Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Rubén Arenal digging into his trouser pocket for a hundred-peso note, unfolding it, and Nezahualcoyotl’s crumpled courtly face looking back at him as he smoothed the bill, rubbing it against the leg of his trousers, Nezahualcoyotl, Coyote-Hambriento, “Hungry Coyote,” or fasting coyote, Rey de Texcoco, King of Texcoco, poet, scholar, architect, Rubén Arenal hesitating before handing over the one hundred pesos, standing up to the stony stare on Nezahualcoyotl’s face, a pair of eyes on cotton-fiber money, not polymer, and Nezahualcoyotl’s hard unyielding unbending inflexible inspection of Rubén Arenal’s unbuttoned unwound features, a voice, Nezahualcoyotl’s voice saying, do I know you? I think I do, and I always will, I sleep on this paper that pays the rent, buys food, cigarettes, and I’m wearing the face of a poet who’s first emphasis is a keen awareness of time and change, cahuitl, “that which leaves us,” Rubén Arenal acknowledging what he heard, nodding his head at Nezahualcoyotl, then looking at the boy, who was shuffling his feet, not knowing what to do except to listen, and Rocket, opening his mouth, speaking to the boy, you’ve done your duty, and more than your job, manito, a royal responsibility, an infinitesimal undertaking, but of immeasurable importance to me, so here’s the regal face of Nezahualcoyotl, 1402-1472, that’s I Rabbit–6 Flint, a true master of the word, and if you’re speaking to him, he’s called tlamatini, “he who knows something,” “he who meditates and tells about the enigmas of man on earth, the beyond, and the gods,” an authority on things both human and divine—Miguel León Portilla—Rubén Arenal extending his hand to the boy with one hundred pesos in it, and Rocket, you can take it at face value, here it is, handing the banknote to the fifteen-year-old, with the face of an eleven-year-old, but tall for his age, a bashful boy except when it came to pounding on a door, his gym bag at his feet on a patch of asphalt, or it was concrete, the boy smiling at him, folding the money and putting it in his shirt pocket, with nothing to say, and Rocket, but you’ve got to listen to what I’m going to say, and these aren’t my words, “I comprehend the secret, the hidden: / O my lords! / Thus we are, we are mortal, / humans through and through, / we all will have to go away, / we all will have to die on earth … / Like a painting we will be erased. / Like a flower, / we will dry up here on earth. / Like plumed vestments of the precious bird, / that precious bird with the agile neck, / we will come to an end,” and so it continues, manito, take the poem with you, it’s of more value than one hundred pesos—and what Nezahualcoyotl’s doing on a sheet of money I’ll never know—maybe a reminder of our past, and a real hero, a man to look up to, the assassination of Nezahualcoyotl’s father by warriors from Azcapotzalco, “in the place of the anthills,” in the northwestern part of Mexico City, the beginning of a long series of misfortunes and dangerous harassments, Nezahualcoyotl’s mental agility, perceptiveness and bravery brought him victory over his enemies, and we can learn from him, manito, I’ve got a friend whose son’s gone missing with forty-three other normalistas, a friend like a brother to me, and he’s in Iguala, searching for him, a hopeless journey, a little of Nezahualcoyotl’s shrewdness and guts is exactly what we need right now, take my word for it, the boy looking at his shoes, picking up his bulging gym bag, holding it like it didn’t weigh anything, a nervous grin, then raising his head, swept by confidence, and the boy, according to Historia de los Mexicanos por sus Pinturas, a post-conquest codex, señor Arenal, probably drafted by Fray Andrés de Olmos in the 1530s, “they had a god whom they called Tonacatecuhtli, whose wife was Tonacacihuatl … who were self-created, and their dwelling place was always the thirteenth heaven, the beginning of which was never known,” Tonacateuctli and his wife, Tonacacihuatl, the female half of “the primeval parents of both gods and man,” Tonacateuctli, Lord of Our Sustenance, and don’t forget the miracle of procreation, in the Codex Vaticanus A there’re scenes of copulating couples, I know how much you like alliteration, señor Arenal—don’t ask me how I know your name, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you—and in this world of money, poverty, abundance, ignorance, suffering and death we forget the sources of our lives, our history, I don’t have to lecture you, of course, but it’s worth remembering, and so with the blessings of Tonacateuctli and Tonacacihuatl—none other than Ometecuhtli, “Lord of the Duality,” and Omecihuatl, “Lady of the Duality,” living in Omeyocan, “Double Heaven,” Ometecuhtli- Omecihuatl, also known as Ometeotl, the god of duality, both male and female at once—with their blessings, I wish you the best of luck with Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, La Pascualita, maybe love, maybe children—your sister’s got them, but you don’t—hey! what’s that frown on your face? you haven’t seen a ghost, señor Arenal, just touching the money you held in your hand, laying my palm and using my fist against your door, I can see more than you can imagine, the future, not all the details, but what I see I see, so don’t underestimate me, I might look fifteen years old, but you know and I know that I haven’t got an age, only the years your mind wants to give me, what you think I am I’ll be, my spirit expands with the steadily increasing knowledge of our country’s past, not just facts, but invisible energy, regular, even, and continuous in development, frequency, and intensity, that’s the way it is, señor Arenal, like the title of Elvis Presley’s fortieth album, you know it, don’t you? That’s The Way It Is, produced by Felton Jarvis, eight studio tracks recorded in Nashville, four live tracks from the International Hotel in Las Vegas, a hotel built by Kirk Kerkorian on sixty-four and a half acres on the east side of Paradise Road between Desert Inn Road and Sahara Avenue, plenty of Armenian immigrants en el Norte, pogroms and genocides, like our homegrown murders right here in Mexico, and everyone everywhere wanting to get away from violence, so Kirk Kerkorian, Armenian, born in the US, and a lot of Armenian families in Southern Nevada—what I don’t know could fill a shot glass, señor Arenal—so like I was saying, the nonphysical part of myself that’s the seat of emotions and character, my true self, capable of surviving physical death or separation, a highly refined substance or fluid thought to govern vital phenomena flowing within me, an idea no longer in everyday use but something I believe in, and stoutheartedness, resolution, moxie, call it what you like, it’s all there, add it up, mix it together, what it amounts to is my soul—it’s a big word, I know, you don’t have to say anything—growing with a steadily increasing knowledge of once major-league Mexico’s past, regular, even, and continuous in development, frequency, and intensity, I’m repeating myself for your benefit, pay attention but don’t count the words, they’re ingredients to cook by, like music, it’s what fortifies me, the boy, slinging the strap of the gym bag over his shoulder, stepping back, Rubén Arenal with a hundred-peso note back in his hand, and the boy, it costs you nothing to believe me, there’s the proof, Rubén Arenal steadying himself by leaning his shoulder against the façade of the building, taking a deep breath, he contemplated the one hundred pesos in the palm of his hand, and Rocket, then you know what’ll happen to me? and the boy, to know our past is to place ourselves firmly in the present, señor Arenal, the future is a secret.

  The boy, starting to walk away, leaving Rubén Arenal leaning against the façade, a bewildered expression on his face, but taking pity on him, far from indifference, a feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the confusion of others, it wasn’t the first time the boy had seen it happen, Rubén Arenal wasn’t unique, they’d all reacted in more or less the same way, a touch of the shoulder in passing, buying a newspaper, El Diario de Chihuahua, El Monitor, El Diario de Juárez, or La Prensa from Mexico city, and taking the paper from the hands of a newsagent, or a firm grip, shaking hands with someone at the post office, that’s all it took, a moment of physical contact, and out it came like a rush of wind, seeing more than anyone could imagine, the future, not all the details, but enough of it, and the boy making an impression, whoever was listening to him, baffled by his illuminating insight, judgment, facts and details, the boy, taking pity on him, stopped in his tracks, turned around, and the boy, my last bit of advice—I’m off to exe
rcise my body and mind with an empty gym bag, can’t you tell there’s nothing in it?—is don’t trust what’s right in front of you, not every time, without fail, because things aren’t always what they seem, obvious and overused but even so it’s true, you’ll know what I mean when you’ve got a decision to make, a choice—I know the world and the world knows me—and you’ll figure it out yourself, with the help of a warning, a road sign, alarm bells, a colored light or a semaphore, or a straw in the wind will let you know, it might be your intuition, because your brain gets clearer, sharper, then you can do things, think, carry out plans, and in the words of Antonio Machado, Caminante, son tus huellas / el camino, y nada más ; / caminante, no hay camino, / se hace camino al andar, “Wanderer, your footsteps are / the path, and nothing else; / wanderer, there is no path, / the path is made by walking,” and Rocket, okay okay, it could be my head’s not screwed on right, it isn’t the sun, it’s not that hot, there’s not enough heat cutting through the hat I’m not wearing to make my head so piping hot, I guess I’m really hearing what you’ve got to say, so you’ve left your mark, a lasting or significant effect, and the boy, ¡adiós! so long, maybe we’ll see each other again, I know the future, you don’t, but I’m not saying anything more, and a wave goodbye, the boy walking down the street, his spirit trailing after him, or it was the other way round.

  Rubén Arenal wasn’t sure of anything, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, always a handkerchief whether he thought of it or not, an automatic better-put-this-in-my-pocket before he knew he’d done it, now folding the hundred-peso note back into his trouser pocket, today, a man of small bags sewn into clothing, and a latchkey in his hand, but elongated shadows drawing his attention, the latchkey didn’t make it to the lock, looking down at his feet, shadows stretching across the tops of his shoes, moving in a constant direction on a horizontal surface, shadows whose shapes weren’t clouds but two people, shadows so long they must’ve come from giants, Rubén Arenal wanting the shadows to belong to Pascuala Esparza and La Pascualita, not wanting to look up or turn his head, but he couldn’t help it, swinging his head around, moving fast as a whiplash, at first a blur due to his unfocused vision, then eyes popping out of his head, and Rocket, the boy’s just confirmed it, and what do I see? there they are, evidence, endorsement, the seal of approval, and definitely based on facts, he was rubbing the calluses on the palm of his right hand with his right thumb, the common flexor sheath, or ulnar bursa, and Rocket, shut your eyes, they’ll go away even if you don’t want them to, and at the same time, a kick, an exhilaration, a rush, controlled by chance rather than design, recognizing the contradiction, or there was a harmony, and Rocket, in the afternoon, not too late not too early, that’s what she wrote, so it’s a plan or blueprint, not chance, Rubén Arenal seeing the words, “with the same desire we have to see the sea touching the slope of the sky, there isn’t a doubt, it’s your pottery we want to buy,” printed in red letters on the yellowish air in front of his eyes, and Rocket, it’s luck, and thanks to that kid I’m out here instead of in there, the earth’s really spinning, or it’s my head, but hang on, it’s just a little dizziness, don’t collapse, they aren’t insects, not zancudos, they won’t bite, Rubén Arenal with his heart in his mouth because it meant so much, not just a sale, but love, and Rocket, answering himself, yes, love, his eyes squinting against the sun, his eyes on the figures drawing near, ignoring for the moment the silhouette of Pascuala Esparza, his eyes trying to distinguish the features of the other face hidden behind a veil hanging down from a wide-brimmed hat shading her head against the heat of the sun, Little Pascuala, or a dead ringer for La Pascualita, her look-alike, her twin, a carbon copy and the mirror image.

  Rubén Arenal jangling his keys in his hand, trying to wake himself from a dream, and Rocket, am I standing here? or in front of the plate glass window of La Popular, Calle Victoria 801 and Avenida Ocampo, Zona Central, he was both here and there, seeing a woman’s tall, slender figure in a bridal gown, her veined hands, wide-set sparkling glass eyes, eerie smile, real hair and blushing skin tones, esa mujer celestial, that heavenly woman, and later, after his visit, treating himself to breakfast at Mi Café, nourishment after gazing at La Pascualita, a couple of scrambled eggs and fresh juice, maybe jugo verde, vegetable juice, because watching her drained him of his strength, and the café was nearby, nothing more, and Rocket, coming to his senses, that was there, but now I’m here, and a strong gust of wind was slicing at his skin, his feet planted firmly in front of his ground-floor apartment, a simple home, and his pottery studio, and Rocket, it’s time for the wind, that’s Chihuahua, you can count on it here like you can count on the thirsty earth of arid plains split with cracks and dry arroyos in northwestern Mexico and the inland northern areas, just like Juan Rulfo’s story, “Nos han dado la tierra,” “They Gave Us The Land,” and the hustling current of air encouraging the two women, bringing them closer to him, propelled by wind, he could smell their perfume, and his own desire, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, La Pascualita, not walking on earth but gliding, defying gravity, mother and daughter, arm in arm, Little Pascuala dressed in black, and her mother, also dressed in black, a rebozo draped over her shoulders, her mother’s shoulders not La Pascualita’s, a shawl from Pátzcuaro in Michoacán, black and deepblue with knotted fringe, Rubén Arenal recognizing it from last night, or it was the night before last, Little Pascuala, a few remarks to her mother, not really hearing what she said, just the sound of her voice, the heat, the wind, the night, mother and daughter taking a stroll, getting some fresh air, the last time he’d seen them, and right now the sultry afternoon air, fiery and feverish, a few small bubbles filled with serum appearing on his skin, or a rash, he was so excited, and in no doubt, on the outside, appearing composed collected selfassured, looking first at Pascuala Esparza, then straight at a pair of veiled eyes, La Pascualita, and Rocket, bienvenidos, señoras, thank you for coming, and an idiosyncrasy, almost bashful, cupping his hand, palm up, beckoning them with four fingers pinched together, and a little bow and a shy smile, unlocking the street entrance, holding the door open for them, a queen and her princess, and Rocket, you’re welcome you’re welcome, hearing the street door shut behind him like it was miles away.

  Ignacio Pardiñas fastening the ties of a trash bag, propping it against the back door, watching it slide in slow motion onto its side, but nothing spilling out, and it was late afternoon, the sun was setting, Ignacio looking out the little window set in the upper part of the back door, the last few rays of sunlight like arms stretched across the cement in the alley behind the house, asking himself if he should call El Andariego, a hotel in the industrial section of Iguala, on Carretera Iguala, lots 29-30, just beyond Calle Periférico Norte, and Ignacio Pardiñas, Ernesto might be taking a siesta, but Ignacio, shaking his head no, and Ignacio Pardiñas, continuing, it’s too early, he’s out on the streets, not wasting any time, parked and walking and not even checked in someplace where he could sleep, I can see it when I close my eyes, if I had a custom-built mirror I’d show you, Ignacio with a scarlet iridescence in his eyes, imperfections that were always there, particles representing some kind of electromagnetic radiation, or it was just the way the light struck them, and for Ernesto it was like a caress, a son’s plea to his father for affection, and then granted, not a grunt or slap on the back, that’s how it was, that’s how it always was and always would be until one or the other, Ignacio or Ernesto, substitute father or son, or both, ceased to exist, no longer living on this earth, but Ignacio heading out the front door, thinking that it was his substitute grandson, a young man by the name of Coyuco, a student at the Escuela Normal Rural Raúl Isidro Burgos, Carretera Nacional Chilpancingo-Chilapa, Ayotzinapa, Tixtla de Guerrero, who had left this earth, land as they knew it, fertile—wheat, cotton, maize, sorghum, peanut, soy, alfalfa, green chile, oats, corn, beans, potato, watermelon, melon, thirty varieties of apple—and also made of wood, stone and steel, Coyuco, never to be seen again, abducted wit
h other students, disappeared, maybe dead before his own father and mother, the worst kind of tragedy for a parent, and Ignacio Pardiñas, a line from the Bible, Acuérdate que mi vida es un soplo, / Y que mis ojos no volverán a ver el bien, “Remember that my life is a breath; / my eye will never again see good,” Ignacio, narrowing his eyes, locking his door, and the iron gate that protected it, leaving his house on Barrancas del Cobre, turning right, walking slightly uphill toward a cement staircase, something like nine steps up, a railing on the left-hand side, nothing on the right, moving through the darker stage of twilight toward Calle 38A, using a hardwood walking stick, hand painted with the design of an eagle and snake, not many trees on his street, carefully crossing Calle 38A, continuing on Barrancas del Cobre, and Ignacio Pardiñas, that’s the hill, and now a slight climb ahead of me, continuing with the words of Job, Los ojos de los que me ven, no me verán más; / Fijarás en mí tus ojos, y dejaré de ser, “The eye of him who sees me will behold me no more; / while your eyes are on me, I shall be gone,” but take it literally, mis amigos, as I say it, not only in the Bible’s context, Job, 7:7-8, but in mine, Ignacio, used to hearing his own voice, out loud or in his head, moving on with the help of his walking stick, a gift from his father, an inheritance from father to son, but Ignacio, without children or a wife, it was supposed to be Coyuco’s stick, not now, but one day in life, a future Coyuco might never see, an old walking stick, like an artifact, an object made by a human being, and at the same time, more than object made by hand, a pair of skilled hands, an eagle and a serpent painted in colors of the living earth, an item of cultural or historical interest, an object with magical powers, bringing visions and good luck, Ignacio and a long life, and the people in it he’d loved, and some that he’d cherished, and now an insistent suffering that brought to mind that of Job, asserting itself like nothing else but suffering could, as if it were a test or proof, Coyuco lying on an untidy collection of dead, a mound of student teachers, a burning pile of men in a furnace, or soaked in gasoline before striking the match, there weren’t limits to what his imagination came up with for him to see on the closed lids of his weeping eyes, a lot of people expelled from this world, it wasn’t pleasant, nothing to look at, and it made his stomach sick, a man of his age who’d seen a lot, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you couldn’t say everything, but a lot of ugly things had passed before his eyes, not just in his imagination, so it must’ve been something, and Ignacio Pardiñas, fuck and fuck! those pictures on the closed lids of my eyes, Ignacio thinking all that when he stopped in front of a house so close to his own house that he could’ve thrown a baseball—if he still had a good arm, a high arcing ball—from his cement porch on Barrancas del Cobre straight up across Calle 38A and it would’ve hit one of the two pillars before him painted purple like the house itself standing quietly here with its white iron-barred windows, Ignacio’s knees were weak, it wasn’t a long walk, he had his hardwood walking stick, a cane painted with a serpent and an eagle, to keep him on his feet, and he wanted to take a breather from what was on his mind, exchange a few words, sit down in a chair with his legs extended, ankles crossed, and not be the one that always gave everybody else good advice, it was his turn, after all, to listen to a handful of comforting words from friends he’d known since he was a kid, and Ignacio Pardiñas, depending on what you call a kid, we grew up awful fast, and so he started toward the white door of the single-story house in front of him that was like an extension of the house standing to the left, sharing a wall with it, and to the right, a car covered by a tarp parked in the narrow space behind a locked iron gate painted white, the purple façade of the house wasn’t painted by a professional housepainter, the owner had done it himself, his wife mixing the paint until she’d got the color she was after, her choice, nobody else’s, pouring slowly into a five-gallon paint bucket, no bubbles, the initial pour no more than three gallons, using a bucket screen over the lip of the five-gallon bucket, a paint roller brush, an arm moving in an up-and-down W-pattern, Ignacio keeping them company, drinking from a bottle of beer at the time, while his friend and neighbor did his best to make his wife happy with the color she’d mixed.