Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Oh you friends!

  You, eagles and jaguars.

  In truth here it is like a game of patolli!

  How can we gain something in it?

  Oh friends … !

  We all must play patolli:

  we must go to the place of mystery.

  In truth before his face,

  I am only in vain,

  destitute before the Giver of Life.

  And Ernesto Cisneros, continuing, that’s from the Cantares Mexicanos, a special thanks to Miguel León-Portilla, you can find a reproduction of the manuscript in our National Library, so throw your bright-colored dice, and your beans, or maize, it’s up to you, colegas, pray to your gods with the hope of winning the game, and if I have anything to say about it you won’t, perdone, but that’s the way it is, my position on the subject is well-known, locally if nowhere else, can we take a walk, go somewhere where there’s nobody to interrupt us, you’ll see what I mean, I’ve got more to say, what do you think, is it okay with you, all three, of course, that’s what I meant, right this way, yo indicaré el camino, y ustedes siguen con las vacas, I’ll blaze the trail, you follow with the cattle, just like in a Western, you can leave your vehicles where they’re parked, you’re the police, after all, and so am I, Ernesto leading them away from the Estrella de Oro station, toward the statue, La Patria Trigarante, reminding him of the flag of the Three Guarantees of Mexico, walking along Heroico Colgio Militar, past the Unidad Habitacional Militar, a military housing unit, and Ernesto Cisneros, you can pick which entrance you want, colegas, the red on the left or the green on the right, and the three men following Ernesto, approaching the double arches painted red, white and green, police officer No. 2 using the bottle to point at the red entrance, the four of them taking the left entrance, heading in the direction of an empty soccer field near Unidad Deportiva de Iguala for the players of the Liga Municipal de Futbol Amateur AC, but there wasn’t a match going on right now, officer No. 1 ambling next to Ernesto, a confidence, a whisper, and policeman No. 1, you’re a little old for being a cop, aren’t you, tata? excuse me, ’mano, but you remind me of my father, and Ernesto Cisneros, what do you think of him, your father? is it love or hate, a fistful of indifference? and policeman No. 1, I loved him all right, but he’s dead, and when he was alive he was a living son-of-a-bitch, and Ernesto Cisneros, who really knows what a man’s tastes or intuitions are based on, then turning his head, throwing words over his shoulder at the other two, that’s what I say, boys, aspirations, dreams, hopes, what d’you suppose your mothers and fathers bathed you in besides water, hot when they could get it, cold when there was no choice? instilling what sort of principles, ethics, moral codes, standards? Ernesto turned to look at officer No. 1, adding, have you got any idea? obviously not, it’s written on your ugly face—blank with a broken nose, I’m talking about your son-of-a-bitch father, what do you figure he taught you? officers No. 2 and 3 passing the nearly empty bottle back and forth between them, giggling like children, Ernesto catching a couple of sentences coming from officers No. 2 and 3, and policeman No. 2, ¿desde cuándo se viste él como un joto? since when does he dress like a faggot? and policeman No. 3, desde que él tiene dinero, since he’s got money, and policeman No. 2, así, él no está maldiciendo su mala suerte, so, he isn’t cursing his bad luck, and policeman No. 3, ¡sobres! you said it, and they went on like that, officers No. 2 and 3, exchanging observations that meant nothing to Ernesto, jokes that were more empty and meaningless than offering a house to a nomad, and when the last drop was drained from the bottle, police officer No. 2 tossed it in the air as they were walking next to a fenced-in grassy playing field, not green but dusty brown, and in the far distance a mountain range watching over them, Ernesto hearing but not seeing the bottle shatter, turning around when he got to the leaning trunk of a tree, Ernesto face-to-face with officer No. 1, and policeman No. 1, they finished the bottle, which is, deep down, so familiar, and Ernesto Cisneros, in other words, they’re drunk again, and policeman No. 1, to the other two officers, what the fuck! and officers No. 2 and 3, a big laugh from their guts filled with tequila, staring at the glass on the sidewalk glittering in the sunlight, not a single car or truck passed the four men gathered on the sidewalk, there wasn’t a pedestrian in sight, Ernesto, looking away from the two drunken policemen, staring at his hands, wondering what to do with them, and Ernesto Cisneros, where on earth will I put them now? his hands fidgeting without a word from his brain, hands impatient to do something, Ernesto knowing what his hands were thinking, knowing what they wanted to get their hands on, recognizing their needs even though the needs were outside the laws of nature, against his own nature, too, but they were his hands, he couldn’t refuse them, and he knew himself, his personality, disposition, temperament, makeup, a modified altered revised version of the old familiar Ernesto, transformed the moment Coyuco disappeared, and anger was only part of it, and Ernesto Cisneros, silently, a sadness as deep as the Sigsbee Deep, or the Mexico Basin, a triangular basin, the deepest part of the Gulf of Mexico, 12,000, even 14,000 feet, so deep it’s fathomless, that’s a lot of sadness, more than a man can handle, and three hundred miles long, our Barranca del Cobre under the sea, so when the spark that’s lighted in situations like this has been lighted, not fireworks, not having a good time like someone on a merry-go-round, no trio of trumpeting trumpets, but an explosion outburst flare-up of anger, drowning in the deep of the Mexico Basin, floating facedown on a salty sea, or cursing the hope that’s been lost, nuestra intranquilidad, nuestra dependencia, ha ido en aumento, también la crudeza de nuestros insomnios, our restlessness and dependency have only increased, as well as the severity of our insomnia, we’re all in the same boat, nobody’s closing an eye at night to sleep, we’re afraid of what we’ll dream or what we’ll see in our dreams, and during the day we’re wide awake waiting for the least bit of news, we’re locked out and don’t have the key, that’s me, that’s Lupita, and it’s the parents, wives, girlfriends, brothers and sisters of all the others, forty-three, plus our Coyuco, los desaparecidos, hundreds, or thousands—the missing, no end to them, and policeman No. 1, so where to, tata? where are you taking us? destination unknown, not into error or morally questionable behavior, I hope, but my fingers are crossed, you just can’t see them, here, take a look, and he waved a fat-fingered hand in front of Ernesto, and Ernesto Cisneros, a broad smile on his face, we’re going straight to the center of the earth, officer No. 1, not really paying attention, looking with narrowed eyes for the entrance to the playing field, no sunglasses, just a hand like a visor on his forehead, and policeman No. 1, let’s climb the fence, I don’t feel like walking, and I’ve got to take a piss, Ernesto offering him a leg up, and policeman No. 1, tata, you’re stronger than you look, then Ernesto helping the other two officers up and over, the fence wasn’t high but a bit wobbly, Ernesto making it over by himself, dropping gently to the dried-out grass on the other side, officer No. 1 scanning the landscape for a place to take a leak, Ernesto looking down at the shadow of a tree cast by the sun between the wire-mesh fence they’d just climbed and the white wooden fence staking out the field, turning his eyes to a goalpost without a net, the four men stepping over the white wooden fence, advancing toward the middle of the field, officer No. 1, eyes moving left to right right to left, searching for a tree a shady corner a clump of shrubs somewhere to take it out and let the stream flow freely to relieve his bladder, Ernesto leading the way, the others behind him, not a real Francisco Vázquez de Coronado, but with his own ideas in mind, Ernesto hearing mumbling voices, indistinct words coming from officers No. 2 and No. 3, the two-fisted tone of officer No. 2’s voice, and then the words themselves, and policeman No. 2 speaking to officer No. 3, este pinche cabrón me pone los nervios de punta, this fucking shithead gets on my nerves, and policeman No. 3, ¡a poco! no shit! I can see it on your face, cabrón, the four men now standing in the center of the soccer field, forming a kind of circle, positioned not too close not too far away, officer No
. 1 still looking for a place to piss, while officer No. 2, drawing attention to himself, a drunken selfish self, moist on the lips, tequila forced out of his mouth by a torrent of saliva, sickeningly seductive, moving slowly but surely toward Ernesto, edging his way closer, officer No. 1 taking a step back, Ernesto focused on the distorted deformed expression on officer No. 2’s face, skin turning a shade of purple, a face growing larger as he approached Ernesto, a balloon with bulging eyes and a wide-open mouth with shiny saliva-covered teeth, Ernesto hearing nothing at first because there was nothing coming out of the other’s mouth, just lips shaping silent words, then officer No. 3 trying to hold back officer No. 2 by gripping his shoulder, twisting his body in the effort, making a Quasimodo out of him, as the other fought to pull himself free, and policeman No. 3, in the words of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, he’s as strong as the voice of Fate, then officer No. 2, with nothing holding him back, standing as close to Ernesto as he could get, an unwanted Siamese twin, a furious bag of hot air fueled by alcohol, not a dry brain cell left to suppress any parts considered obscene, personally unacceptable, or a threat to security, officer No. 3 covering his ears as the words started to come out of officer No. 2, officer No. 1 holding his breath, ignoring the membranous sac in which his urine was colleted, ready to overflow, Ernesto listening without understanding at first what he was hearing, hateful words pouring from officer No. 2’s mouth, his extended arms waving like the sails of a windmill, shouting at Ernesto, covering Ernesto’s face with a spray of saliva and tequila, aggressive was the chest officer No. 2 shoved forward, imaginary masses getting out of their cars, the masses shaking their fists, the masses declaring a fight, the masses calling for blood, but there wasn’t a crowd, only four of them, and one was out of his mind, and policeman No. 2, his voice now a whisper, this is a country of plain and simple observers, officer No. 2 sticking his arm out with his hand raised like he was one of The Supremes, stopping Ernesto before he could say a word, and policeman No. 2, I’ll anticipate what’s going to come out of your mouth, tata, you’re going to tell me we’ve got great poets in these parts, and it’s true, I’m one of them, no one can deny it, and now, out of the blue, straight into your elephant ears, you’ll hear a shout, an enthusiastic exclamation of intelligence coming from yours truly, estúpido, maybe you haven’t got any brains horse sense know-how, cabrón, but I can help you out, you’re gonna get a break, I can do that for you, you faggot son-of-a-bitch, cop or no cop, tata, you aren’t one of us, that’s for sure, ever since the 26th September, here in Iguala, you can’t trust anyone, who was there, who wasn’t, who’s gonna say something, or who’s gonna keep their trap shut, hijo de puta, son of a bitch, are you gonna make apologies, turn yourself in, pinche huele-pedos, you fucking fart-smeller, you blank piece of paper, a nobody, you get what I’m saying? Ernesto not saying a word, and policeman No. 2, ¿naciste lento, o pasó recién? were you born this slow, or did it just happen recently? arbeit macht frei! upside-down B or not, work sets you free, you prick, that’s where you belong, you’d better keep your mouth shut, whatever you know, if you know anything at all, which I doubt, so if there’s something on your mind, a little guilt, something to confess, bendígame Padre, porque he pecado, bless me Father, for I have sinned, like some kinda marica? a sissy, then swallow it, not a word, or do I have to shut your mouth for you, and all those weeping parents, wipe away your tears, hijo de la chingada, son of a bitch—¡vete al coño podrido de tu puta madre! go to the rotten cunt of your whore mother—officer No. 2 turning to the other officers, indicating Ernesto with a jerk of his head, and policeman No. 2, se busca por tonto, wanted for stupidity, then turning back to Ernesto, so close that Ernesto felt his stinking breath on his face, and policeman No. 2, not to mention the emancipated and intellectual women who work in circuses, ¿qué chinga’os buscas, pinche pedazo de mierda? hijo de la chingada, you fucking piece of shit, what’re you looking at, you fucking dick? Ernesto spreading his arms like wings, reaching around the other’s waist, drawing officer No. 2 closer, belly to belly, squeezing him, holding him in an embrace, Ernesto unholstering officer No. 2’s .38 Special, pressing the muzzle against the other’s guts, firing a round, then another, turning on his heel, firing a shot between the eyes of officer No. 1, then firing a couple of bullets into officer No. 3’s chest and neck, killing all three of them on an empty field used for outdoor team games, a soccer field near Unidad Deportiva de Iguala for the players of the Liga Municipal de Futbol Amateur AC, Ernesto, wiping the grip, trigger, barrel of the .38—any part he might’ve touched—with the tail of his shirt, dropped the gun in the dry grass next to officer No. 1’s dead body, trousers stained with piss, relief at last, Ernesto looked up at the welcoming sky, with no hope now for getting to that single-story white building, the Policía Municipal, its door painted black, no hope of climbing the ocher-colored steps, more orange than yellow, and Ernesto Cisneros, out loud to himself, now what’ve you done.