by Mark Fishman
Ernesto, after a good night’s sleep, looking at himself in the mirror of his room at the Hotel Obregón on Avenue General Álvaro Obregón, at the corner of Calle Juan R. Escudero, not far from Periférico Sur, admiring the dark-blue uniform, resembling the uniforms of the Policía Municipal, neatly pressed after spending the night under the mattress, a poor man’s pressing, a uniform including the belt but without a gun, flag and insignia that he’d sewn on at home late at night, working until daybreak, hiding the shortsleeved shirt where his wife wouldn’t find it—a pair of blue trousers just a pair of blue trousers, nothing to hide—a shirt now adorning his sunken chest, he wore a sleeveless T-shirt against his skin, but no clean underwear or socks, he couldn’t think of everything, and he wasn’t the most imposing figure for a member of the Policía Municipal without a cap, but it’d have to do, Ernesto sniffing the air, turning his head and raising his arm to smell the fabric of the shirt, the mustiness of aged paper, decaying paper, rosin, acetic acid, furfural and lignin, not so bad, but mostly the stale, moldy smell of where he’d kept the shirt at home, and despite the uniform, still no answers to any questions, not his own, not Guadalupe’s, not Irma’s, not Ignacio’s, not Rubén Arenal’s or Luz Elena’s, not the other parents of the disappeared, and he wouldn’t get any answers to whatever questions he had, much less anybody else’s questions, until he got himself outside and walking on the streets in the city of Iguala, Ernesto combing gray strands of hair away from his forehead and eyes, using his fingers because he didn’t have a comb, he gave himself a thorough examination in the mirror, not squinting but taking advantage of the sunlight streaming in through the window to make the final touches, adjusting the collar, straightening the shoulders, brushing the trousers with the palm of his hand, slapping them clean of dust and lint, the sting of the slap stimulating the flow of blood under the skin, wiping his black leather boots clean with a towel, until he decided he looked as fit for the role as he could be.
Ernesto talking to himself, with no voice but his own, and Ernesto Cisneros, head up, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back, while it seems like everything’s within my reach, and I see it plain as day, it feels like my mind’s slipping, I’ve got a cramp in my brain, and the only solution, just like getting rid of a kink, a real stiffness in the back or neck, is to shake off the persistent gloom, leave the hotel—a modern design that’s enough to make my eyes water and my throat dry—and try out this uniform, put an authoritative expression on my face, not a frown, just confidence, and a measure of the law and the right it gives me as a cop, let’s call it a trial run before I go into that single-story white building, the Policía Municipal, with a door painted black, climbing ocher-colored steps, more orange than yellow, four of them, I’ve seen it, and I know where I’ve got to go to get there, an unimpressive imposition, I’ll find out what they can tell me about the disappearance of forty-three student teachers, normalistas, and our Coyuco, Lupita’s and mine, and Irma’s too, because he belongs to all of us, even our friends, and his friends, we’ve got a right to know what happened to all of them, uncertainty’s erasing the contours of things, Coyuco, gone like a cow washed away in a rising river, the heavy water hitting her flanks, I bet she bellowed for help, and only God knows how he bellowed, right out of Juan Rulfo’s story, “Es que somos muy pobres,” “We’re Very Poor,” a poor cow, but if she’s borne more than one calf, she’s left at least one life behind her—not us, Coyuco’s an only child—while ours is a miserable life we’re living if we aren’t already dead, a lost world in the time of dinosaurs, devoured carcasses, plants crushed, trees knocked down, and an imitation of a dinosaur’s heavy stride with big legs, substantial legs, monster legs, stridently slicing through the primeval forest, because that’s where we are, we’ve gone back more than centuries, tens of thousands of years, or in the case of dinosaurs two hundred million years ago, living like we’ve haven’t got any laws—don’t look them up in a book, you won’t find them, and if you do, they aren’t for us—and it’s nothing but eat somebody else before you get eaten by something that’s got the face of the ministerial police, the Policía Federal, the municipal police, the 27th Battalion, the Guerreros Unidos, and Iguala’s fucking mayor and his wife, the first lady and the Queen of Iguala, add it up and we’ve lost, it’s an insurmountable wall, and the struggle to get beyond it quickly becomes an inability to act, a wounded world walking with a limp, Ernesto, a protesting snort breaking out of his throat wrapped up in weeping, and Ernesto Cisneros, we all get emotional in a crisis, it’s a time of intense difficulty, trouble, and danger, and it might as well be on paper, a document containing a populational census that assures us of a critical scarcity of brains that work of brains that reason of brains being brains that do what they’re supposed to do, and the same document, maybe I’m imagining it, but whether it’s true or not it might as well exist because it predicts the ruthless premeditation—plotted schemed organized—that’s behind the beginning of the end, right now, today, not even waiting for a maybe later, and it makes my head swim, my blood run cold, I can’t swallow it, I won’t swallow it, and if they sweeten it for me with syrup I won’t swallow it because I can’t put up with defeatism, and a few words from another time, originating in the same place, a poem by Cuauhtencoztli, Yo, Cuauhtencoztli—exclama—aquí estoy sufriendo … /¿Tienen verdad, raíz, los hombres? / ¿Mañana tendrá todavía raíz y verdad nuestro canto? / ¿Qué está por ventura en pie? / ¿ Qué es lo que viene a salir bien? / Aquí vivimos, aquí estamos, / pero somos indigentes, / ¡Oh amigos nuestros! “I, Cuauhtencoztli, suffer. / What is truly real? / Will my song still be real tomorrow? / Do men truly exist? / What will survive? / We live here, we stay here, / but we are destitute, oh my friends!” an approximate translation, but you get the idea, so what’s the choice, it’s a short list, don’t look for more, and I haven’t thrown away a page, nothing on offer appeals to me, keep ourselves happy with winks and pats on the back and a buy this buy that you can’t live without it, or keep your head down, don’t look anybody in the eye, and if that doesn’t work and it gets to be too much you can always run away, but it cuts no ice with me, and you, mis amigos, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, what kind of life is that? I wonder if behind my back they’ve organized a state of well-run well-regulated disorganization, turn around, you’ll see something different, but I won’t put a peso on it, behind my back or yours, it’s all the same, it’s a valueless vacuum sold right off the grill, fresh out of the oven, and we’ve got to put up a fight, let me flip through a book, a point of reference you can sink your teeth into, but it isn’t anything on a map, just a little quote from a book I haven’t got in my hands, “Aztec religion, on the mystico-militaristic level, sought to preserve the life of the Sun, threatened by a fifth and final cataclysm, through ceremonial warfare and human sacrifice … At the same time, however, many of the wise men, living in the shadow of the great symbol of Nahuatl wisdom, Quetzalcoatl, attempted to discover the meaning of life on an intellectual plane. These almost diametrically opposed attitudes toward life and the universe existed side by side—a situation similar to that of Nazi Germany in our time, where a mystico-militaristic world view and a genuinely humanistic philosophy and literature coexisted,” according to Miguel León-Portilla, and I see his point, it’s not a leap or a jump to make the connection, humanism and barbarism, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, it’s human nature, but that doesn’t make it right, you see what I’m talking about, a fucking nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, and not just then but now, the human species is perhaps two million years old—prehistorians keep pushing our birth date further back—the incidence of clearly recognizable artifacts dates back only fifty to a hundred thousand years, more fingers than we can count, and in that modest span, we’ve come from stone axes and spears to intercontinental missiles with nuclear warheads, but maybe my brain’s turned to mush, like I’ve taken more than a handful of ololiuhqui, the seed of the Rivea corymbosa, a species of morning glory, or swallowed
a drink with sinicuichi of the Mexican highlands, Heimia salicifolia, you know it, don’t you? a perennial shrub with small narrow leaves and yellow flowers, leaving the crushed wilted leaves in water in the sun, brewing and fermenting them, and when the mixture’s just right, downing a glass or two, look out stomach here it comes, generating the divine within, an entheogen, and down to earth, no abstruse, cryptic or transcendental messages, down on earth, right here, let’s be honest, my voice’s echoing, it’s a big empty world, nothing out there—a good idea’s worth repeating—and ach ayac nelli in tiquitohua nican, “it may be that no one speaks the truth on earth,” what do I know except what I’ve seen, and what I’ve seen doesn’t look good, more like hell than anything else, so what I’ll make of it is the quality of the revenge I’ll get if I don’t find Coyuco alive, and all the good will in the world won’t save me from trying to get it, brains or no brains, sense, judgment, wisdom, my mind’s made up, my enemy’s apathy and fear in the face of bullying, cruelty, and repression, when push comes to shove—the other side of the ten-peso coin—that’s a good one we’ll see who’s going to do the pushing now, it’s something to believe in, with a cry squeezed out by the hangman’s spasm, I raise my cleaver, no holds barred, yes, something can be done, carried out, pulled off and wrapped up to make it right, even if it’s inflicting hurt or harm on someone for an injury or wrong suffered at their hands—look it up, that’s what it says, it’s the world as it is and there’s nothing out there but suffering, why try to change things when they’ve been working for hundreds thousands millions of years, who’s the dinosaur now, the meat-eating ball-biting animal, I raise my hand, call on me call on me, but the result has yet to be seen, give me the spyglass, and the quartermaster, the navigator’s enlisted assistant, reaches for a wooden box containing the small, hand-held telescope, offering it to me with the solemnity of a long-established ceremony, I’m the navigator, not the ship’s captain, that’s how I’ll know the result, using an optical instrument designed to make distant objects appear nearer, lenses, or curved mirrors and lenses, rays of light collected and focused, shutting one eye, concentrating with the other, dealing with one particular thing above all others, a forecast or a verification, “the proof of the pudding is the eating,” it might be Miguel de Cervantes, and “if you seek truth you will not seek victory by dishonorable means, and if you find truth you will become invincible,” Epictetus, a Stoic philosopher born a slave, read, read, and never stop, “it’s a long trip, we are the only riders,” that’s William Burroughs, and my mind’s turning to mush, I haven’t got anywhere in this business but dressed in this uniform and hanging on to a rough idea of what I’m going to do once I get myself out of Hotel Obregón, on Avenue General Álvaro Obregón, and into the light of day, not in the splendor of the moon in the distance, not now, I couldn’t take it, too many ghosts floating above the tall grass lit by moonlight, and not a figment of my imagination, our previously prized and even now material—important essential relevant—Mexico’s supplied plenty of them, ghosts crashing into me, drivers without eyes, fantasmas peatonales, pedestrian ghosts with no sense of direction, a direct hit, one after the other, you’ve walked in the countryside, the towns and cities at night, I swear it’s true, it can happen to anyone, keep your eyes open, let your skin feel the contact of the dead we can’t see, they’ll caress your cheeks with phantom fingers, beyond our eyes the picture is vague, a useless clarity, not faulty but to no effect, what we can’t see, provoking, disorienting, so let’s go outside, face the world, maybe the daylight will protect us, no further need to explain excuse produce any arguments or facts in support of the decision, it’ll soon be neurologically impossible to oppose or even to question, on that account, therefore and thus, splashed with blood from head to foot, I’ll jet sprint zoom away into the streets of Iguala de la Independencia singing, La verdad es que cuesta trabajo aclimatarse al hambre, “The truth is that it’s hard work to get used to hunger,” or Cola de relámpago, remolino de muertos, “Tail of lightning, maelstrom of the dead,” take your pick, one line’s as good as the other, accompanied or not by music, it’s all the same to me, what do you think, a Mexican-style instrumental version of “Noche de ronda” by Agustín Lara—he of the very long name, Ángel Agustín María Carlos Fausto Mariano Alfonso del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús Lara y Aguirre del Pino, born in Tlacotalpán, Veracruz—no, it’s too sad, a song dedicated to María Félix, because things don’t always work out the way we hope they will, here I go again, but take a look around you, then and now, now and then, a highball glass of torito veracruzano, cane alcohol flavored with fruit, guanábana, removing the seeds first, or with jobo, nache, coffee, coconut, peanuts, walnuts, or chiles, a little cinnamon sprinkled on top, mixed with crushed ice, or none at all, and that’ll bring the daylight down on top of us, Agustín Lara drank them at Cantina Blanca Nieves, or Tobi’s, not far from the wide Río Papaloapan, but let’s get back to going out into the street, Avenue General Álvaro Obregón, you’ve got to start somewhere, and that’s where I’m going to put down my foot, both of them, Ernesto turning the doorknob, the door shutting behind him, headed down the corridor to the stairs and out the door of Hotel Obregón into daylight.
Ernesto, one boot in front of the other, laced-up tied-up leather boots he’d carried with him from Chihuahua, and Ernesto Cisneros, count your blessings, I’ve got one left, Lupita, and I used to have two, my Coyuco, Lupita’s and mine, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself, I’ve said it before and I’ll probably say it again, there’s still hope and maybe he’s alive, the dry wind cutting slices out of his skin, the sun more terrible than he remembered it being as it tried to flatten him against the walls of buildings, or demoralize him with its intensity, its brightness, but the question of whether or not the searing sunlight was taking the wind out of his sails floated for a second, then became a part of the zone of the forgotten when Ernesto, raising his eyes from the path, the direction his feet in their boots were taking him, saw a boy and girl, around fifteen years old, schoolmates, or a teenager holding hands with his girlfriend, the girl dropping an ice cream wrapper, a Holanda-brand Mordisko clásico ice cream sandwich, Ernesto, out loud, and with an authority that surprised him as the words came out of his mouth, pointing at the wrapper, words not shouted but at a commanding volume, and Ernesto Cisneros, pick it up, don’t be a lazy slob or you’ll get yourself into trouble, then watching as the boy stepped back, let go of her hand, and the girl, bending at the waist, her skirt rising to the back of her thighs, reaching for the brown, red and white wrapper fluttering like a leaf on the street, and Ernesto Cisneros, telling himself, beginner’s luck, I’m using the voice of the official organization that’s responsible for protecting people and property, making people obey the law, then Ernesto swinging around, saluting the couple without breaking his stride, twin teenage souls amidst a multitude of strangers on a street in Iguala de la Independencia, a gust of wind swirling at the girl’s ankles, climbing her legs, raising her skirt, Ernesto, still walking, caught a glimpse of what she was wearing beneath it, then turned around to face the direction he was going in without knowing exactly where he was going, and before he knew he’d got there, another street corner, an intersection, not counting the blocks he’d walked, trying to orient himself, it was around Avenida Adolfo Ruíz Cortines, named after the Mexican president who granted women the right to vote, Ernesto looking at the streets ahead of him, figuring on straight ahead to Calle 5 de Mayo, where he wanted to turn right, but a distracting thought got in the way, that with a short prayer and a shorter benediction, he’d turn out all the lights in the Iguala police station, between Calle Prolongación Celestino Negrete and Izancanac, and in total darkness hit every cop he could find with a chair, drawing blood, breaking bones, bestowing unconsciousness and death on everybody who crossed his path, a perfect revenge because they’d never see his face and wouldn’t know what’d hit them but their own furniture, punishment punishment was the name of the song, and Ernesto Cisneros, to
himself, a lawnmower’s trimmed my brain, I don’t even know where I’m going, then taking a long stride without confidence, but a firmness of purpose on automatic pilot, starting out for Calle 5 de Mayo, he collided with a policeman at the corner of Río Velero, a block from Calle Río Papagayo, and Ernesto Cisneros, excuse me, officer, I wasn’t looking where I was going, or I was looking, but not at you, my mind’s full of pictures and thoughts that’d interfere with anyone’s thinking, Ernesto regaining his senses, seeing who he was speaking to, and Ernesto Cisneros, adding, officer of the law or not, I’m not paying attention to what’s going on around me, and the policeman, mistaking Ernesto for a superior, a higher-up, you don’t have to apologize to me, sir, you’ve got important things to do, a lot on your mind, it’s written on your face, and I’m on my way home, lunch with the kids, I’ve got five and they’ve all got to eat, it’s a little early, but that’s the way it is, at least for the young ones, as for the two older kids, they do what they want, you know how teenagers are, it’s the same everywhere—do you have kids? excuse me, never mind—so I’ll join them, and my wife, too, family’s the most important thing, fundamental y el gran secreto, the big secret to a long life, and that’s why I work like a brick, sir, in the words of John Lyly, an English poet, playwright, the works—I read a lot when I’ve got the time—so we all have at least one meal together, no matter what time of day it is, today it’s lunch, except when work keeps me away, but you know how it is better than I do, sir, it’s our duty our mission our role in this life, Ernesto resting a firm hand on the policeman’s shoulder, and Ernesto Cisneros, you’re right, colega, it’s our responsibility, but if you don’t mind, a moment’s delay, a diversion, a little sidetrack from routine, I need the advice of a compañero, a fellow soldier del orden público, a little favor, por favor, how about going with me to get some beer at Modelorama, it’s just over there on Ruíz Cortines, I can see it from here—Ernesto pointing down the street—and if you walk this way, I mean if you take this route home, you’ll already know it, Modelorama, I’ve got a hard time deciding what to buy and how much I can carry, it’s a special occasion, I won’t bore you, my meticulous attention to detail, but since we’re going the same way, I thought that you’d give me a hand, and an ice-cold beer is in it for you because you’re you’re taking a break for lunch, I’m a generous man and a good leader of men, and a couple of six-packs for me, a celebration always calls for beer, and what we’ve got going, my colleagues and I, officer, mi colega, it’s an important event, almost historically significant, momentous, so what do you say? on a day like this, a cold beer, if you’ve got a minute to spare, the policeman, wanting to please his superior, lifting his cap from his head, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, and the policeman, it’d be an honor, sir, to accompany you to Modelorama, and to give you a helping hand, even if it looks to me like you’re in very good shape for a man your age, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, and in fact, because of the feeling I have right now, courtesy and admiration and a little affection, I’d follow you to the end of the world, as long as I get to my house in time for lunch, Ernesto, a salute, an informal wave of the hand, and they were walking down Ruíz Cortines toward Río Papagayo in the mildly buzzing silence of noon.