by Yuri Herrera
“Hey, hey! Easy, amigo, no need to go taking out your piece. You want her, take her, girls like this are a dime a dozen.”
The Commoner wrapped her arms around the Artist from behind and pulled him to the door of a building without letting go of his chest. She shouted an obscenity at the man and then she and the Artist took backward steps, as if entrenching themselves against the city, until they made it through the door. Of the hotel. It was a hotel. They stood a few seconds staring at reception unsure of what to do, and then the Commoner approached the desk, requested a key, and signaled to the Artist to follow.
Once inside the room she undressed herself quickly and him furiously, and then mounted him—cold, focused—and the Artist was struck by something that made him feel miserable: he sensed that she was staring past his face, at the pillow, at the wall. That was why he simply placed his hands gently on her hips and waited. And suddenly she stopped, head bowed, still on top of him.
“I’m not going to apologize,” she said, and slid off and lay beside him, “it’s just that I don’t know how to act with men who seem nice.”
They lay in silence. A light bulb abuzz with mosquitoes stained the darkness. The Artist resolved to stop thinking, all he wanted was to be there with the Commoner. And suddenly he knew her blood: it was a faltering current, lurching clear of invisible boulders. The Artist pressed on a vein in the Commoner’s arm and traced it to her wrist and back. He reached his other hand across her body and listened to the veins in one thigh. He traveled the skin that covered those fragile channels to the rhythm of her heart. He felt her blood begin to rush and felt his hands become useless, because every inch of her skin foretold another current, a bloodstream. The Artist gazed at her face: a deliberate face; there are faces that seem accidental, but not this face whose parts all rhymed, not this skin like hot sand that sculpted round cheekbones, tiny mouth, teeth biting a lip; not this face that now sang to itself. They loved one another like people lingering over every instant, with the certainty that it was the only way to be alive. And such lassitude, so slowly: no desire to reach the end of this line.
Afterward they walked outside as if enlightened, indifferent to the nonstop action on the street. Someone approached hawking bootleg CDs and the Artist saw that among them was one of his, which meant nothing. The King had kept his word, but this didn’t move him. He’d learned more important things that day.
From a cantina they saw the Gringo emerge, staggering. He stared in surprise but betrayed no sense of scandal.
“I thought you were on the other side,” said the Artist.
“Been and came back, but it was no use, they don’t know jack. Pocho didn’t go over anymore; once he turned his back on them, he did all his business on this side. Besides: only thing he was in charge of was getting girls for Señor, for all the good that did. But that,” he held a clumsy finger to his lips, “is hush-hush, eh? You didn’t see a thing… and I didn’t either. Didn’t see you two here. Better that way. Better not to know, with the shit that’s about to hit the fan.”
An icy dust swept through the city. The Gringo halfturned, stumbling, zigzagged a few feet, and set his course for a cantina door.
What’s out there? What lies beyond it all? Another world standing, face to the sun? A wave with edges rippling out after a stone hits the water? (Could life be a stone hitting the water?)
To see and see and see and not to see: there is no shape, only a tangled mess grown weary of itself. Arrogant face, deadbeat world.
What’s out there? What lies beyond the walls of things?
Like this, like this, there’s nothing.
Turn your back on this smug cut grass and choose your own mirror: raise it to your eyes and see:
A chilling glimmer, a tiny spiral asking for a chance, a secret obscured in its own dark light. The whole world can be seen in this mirror, each detail a reversible code. Pieces and more pieces falling over themselves asking to be touched, ever-changing skin.
“So tell me how you write a corrido,” the Journalist said. “You just tell the story, that’s all?”
The Artist knew how but had never articulated it, expertise was like underwear, something concealed out of modesty that you were almost unaware of. And yet now he felt confident enough to expound.
“The story tells itself, but you have to coax it,” he replied, “you take one or two words and the others revolve around them, that’s what holds it up. Cause if you’re just saying what happened, why bother with a song? Corridos aren’t only true; they’re also beautiful and just. That’s why they’re so right for honoring Señor.”
The Journalist nodded, but seemed unconvinced.
They were on the terrace, having coffee. The Artist was enjoying their chat, so unlike the shakedowns soon to come. He was mastering more and more words thanks to the books the Journalist had given him and refused to take back, even when the Artist insisted.
“That’s good,” the Journalist said, “that’s good for us, the ones who polish his shoes and watch his back, but you’re something else; not saying you don’t mean it, but what you do is art, amigo, no need to use all your words of praise on Señor.”
“Why not? I write about what moves me, and if what moves me are the things the Chief does, then why not?”
“Sure, sure, don’t get me wrong, Artist, all I mean is that your thing has a life of its own, one that doesn’t depend on all this. It’s good that our hellraising serves as inspiration, I just hope you never have to choose. Seems to me like you’re pure passion, and if one day you have to choose between your passion and your obligation, Artist, then you are truly fucked.”
He felt the Journalist was plucking a chord he’d been hoping to keep quiet. So, cautious, he responded in a way that both concurred and offered resistance:
“Ffft, my songs will outlive me in the end.”
The door to the room at the far end opened and there appeared the Witch. Her long white dress made the blood on her fingertips jump out. The whole of her tense, as tho her entire body were a loaded gun.
“What are you doing here?” she spat. “Don’t you have anyplace else to waste your time? Think you’ll learn something here, digging in like nits? Asswipes. Piss off! Damn you, get out of here! There’s nothing to see!”
The Journalist motioned vaguely and stood. The Artist got out of his chair, still bent almost double; frightened, because unlike the majority of the Palace bigwigs, the Witch had looked straight at him, and her eyes burned.
They headed for the guards’ dining room. In silence at first, and then the Journalist, as tho feeling the need to apologize to a guest, confided:
“Not so long ago we were all tight, like family, but now, well, they say the alliance with that other boss fell through… Plus there’s this war on the horizon…”
“But can’t you go with them, try to set things straight?”
“Not me, a subordinate, no. There are those who can address the King, but I’m not the kind to jump my station.” Somberly, he added, “Tho some are, Artist, that’s for damn sure: there’s that fool struck out on his own, or found himself a new boss, I’m starting to see.”
In the dining room they ran into the Heir, who stood grabbing pieces of raw meat from a lone platter. He glanced up at the new arrivals from the far end of the long table, eyed them quickly but said nothing. The Heir brought pieces of meat to his mouth greedily, but with the slow self-assurance of a man who knows no one is going to fight him for a mouthful. They sat at the opposite end of the table as if to carry on with their conversation, but now said not a word.
That look he had, the fatherly affection, the innocence with which he said:
“There’s no one I trust the way I trust you.” And if that weren’t enough, added: “There are those who will never be satisfied, plain and simple; you, on the other hand, know your place and are happy with your lot.”
That look he had, attention focused solel
y on his object, certain that no one else deserved it at that instant; the look of complicity. The way he touched the Artist’s shoulder and led him through the grounds to show off his peacock: the easy intimacy, here we are, just you and me, discussing important things. And the cadence: such unflustered steps, the soles of his feet placed carefully on the ground the whole way. It all confirmed: the King speaks the truth. Which one? He was needed, the Artist was to slip into a baptism party nearby, where one of the King’s enemies would be. The Artist, much as it would trouble him, was to pass himself off as a dissident and find out if anyone was conspiring from within. The Artist couldn’t tell a soul, because—eyes sincere, insisting—he alone could be trusted, and he alone, given his talent, could pull it off. The Artist embraced his mission with faith and honor, even if he did have to shuttle to one corner his doubts about the last thing the King said, which lingered on like background buzz.
“Time has come for you to make yourself useful, Artist.”
So he returned once more to the grimy streets of yore. He knew how to keep his mission under wraps as he searched for the rival top dog to sneak him into the reception. No one beat the Artist at the art of being unseen. All he had to do was prick up his ears and circle the word on the street like a buzzard above a dying man, until he found his way to the right joint.
He approached the top dog after watching him for three days, clocking his habits and noting he had a thing for call girls, that he tried to entice them with song. The Artist laid systematic siege, awaiting the exact moment when the dog was feeling fly; not only did the Artist know the requested tune but had prepared a little bonus, set to impress: an easy corrido, puffed up and swaggering, exalting the exploits he’d heard about the guy.
“Not bad, ace,” said the top dog, trying not to let on that he’d liked the song, “but tell me: you already got someone to flatter, no?”
“Used to, but that place is going from bad to worse, truth is I’m looking to make a move.”
“That a fact? Don’t try me on, cause I can spot a bigmouth a mile off.”
The Artist puckered his lips, pooched them out, and said, “Go ahead, search mine.”
The punk laughed and feted the joke with much table-slapping.
“Hooo! If it’s true you’re just a singer, long as your voice don’t dry up, it’s all good. I’ll take you to my boss, like a present. Can you write him a song?”
The Artist wrote more than one, he wrote corridos of friendship for the enemy capo, so fawning they seemed to say he was the true king. Fortunately, they didn’t ask for any that criticized the King, but even singing for the other man made something between the Artist’s belly and chest burn, a kind of pain he didn’t recognize; to keep it from turning him sour he kept telling himself that to lie for Him was worth it, it was.
He plowed gently through the party, sure of where to stand, who to mark, when to speak. He had it down. This party, too, had its jangling gold, its blondes, its red anteater boots, had a band on a stand and a roast, had plenty of hooch, guards, a priest in its pocket. And the Artist set out to find the tête-à-tête that would let him in on the scheming. There were many: the old man scheming against his wife, three girls scheming against their bridesmaid dresses, two roughnecks against a moneyman, a priest against his urge to down the sotol; but none led him out of the dark. It was all just like the Court.
The Artist looked and looked with the specs the Doc had sent him, and what jumped out at him was this: it was all the same. He could feel the fiesta dribbling by him at the rate of routine. The only odd one there was him, who was seeing it all from outside. The only special one was him. It was so beautiful to see that, like a soft glow among the people, like the feeling that things get better when you walk into the room. And as he sang his corridos for the other king, a lightskinned cat lacking grace but sporting tux, the Artist was so smooth that it should have scared him to see how easy it was to feel at home in the role of a man with no blood debt. And there, at that moment, the buzz that had been troubling him since the King’s command disappeared. The King’s face appeared to him in all its detail, as if under a magnifying glass, and he saw how flaccid the skin, how precarious his constitution, like that of anyone here in this place. He pretended not to be thunderstruck by the discovery. He decided to leave, but before finding the exit had the wherewithal to pick up on a man talking at the bar, whom he examined carefully for a fraction of a second, enough to take in his fine suit, enough to realize that it was the same dog from the newspaper photos in the library, always beside the other man, equally as elegant.
The music cranked up all at once, right from the getgo, with the first ay, and then the voice carried the melody, the bass bumped up and down as if spellbound by the beat, the accordion swooped down low on the verses and sped up at the curves; and all the while the drum, solemn, held its own.
Ay, this is a sad corrido
That tells the story of my King
A man everybody envies
For his proud and noble reign
King, your man got whacked
They stuck a rod right through his crown
Smoked another with a gat
Seems to be the latest thing
Some dogs just want to leg it
And some conspire against you
Tho it’s you who took them in
Gave them cash and loved them true
The boys that care bout you are down
Because they see you looking low
But we’re all a family
And I won’t let you go
They say you were real sick
Meanwhile your boys began to fight
But I don’t think you ever said
You didn’t need us in your life
Some dogs just want to run
While some conspire against you
Tho it’s you who made them rich
Gave them peace and loved them true
Tho you don’t say it, King, I know
You don’t want us getting shot
Cause you’re not made of stone
And we’re the only sons you’ve got
He’s our father and a King
And I swear to you he’s good
On his turf you damn well best
Be working for the kingdom
Some kingdom cons just want to run
While some conspire against you
Cause you gave them more than cash
You gave them your ambition too
He scribbled the lyrics furiously almost the moment he left the reception, leaning against the bar in a cantina. And before passing his new corrido on to his colleagues, the Artist felt the kind of sparks that fly when you hurtle downhill in a truck; and felt as if he’d let something go.
On his way back to the Palace he asked himself what would happen if he simply turned another way, any way that wasn’t the one he already knew. Ever since arriving at Court he’d been surprised by people’s urge to cross the line, or to go to some other city, even if it was on this side. Not even tales of artists living the gringo life had altered his own Why would I go? stance, when the Palace had it all: voices, colors, drama, stories. And it wasn’t that he’d changed his mind now, but that he admitted the possibility of there existing some point on the horizon that might be different from the two extremes he was bouncing back and forth between. What if…? Why waste his time, he thought: one of the things he’d learned is that you stay where you’re told, until you feel it’s no longer your place.
He returned and knew right away there had been another tragedy, tho this time not because people rushed to the scene of the crime but because they rushed away from it, with more haste than fear, and that was truly awful. He made his way against the tide to the main courtyard. Right in the middle he saw, at first, simply a pool of blood over which the Doctor was bent, but as he approached he began to distinguish the soaking red silhouette of a man whose arms and legs were splayed, and then he recogn
ized it as the body of the Journalist. Rage hurtled to his balled fists; this was the first time he’d lost a friend, despite never having called him that. Those motherfuckers, he said, chewing the words. The Journalist had had his throat slit clear across and was gazing up at the sky as if expecting to see someone pass. Next to his head was the flick he’d been killed with: a dagger, again, with a curved blade.
“Motherfuckers,” the Artist repeated, “this time they made it all the way in.”
As soon as he said it, something else popped into his head, tho he tried to push it out: I wish.
The Jeweler approached, running clumsily, looking shocked. When he got there he bent over the weapon.
The Doctor looked perplexed.
“What I don’t get is what they’re playing at, killing with a knife; it’s grotesque.”
“This wasn’t the same dogs.”
“How do you know?”
“This knife is different, this knife is a piece of shit.”
With the speed of the subconscious, the Artist saw who shot Pocho and the Journalist and why and decided he could no longer carry on as an outside observer. He left the courtyard without a word, because now, in addition to rage, finally he felt fear. He went to find the Commoner, the Commoner, where was she? Not in her room, not in the garden, not in the corridors, not on the terrace.
“You’ve been with my daughter.”
The Witch confronted him, suddenly there on the terrace without warning. She observed him closely, tho without the customary fury. She had made her proclamation with chilling self-possession. The Artist was amazed at how different she seemed, it was as if she’d resolved some great dilemma and were finally concerning herself with trivialities.
“Did you get her pregnant?”
The Artist instinctively said No, unable to conceive the other possibility.