Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  The pottery lay spread out on a hand-woven Saltillo rug from the state of Coahuila, or from Teotitlán del Valle, a small village, Teotitlan, in Nahuatl, “place next to God,” in the state of Oaxaca, he couldn’t remember, but a hand-woven rug, 69 x 49 inches, roughly 5 ½ x 3 ¾ feet, an orange rug, blue and brown stripes, a little staining and fraying, laid on the floor of Rubén Arenal’s studio, he’d cleared away enough space for Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala to get a closer look at his pottery, moving around without bumping into anything, not the lights on tripods, a potter’s wheel, a frontloading electric kiln, a wedging table, a heavy-duty trash container on a dolly, boxes containing fifty-pound bags of stoneware clay, not the rough wooden table with chairs in the kitchen area, or a low table near to his bed on the far side of his studio, a table with five painted plaster mariachi figurines, dressed in elegant black suits trimmed with white, musical figurines, Pascuala Esparza, crouching in front of the rug, examining a vase for flowers, pots with narrow spouts, a bowl for fruit, mugs for posol, mugs for coffee, cups for tea, a hidria, a jar or pitcher for water, and Rocket, primero la pinto con aceite por dos razones, el aceite hace la olla impermeable y la olla brilla más, first I paint it with oil for two reasons, the oil makes the pot more impermeable, and the pot will shine more, Pascuala Esparza turning a black ashtray in her hands, a long and slender object, curved sides like a high-sided canoe with extreme rocker, the upward sweep of the keel toward bow and stern, and Rocket, leaning close to her, siempre estoy pensando en los diseños, cuando estoy caminando, estoy pensando en las formas y los diseños, I’m always thinking of the designs, when I’m walking, I’m thinking about forms and designs, I studied at Mata Ortiz, you mentioned it in your letter, señora, but many things have changed since then, pero muchas cosas han cambiado desde entonces, looking up at La Pascualita, she was standing with her arms folded across her chest, the hat with the veil on her head, but the veil itself drawn back, away from her face, revealing shiny brown eyes almost black reflecting light from spotlights on tripods surrounding the Saltillo rug on the floor, Rubén Arenal turning to face Little Pascuala, not able to keep his eyes off her, a few shadows across her face, shadows light as clouds, a black-and-white photograph in living color, and Rocket, me gusta trabajar por la tarde y la noche, son los tiempos más tranquilos, I like working in the evening and in the night, they’re the most peaceful times, La Pascualita, an understated smile, not obvious, but he saw the corners of her mouth rising, and Rocket, cuando vivía en Mata Ortiz usé tres colores de pintura: negra del manganeso que saco de las montañas, rojo del polvo de piedra y barro, y blanco del barro blanco, y usé cabello de niños para la brocha, when I lived in Mata Ortiz, I used three colors for painting, black from powder of magnesium that I got from the mountains, red from powder of stone and clay, and white from white clay, and I used hair from children for the brush, and La Pascualita touching neither fine nor course strands of her straight black hair, medium, moving a thumb and index finger downward with hair like cotton thread pinched gently between them, fingers like fine-grained, translucent form of gypsum, maybe a veined hand, he couldn’t say because she tucked it away in a shadow falling across the left side of her body, Rubén Arenal crazy about her eyes, her hair, Pascuala Esparza, standing up straight, she held one of his mugs in the palm of her hand, a mug for posol, balancing it there, and Pascuala Esparza, a faraway voice, moist on the lips, seductive, you’re work is beautiful, you’re inhabited by the miracle of being alive, what I mean is how beautiful is beauty, and for some time I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into something, what I mean is is it magnetism or mojo? attractive for what it has of proven prophecy, typical and topical, we’re enthusiastic with the signs of enthusiasm that’ve got their origin in our stupendous grand unequalled interpretation of your work, embellished by your presence, you’re a maestro, virtuoso, authority and champion, a crackerjack potter, worthy of praise, how can I say it in a way that what I say says what your work means to us, we want to buy as many pieces as you’re willing to sell, what I mean is that we want all of it, believe me, and we’re together, Pascuala Esparza looking at her daughter, and Pascuala Esparza, don’t we, niña, my child? Rubén Arenal swimming in a tremulous and deep dream, and Rocket, to himself, they’re as real as I am standing here in front of them, but their words—no, I haven’t heard La Pascualita’s voice—not timid people, courageous, vivid, and bold, as the definition goes, so confident as to suggest a lack of shame or modesty, La Pascualita, giving the nod, agreeing with her mother, not submitting to her, but with desire in her black eyes, beautifully quiet before the silent acclamations and unusual admiration of a real fan, an acolyte, Rubén Arenal, enticed and drawn, a follower of two temptresses, Pascuala Esparza with her shawl over her shoulders, long straight black hair without a streak of gray, a few wrinkles, lines, crow’s feet, extra skin under the chin, but mother and daughter spitting images of each other, each of a different generation, La Pascualita the sole heiress to the distinctive looks of her mother, a revised edition, and Rocket, mumbling, primero la torta y luego el chorizo, first the torta and then the chorizo, talking about work, trying to keep his mind off the explosions in his head, but forced to give an explanation, and Rocket, I’m talking about the clay, the torta’s a flat piece, lifting it while it’s inside a plaster mold, forming a pot, the chorizo, a kind of band, a strip of clay for the lip, that’s what they’re called, at least in Mata Ortiz, Pascuala Esparza, putting the mug back on the Saltillo rug, looking up at Rubén Arenal, and Pascuala Esparza, a benign lunatic, that’s your psychic category, señor Arenal, with explicit emphasis on the benign, but I guess all artists—don’t you think, niña, my child? Pascuala Esparza looking at her daughter, Little Pascuala, then turning to Rubén Arenal, and Pascuala Esparza, tan seco como el desierto, as dry as the desert, can you offer us something to drink? from here, where I’m standing, something as refreshing as a swim in Río Bravo? if you get my drift, we’re fish fished out of the river, a major tributary, Río Conchos, enters at Ojinaga, Chihuahua, below El Paso, in our state, “The Big State,” maybe we’re a couple of Chihuahua catfish, they’re big! or west Mexican redhorses, blue suckers, or Mexican stonerollers, it doesn’t really matter, there’re something like 166 species of fishes in Río Bravo when both freshwater and brackish water species are considered, that’s according to Benke and Cushing in 2005, and the lower Río Bravo contains nearly twice as many species as Río Conchos, three times as many as the upper Río Bravo—a few indispensable facts—so our fishy lips are dry, and talking about thirst, there’s a line by Robert Benchley, un gabacho brillante, “why don’t you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?” a funny guy, we can see through the jarillas that’ve grown up really thick, wind or no wind, it’s that time of year, but it isn’t alcohol we want, is it, niña, my child? it’s your pottery and something fresh to drink, and Little Pascuala, shaking her head no, then nodding her head yes, and Pascuala Esparza, she’s quiet, isn’t she, silent as a man being shaved, in the words of the thirteenth century Italian poet Niccolò degli Albizzi, and Rocket, yes, “Prolonged Sonnet: When the Troops Were Returning from Milan,” I know it, and later Rossetti, so I’ll check the fridge, señora, señorita, and bring you a selection, or what I’ve got, and there’s a special treat, my sister made it for me, tepache, fermented but not much alcohol, the Rarámuri people, in our Estado Grande, and it’s made from peel and rind of pineapples sweetened with brown sugar, the Rarámuri, long-distance runners, and if you ask one of them what their souls do when they drink? the answer is, “they go over there,” because, as I see it, drunkenness is what comes from the departure of their souls during drinking, and Pascuala Esparza, I’ll try your sister’s drink, but my daughter, a Chaparritas grape, or a Jarritos tamarindo or hibiscus flower, if you’ve got one, señor Arenal, Rubén Arenal with a bashful bow, looking away from the glorious gaze of Little Pascuala’s black eyes, leaving the mother and daughter for the safety of the kitchen area and a refrigerator with col
d drinks, clean glasses, no cups, pouring a glass of Luz Elena’s tepache, opening a bottle of Jarritos tamarindo, and placing everything on an old tin serving tray on the countertop, the tray a gift from his mother, a snow-peaked mountain, trees, a house, cactus, and a burro with a saddle carved into the unscratched worn surface with soft lines and shading, a bottle of Topo Chico mineral water for himself, Cerro del Topo Chico in Nuevo León, or a Peñafiel from Tehuacán, “place of the Gods,” in the state of Puebla, and Rocket, out loud without realizing it, por la fe y la esperanza, by faith and hope, Rubén Arenal not believing what Pascuala Esparza’d told him, hearing the words in his head, not for the last time, not for the first, “we want to buy as many pieces as you’re willing to sell, what I mean is that we want all of it,” and Rocket, to himself, maybe the drinks will wash down the purchase of as many things as they can carry, setting the tin tray on the rough wooden table in the kitchen area of his studio, a sturdy table serving as work bench, not his desk, leaving the drinks as a ceremonial presentation, a still life, Rubén Arenal walking back to where they were standing, mother and daughter, not far away, it wasn’t a big studio, but it wasn’t small either, mother and daughter languidly looking at him, and Rocket, right this way, another bashful bow, a gesture toward the kitchen area, and Pascuala Esparza, let’s drink to it, your work, señor Arenal, but there’s nowhere for you to sit, not enough chairs, and after we’ve made a toast, we’ve got to sit down, the massive Sierra Madre, giving birth to life not only for her residents, but for untold thousands of other Mexicans, boundless measureless unpublished, in the foothills and plains below, and you can count us among them, and you’re included, and Rocket, you can count me in, Rubén Arenal dragging another chair from his desk, pouring Little Pascuala’s glass of Jarritos tamarindo, handing them around, right and left, with only two guests who were of consequence, not counting himself, they were standing, glasses raised, La Pascualita’s eyes looking at nothing in particular, but glowing anyway, they didn’t need a drop of light to ignite them, and Pascuala Esparza, it’s not a question, and not a foolish little number that fills the repertory of time, clocks nodding and waving their little arms, not some sugary nonsense to sweeten the cheap taste of connoisseurs of lower forms of skill, craft, technique that I sing your praises, señor Arenal, Pascuala Esparza drinking from her glass of tepache, the thyroid cartilage of her larynx moving with two swallows, La Pascualita concealing a burp coming from the descending, then rising bubbles of carbonation of a Jarritos tamarindo, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, pale as an angel of the grave, but a twinkle in her eyes, an embarrassed smile at the corners of her mouth, and Little Pascuala, almost in a whisper, excuse me, and Pascuala Esparza, she’s a balanced woman, in charge of every one of her acts, acts over which she exercises enviable control and maneuvering invigorated by evening mass at the cathedral, seven fifteen at the Catedral de Chihuahua, or at six, Templo de San Francisco de Asís, delimitado de manera aproximada por la Calle Niños Héroes al norte, la Avenida 20 de Noviembre al sur, la calle 27ª al este y la Avenida Ocampo al oeste, bounded roughly by Niños Héroes to the north, Avenue 20 November to the south, 27th Street to the east and Avenue Ocampo to the west—but what am I telling you, you live here—or Capilla de Santa Rita de Casia in Colonia Santa Rita, at seven in the evening, you know it, don’t you, señor Arenal? it’s one of our favorites, Pascuala Esparza, a beautiful swaying of hands, without spilling, and the cheeks of her face, no injections no surgery, a little cream foundation, one shade lighter than her skin tone, a base two shades darker below the cheekbones, a little blush on the apples, and liquid highlighter at the top of the cheekbones, or a matte bronzer, brushed into the hollows of her cheeks, swiped to the very top of her ear and into the hairline, avoiding the apple, bronzer to the outer corner of her forehead and along the jaw line, and cream highlighter at the very top of the cheekbones and edge of the eye, as youthful as her daughter, and Pascuala Esparza, what I mean is let’s tie up the deal, you don’t want a check and I don’t remember the last time I wrote one, well, just listen to me, it’s cash in pesos, not dollars, not yuan, señor Arenal, and I’ll bet what I’ve got that you’d rather have cash than a piece of paper with scribbling on it, what I mean is we’ll be thankful to you, and here’s a little on account, and don’t ask on account of what, that’s too silly, but you can say what you want, you’re our maestro, expert, genius, wizard and pro, but I’m repeating myself, not exactly, but with lightning lucidity, and here’s a few crisp notes, I didn’t print them, don’t worry, did I, niña, my child? and La Pascualita, a sharp shake of the head indicating no, her black hair beneath the hat and veil flying briefly in front of her face, and a seductive glance at Rubén Arenal, and Rocket, thank you, a modest voice, a hint of self-confidence, folding the bills into his shirt pocket without counting them, reaching out to shake Pascuala Esparza’s hand, turning toward her daughter, looking straight at La Pascualita, and she returned his gaze, head-on, Rubén Arenal swearing to himself that he’d seen her wink.