artist had never had to look after anyone else.
It’s as if there is no right to beauty, he thought, and thought that the city ought to be set alight from its foundations, because in each and every place where life sprouted up through the cracks, it was immediately abused. But then he looked at the Commoner, who stood on the sidewalk, gazing at a hooker without being seen, contemplating the girl as tho embracing her with her eyes, as tho consoling her, and the Artist thought that for an instant, a light more pure was cast down on the slum, and he was privileged to be able to see it.
“Haven’t seen you round the way of late, sugarpie,” said a voice behind him. “Months. Thought maybe you didn’t like what I gave you.”
The Artist turned and saw a big-belly flab man, who fingered his belt buckle as he spoke. The Commoner seemed at first to be scared and then to be pissed: her whole body recoiled as tho ready to spring, but all she did was take one step over and stand by the Artist. The man, too, took a step—forward, toward them.
“So… how bout a deal? You know, each give the other what they want.”
Though he was instantly overcome with fury, the Artist had no idea how to defend anyone and put his hands behind his back to tuck his shirt in, just to do something, as tho gearing up to fight. The man backed up and cactus-armed in fear.