Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Luz Elena, letting go of her hand, standing up, and Luz Elena, with respect for a special kind of thirst, you need something stronger to drink, and Guadalupe Muñoz, I could use a drink myself, even if it’s just after two, because our ancestors originated in semi-arid northern Mexico, not so far from where we are, why don’t we each have a pulque muy fermentado, in Nahuatl, yztac octli, a little white pulque, that’s what we want, m’hija, fermented from maguey sap, aguamiel, although I hate that you’ve got to kill the plant for it, it takes twelve years for the maguey, metl in Nahuatl, to mature enough to make the sap for pulque, and Fray Bernardino de Sahagún, auh in icoac ocõtoiauh octilj nimã ic muchi tlacatl quiya in vctlj, nimã ic peva in tetlavãtiloya, “and when they had poured the octli then everyone drank it; then they began to serve the people octli,” that’s what Sahagún wrote in Primeros Memoriales, a Nahuatl-language manuscript, with many thanks to Francisco del Paso y Troncoso, Mexican historian and archivist, and Luz Elena, I was telling my brother the story of the sun of 4 Movement, the day sign of the Fifth Sun, Movement Sun, before he was our sun, of course, I told him that nothing really changes, insecurity and fear because of our sun, “in its time there will be earthquakes, famine,” but when the Fifth Sun appeared in the sky, maize was grown for the first time, fire was domesticated, nightfall was established, and octli was brewed, 4 Movement, the Fifth Sun, it’s our sun, we who live today, and at that time, too, it was their sun—we’re standing each day under the same sun as our ancestors—well, let’s see what I’ve got in the cupboard, the refrigerator, or our imagination, white pulque, and we’ll drink to Coyuco, our ancestors, the present and the past, Luz Elena searching the kitchen, finding three glasses of the frothy drink standing on the countertop where she hadn’t left them, un truco de magia, a magic trick, not a lot of pulque but enough to feel the effects, as if the glasses had been waiting for her to find them, and Luz Elena, I don’t know if I prepared them, I don’t remember, and I didn’t put them here, that’s for sure, but maybe a time-space event’s come our way, right out of a book of science fiction, a movie, or something for TV, let’s drink up, here’s your glass, Irma, and yours, Lupe, we’ll raise them to our lips in the name of Coyuco, and forty-three others, we’re all in it together, and leave frothy moustaches for our tongues to clean, Guadalupe, Irma, and Luz Elena downing the contents of their glasses, setting them on the table in front of them, watching the glasses disappear, dematerialize, becoming spiritual rather than physical, and Guadalupe Muñoz, solidarity’s our thing, between women it’s as common as sunrise, Irma cocking her head slightly to one side, eyes shining like pools lit up by the moon, hearing a duet by Ninfi and Nori Cantú, born in Falfurrias, south Texas, and Irma Payno, do you know Hermanas Cantú? listen, it’s a song just two minutes fifty-one seconds long, “Mil puñaladas,” “A Thousand Stabs,” accompanied by Los Alegres De Terán, a ranchera of romantic misery, a song that causes overwhelming distress:

  Estoy perdido sin esperanzas,

  sin esperanzas de tu querer,

  lo que te adoro, con toda el alma.

  Y tu me hieres con tu desdén.

  Mejor me dieras mil puñaladas

  mil puñaladas en el corazón.

  Pero no quiero ya tu desprecio

  que así me matas sin compasión.

  Si me marchara, lejos muy lejos

  a donde nunca me oigas hablar,

  siempre me llevo mis sufrimientos

  que tal vez nunca pueda olvidar.

  Mejor me dieras mil puñaladas

  mil puñaladas en el corazón.

  Pero no quiero ya tu desprecio

  que así me matas sin compasión.

  Si me marchara, lejos muy lejos

  a donde nunca me oigas hablar,

  siempre me llevo mis sufrimientos

  que tal vez nunca pueda olvidar.

  Mejor me dieras mil puñaladas

  mil puñaladas en el corazón.

  Pero no quiero ya tu desprecio

  que así me matas sin compasión.

  I’m lost without hope

  without hope of your love,

  I who adore you with my entire soul.

  And you hurt me with your disdain.

  It’s better that you give me a thousand stabs,

  a thousand stabs in the heart.

  But I don’t want your contempt anymore

  because you’re killing me without compassion.

  If I were to go far away, very far away

  to where you’d never hear me speak,

  I’ll forever take my suffering

  that I’ll never be able to forget.

  It’s better that you give me a thousand stabs,

  a thousand stabs in the heart.

  But I don’t want your contempt anymore

  because you’re killing me without compassion

  And Guadalupe Muñoz and Luz Elena, two voices at the same time, I hear it, and Guadalupe Muñoz, continuing on her own, you can stretch it out and it’s a song about our pain, too, not just romantic misery, your pain, mine, Ernesto’s, and our Coyuco’s, all of us, take these words, “If I were to go far, very far away, / to where you would never hear me speak, / I will always carry my sufferings with me, / that I may never be able to forget,” no, what I feel isn’t romantic love, not for Coyuco, he’s my son, Ernesto’s too—Irma, you can sing the romantic version of it, it’s as sad as teardrops, and Luz Elena, speaking tenderly, earnestly pious, claramente, es más que puede soportar, clearly, it’s more than you can bear, Guadalupe Muñoz repeating the words, and Guadalupe Muñoz, clearly, it’s more than we can stand—you, me and the rest of the world, and Irma Payno, so what’re we going to do about it? we can’t leave it up to Ernesto alone, and Luz Elena, with respect for the weight of a word, nine words in total, and the value of a single life, forty-three altogether, and Coyuco’s, Irma’s right, and Guadalupe Muñoz, of course she’s right, m’hija, we can organize a march, a protest, and go all the way to Mexico City, it’s not far, and Luz Elena, let’s start with where we are, ’mana, and move on from there, we’ll make banners, Alcalde de Iguala ¿puedes dormir por la muerte de nuestros hijos? Mayor of Iguala, can you sleep even with the death of our children?—fucking José Luis Alacrán and his dragon wife—and Irma Payno, ¡ayúdanos a localizarlos! help us find them! posters with the their faces, names, and placards, ¡vivo se los llevaron! ¡vivos los queremos! they took them alive, we want them alive! Ayotzinapa ¡ni perdón, ni olvido! Ayotzinapa–no forgiving, no forgetting! ¡tu familia te espera! your family is waiting for you! and Guadalupe Muñoz, we give birth to them, raise them, nursing them from our breasts, but we can’t bury them when they’re dead, when they’ve disappeared, lost lost lost, that’s what those villains did to us, everything’s going from bad to worse, our Mexico, you said it, m’hija, La Patria es primero, listen, what’s that sound? the first howl, sharp and piercing, their voices, tortured children, murdered, burned to a crisp, left for bird food, or buried in a mass grave, their cries rising out of it, tearing the membrane of my middle ear, and what remains is their shadows—not my own, if that’s what I see when I look down at the earth—their shadows, and ours soaked through with fear and hatred, shaped “into a resistance that hinders all movement,” our souls together, the living and the dead, hovering in the air, crippling our thoughts, our arms and legs, numbing our skin, and Irma Payno, it’s the “deglossing of a daydream,” reality, and a slap in the face, and Guadalupe Muñoz, a knife heated red hot in a flame, blade flat against my wrist just to wake me up, that’s reality, and wide awake, tattooed by exposure to heat or flame, all we can do is stay huddled together straining to take a deep breath—not any longer, I’ve had enough, it’s time to do something, hours have passed, days, we’ve been watching the water falling from a sky ruined by sadness, mourning, so now’s the time, their bodies are drying in the sun far from home, and Irma Payno, okay, Lupe, okay, tienes razón, you’re right, there’s no truth like yours, so where’d I put my cigar? Irma re
aching for the box of matches and her cigar, no trembling hands, but steadiness, not faltering or wavering, not shaking or moving more than gently biting down on the end of the cigar and striking a match, and Luz Elena, the sooner we get started doing something, organizing mobilizing, the sooner we’ll climb out of the hole we’re in, more like a grave, where they’ve put us knowing full well that we’re dying right along with our children, a day or two, a week or a month ahead of us, who got there first doesn’t matter, but we’re dying in any case, there’s evidence, proof, documentation, and we don’t need it, we’ve got just cause, a legally sufficient reason, somebody else living somewhere else with other things on their mind might want more than that, but we’ve got all the proof we need, and Guadalupe Muñoz, right now a breath of fresh air is what’s required, a little oxygen to fill our lungs, not literally, but a look at your children, m’hija, innocent offspring, they’re the future, even if we’re afraid of what the future will bring, Guadalupe looking at Luz Elena, raising her eyebrows, a question without words, and Luz Elena, with respect to a refreshing change, coming out of a clinch at the referee’s command, the girls are out playing somewhere, but Cirilo, a cinch, a snap, like I said, he’s in the living room, quiet as the tranquil sky, in the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow—poet and educator from el Norte, in Portland Maine, it was part of Massachusetts at the time—but that’s Cirilo today, an exception, he’s got nothing to complain about, maybe a lost building block, a misspelled word out of wooden alphabet blocks, otherwise, darse buena vida, or as the gabachos say, the boy’s living the life of Riley, and the three women, Guadalupe, Luz Elena, and Irma, moving like birds, extending their arms, feet barely touching the ground, exaggerated steps light as feathers taking them to the entrance to the living room and a moment to observe irreproachable innocence, Cirilo, on the living room floor, surrounded by wooden alphabet blocks, each letter a color, a red A, a blue S, a green L, a yellow J, a green V, a red Y, and two of the three women wondering if at his age Cirilo could really spell, and Luz Elena, reading their thoughts, with respect to intelligence and family resemblance, just because he looks a lot like El Güero—how he got that nickname I’ll never know—it doesn’t mean he’s as stupid as his father, and as my brother said, El Güero will never know what he’s missing, ¡qué idiota! a son like Cirilo is a gift from God, may He hear my thanks, Luz Elena pinching the cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck with a couple of chubby fingers, Guadalupe and Irma, shaking their heads no at the same time, no words but a motion conveying plenty, united against El Güero, confederates for life, and unanimous in their fondness for Avelina, Perla, and Cirilo, and Guadalupe Muñoz, look at him, un verdadero ángel viviente, a real living angel, Cirilo’s mesmerized, the alphabet spread out in front of him, tiny hands forming words with wooden blocks, breeding thoughts, performing specified logical operations at a level above that which is normal or average, a first-rate gifted boy, while the life we’re leading is no life at all, yes, he’s innocent, and in the clear, and he’s got to stay that way for as long as he can, stay a child, Cirilo, that’s all, and nothing more, you’ll know soon enough—disculpa, por favor, excuse me, but these are words I’ve got to say—the minute life’s got you by the balls, and Cirilo, hearing a familiar voice, warm-hearted Guadalupe, not the words, and what did he know about balls at his age, Cirilo, not mesmerized at all, but concentrating, turned his head, eyes blinking at the faces peering at him, each with a smile on their lips, dropping a letter-block to the floor, a yellow J, playing with a curl in his thick black hair, a boy who flirts, and Irma Payno, no likeness to El Güero, un hombre muy bruto y mal criado, a rough and bad man, Luz Elena, Guadalupe, and Irma gliding farther into the living room, Luz Elena sitting down on an armchair, Irma sitting sideways on the arm of the same chair, turned away from the windows, toward Cirilo, Guadalupe standing over him, Cirilo looking up at her, and then his attention drawn back to the alphabet blocks, Guadalupe on her hands and knees, getting comfortable, sitting right next to Cirilo, thinking to herself, this is a boy like my boy when he was younger than he is now, another tear, and visions of a moment that couldn’t be put into words, because it was all noise, fear, bullets, bus windows shattered into slivers and shards, and Luz Elena and Irma Payno, saying in the same voice at the same time without a word out loud, it doesn’t do any good to miss people, but why not dream a bit? and Guadalupe Muñoz, answering without speaking, ¿me estás vacilando? are you kidding me? and then out loud, what’s left to dream about, a burial next to what’s supposed to be Pancho Villa’s tomb in the municipal cemetery of Hidalgo del Parral, m’hijas? a hundred forty miles southeast of us, heading out of Chihuahua on Mexico 16, using twenty-three miles of the Cuauhtémoc highway, then taking Mexico 24, crossing Río Parral before San José, taking Vía Corta, that’s what it’s called, turning off heading west, joining Avenida Tecnológico and on to Panteón Dolores, two arched stone entrances, or exits, depending on whether you’re coming or going, a salmon-colored wall, but we don’t even have Coyuco’s body, so don’t hold your breath, we aren’t going anywhere right now, and Luz Elena, with respect to a map in our hands and which way to turn—and we all know that the only way’s toward God—you don’t have to give us directions, ’mana, we’ve been there before, whether Villa’s buried in Hidalgo del Parral or Mexico City, it’s a journey we’ve made, all of us, ¿adónde vas? ¿qué haces? where are you going? what are you doing? a visit to the grave of our José Doroteo Arango Arámbula, but right now, right here, we’re beginning a journey of protest, and there are banners, posters, and placards to make, and Irma Payno, you’re right, what’re we thinking about if we aren’t thinking about the loved ones we’ve lost, maybe the loved ones we’re going to lose—and now it’s my turn to say, disculpa, por favor, excuse me—in this fucked up world, our world, the one in which we live, that looks nothing like the world I dreamed of when I didn’t know any better, Irma folding her hands in her lap, and then a song coming out of nowhere, playing for Irma, “Pero hay qué triste,” a tender song with unhappy words played on 12-string guitar and sung by Lydia Mendoza, and recorded in San Antonio, Texas, in 1934:

  Pero hay qué triste

  es amar sin esperanza.

  De mi pecho–mi corazón latiendo,

  de mis ojos–una lágrima vertiendo,

  y desde entonces, no hay

  consuelo ni esperanza para mí.

  Pero hay qué triste

  es amar sin esperanza.

  De mi pecho–mi corazón latiendo,

  de mis ojos–una lágrima vertiendo,

  y desde entonces, no hay

  consuelo ni esperanza para mí.

  ¿Pues si no me quieres,

  pues para qué me miras?

  ¡O, qué misterio encierra tu mirada!

  De mis ojos–una lágrima vertiendo,

  y desde entonces, no hay

  consuelo ni esperanza para mí.

  But oh, how sad

  it is to love without hope.

  From my chest my heart is beating,

  from my eyes a tear is falling,

  and ever since then there is

  no consolation or hope for me.

  Well, if you don’t love me,

  well, why do you look at me?

  Oh, what mystery your gaze contains!

  From my eyes a tear is falling,

  and ever since then there is

  no consolation or hope for me.

  The three women, together, a moment of silence for the purpose of listening, clearly sensibly logically, the three women, an appropriate, relevant resolve, no drama but a general feeling of discomfort, illness, or uneasiness from the words, and Irma Payno, smoking is permitted, a spot of pulque, and judgment, so the one who wants to know something new, don’t listen to this song, it’s what’s become of us, all of us, an old story that isn’t so old, and the other parents, wives, girlfriends, brothers and sisters, it’s driven like a nail into our hearts, where the nail is known to act as habitu
al intruder, an imprecise—who knows where it’s going to hit—and finally precise something, involving pain, disappearance, the missing and dead with their eyes a gift to the swarm of flies, a swarm of flies that are stitched to them like a shroud, our Coyuco, yours and mine, forty-three other students, and a come-as-you-are funeral, none of the normalistas were invited, which brings me to our curiosity as to the fate of Coyuco, and Ernesto’s search in Rubén’s F-150, where are they? what’re they doing? and why don’t they come home, together? “but oh, how sad it is to live without hope,” and Guadalupe Muñoz, take a look at Cirilo, what he’s spelling with his wooden blocks—not something to miss! Luz Elena getting up from the armchair, Irma standing with her head bent trying to see past Cirilo sitting on the floor, Guadalupe, leaning forward, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder, while Luz Elena and Irma walked closer to where they were sitting, Luz Elena and Irma standing now above Cirilo and Guadalupe, the three adults looking down at the word he’d formed with his alphabet blocks, a multi-colored word as linear as a strip of wood typically marked at regular intervals, to draw straight lines or measure distances, fantasma, ghost.