Thirteen Heavens
Page 21
as long as I can live.
I will live for you alone,
nothing more for you, for you!
And I will be for you alone
although you’ll never be for me!
I’d like to hide my anguish,
in your crimson mouth,
and dry your sad tears,
living only for you.
Rubén Arenal bowing as Little Pascuala accompanied him to the door, the music taking him out of it into the snowy night, a night that wasn’t cold, but no explanation, there was snowfall that fell in the high mountains, but Pascuala Esparza and her daughter didn’t live in the high mountains, but the foothills, that was the way to describe where he was right now, even if the setting, the house itself, looked like a picture of a house he’d seen in the mountains outside Reno, Nevada, Rubén Arenal standing beneath the corrugated roof protecting him from a heavy snowfall, the overloaded bed of the truck covered by a waterproof tarp, he started by rolling back the tarp, reaching for pottery bundled and protected by rags and crumpled newspapers, carrying them to the open front door, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter weren’t anywhere in sight, but he smelled meat cooking on a grill or baking in an oven.
The second time he went out the front door, moving back and forth between the house and the Suzuki, the Suzuki and the house, he returned with only the hand-woven Saltillo rugs from the state of Coahuila, or from Teotitlán del Valle, each tied with string, untying them now, spreading them out on the living room floor, wanting to present his work in the best light and on fine hand-woven materials in a pattern of colors and a traditional style, but he’d forgotten the bottle of homemade pulque on the passenger seat of the Suzuki, still no sign of La Pascualita or her mother, the odor of grilled onions joined the smell of cooking meat, it might’ve been a real breakfast in the afternoon, machaca con huevos, grilled dried spiced beef, eggs, tomatoes, chopped onion, salsa, or they were preparing a kind of Jalisco birria, a spicy lamb stew, or picadillo, salted pot roast beef with onion and garlic, shredding the meat, sautéing diced onion and chopped green tomatillos, adding the meat, and later a sauce of guajillo chiles, or a simple carne asada, marinated flank steak, sliced and grilled, burritos with wheat-flour tortillas, refried beans, red rice, salsa verde, a little smoke in the air, whatever it was it smelled delicious, Rubén Arenal, his mouth watering, hoping no saliva fell on an ashtray, a pitcher, a bowl for fruit, a mug for coffee, a mug for posol, as he carefully unpacked them all and set them out on the hand-woven rugs he’d brought with him, not knowing before now that he was hungry, laying the objects out to show them to their best advantage, the smells from the kitchen pouring over him, moving three tall Japanese paper kaku-andon lamps toward the Saltillo hand-woven rugs so the soft beams of atmospheric light fell diagonally across all the pieces of pottery, a caressing hand, and Rocket, I listen to them in the kitchen like I listen to the rain, but now the snow’s falling silent as the slain, the normalistas, I can’t hear them breathing, all the disappeared, I’d like to free them, at least their souls, but I can’t find them anywhere, not even in my clothes, but if I reach into pockets that aren’t sewn shut—Rubén Arenal interrupting himself, there was nothing like a normalista in his pockets, bulging with keys, chewing gum, loose change, folding money, but no student teachers, he knew it before he looked but he didn’t think it wasn’t worth a try, and Rocket, because after all who knows and what’ve I got to lose, I’ll look anywhere—there’s always the chance, but even a human being burned to a crisp wouldn’t fit into a man’s trouser pocket, and another trip to the Suzuki, followed by another until he’d emptied it and brought everything inside and laid each piece out for Pascuala Esparza and her daughter to look at.
Little Pascuala carrying a platter of hot food into the dining room, Rubén Arenal standing as she came in, watching her go straight to the table, putting the platter with marinated flank steak, sliced and grilled, a stack of wheat-flour tortillas, a bowl of refried beans, another of red rice, no cheese, a bowl of salsa verde, a bowl of salsa roja made with chile morita, smoked jalapeño, and Pascuala Esparza right behind her, plates and serving spoons and napkins, and a table laid out, Little Pascuala returning with glasses and bottles of beer, Noche Buena, and Pascuala Esparza, I’ve got a case of it I saved from Christmas, and the snow, a delicate balance between its present age, the beer, and a lost one, where we are now, neither here nor there, but somewhere special, isn’t that right, niña, my child? but I promised to leave the talking to my daughter, what I mean is I’ll have less to say when my mouth’s full, what I mean is it smells good doesn’t it, and it tastes better, we’ve prepared our best for you, our authority, champion, virtuoso potter, so sit down and dig in as the unrefined uneducated gabachos say, La Pascualita pouring him a glass of beer, the dreamy odor of the grilled marinated flank steak, from another world, a better world, was floating in the air like he’d seen it float in the air in a cartoon, the weather outside, out of time, another world, too, Rubén Arenal taking a bite of his burrito, a lot of salsa verde, and a swallow of beer tasting like Christmas day, and Rocket, aren’t you going to eat, I can’t eat on my own, it isn’t polite, and you’ve made all this food, which is so good my mouth’s watering while I’m chewing it, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter shaking their heads no at the same time in the same rhythm, mechanical dolls that weren’t machine-driven but full of life, emotion, and a scent he couldn’t identify, a floating fragrance drawing him to daughter and mother, an aroma impossible to escape in a house surrounded by a low stone wall, set back from the road on the rise of a hill, its roof white with snow, just like the house he’d seen in a photo taken in the mountains outside Reno, in the high desert at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, and the more he ate and drank, another burrito with plenty of salsa, adding spoonfuls of salsa roja made with chile morita, a blaze in his belly and fire in his heart, a second beer, then a third, his head feeling like the beer he was drinking was laced with a very strong pulque, something hallucinogenic, Rubén Arenal wiping perspiration from his face with a handkerchief, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, the very pleasant and pleasing Little Pascuala, mother and daughter not touching a forkful of beans, meat, rice, no wheat-flour tortillas, but through unfocused eyes it seemed they were drinking from tall glasses, icy cold, tequila mixed with Jarritos-brand toronja? clinking ice and sweating glasses, Rubén Arenal observing them, not staring outright, a subtle raising of the eyes now and then while putting the brakes on his stomach-driven single-minded tunnel vision of bountiful beef burritos and Noche Buena, and a reciprocal street-crossing eye to eye with La Pascualita, and Rocket, to himself, I see you and you see me, she doesn’t miss a beat of my pulse, she can probably hear it, a beat that carries, and she isn’t sitting in another room, not far away, but right here right there, within arm’s reach and fingers’ grasp, Little Pascuala tuned in, effortlessly adjusting to the frequency of the required signal, nos telepateamos, our telepathy, signals signals signals, something like a gesture, action, or sound used to convey information or instructions—I can’t quite read them now, but there’s time ahead of us—by prearrangement between the parties concerned, that’s me, and La Pascualita, you can throw Pascuala Esparza into it, too, since nothing would’ve happened without her, no letter, no meeting at my pottery studio, and then there’s the fifteen-year-old kid—“maybe I 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”—and Nezahualcoyotl’s face on a crumpled hundred-peso note, Rubén Arenal and more of the kid’s words, “to know our past is to place ourselves firmly in the present, señor Arenal, the future is a secret,” and Rocket, a boy with wisdom range insight, you couldn’t tell as much by looking at him, and for the moment Rubén Arenal was forgetting or not needing to rub the calluses on the palm of his right hand, returning to the present and the genuine conjugation between himself and La Pascualita, apparently unavoidable, and Rocket, but no possession’s worth much when there’s nothing to spend, so
I’ll spend what I’ve got which is who I am, Rubén Arenal and a mouthful of refried beans, red rice, salsa roja and grilled flank steak in a wheat-flour tortilla, but his skin, inside and out, was parched and cracked since Coyuco and the other normalistas disappeared, forty-three and Coyuco, whose fault was it? the student leaders, the politicians, the military and police, he could hear his own silent shrieks given to grieving stones, and Rocket, a variation on Ecclesiastes 10:9-11, my mind’s alert, Rubén Arenal convinced of everyone’s misfortune, high and low, and frightened as well, split down the middle, suffering and pleasure, he was in love with Little Pascuala, but his ripped-out soul, as it came out of his mouth, claw marks leaving bloody scratches in his throat, always thinking of Coyuco and the others, and Rocket, no one’s safe these days, if it weren’t for God, we’d all be dead, I pray to Nuestra Señora de los Dolores because she’s Our Lady of Sorrows, and always a handful of prayers to Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, Mother of all Mexico, how are the parents brothers sisters wives girlfriends going to live when they’ve got to live without them, because if you ask me they’re dead and gone, La Pascualita reading his mind, reaching across the table, taking his hand in hers, Pascuala Esparza turning her head away, ladylike behavior, respectful and considerate of others, Rubén Arenal catching a glint of light and unspoken signs in Little Pascuala’s eyes, and a little music to go along with the moment, “Contestación a mujer paseada,” “Answer To An Easy Woman,” by Manuel C. Valdez, sung by Juanita and María Mendoza, return of the old duet, Hermanas Mendoza, a powerful testimony of female independence and agency, a personal response to a two-faced false and slanderous statement made in a song by her former lover:
Si fueras hombre formal
no andarías divulgando.
Si me quieres como dices
¿Para qué lo estás contando?
Si he sido mujer paseada
es porque a mí me ha gustado.
Pero del hombre que es hombre
nunca jamás me he burlado.
Si yo te llegué a querer
fue porque nunca pensaba
que anduvieras difamando
a la mujer que te amaba.
A los hombres como tú
pronto les doy su cortada,
porque yo tengo palabra
aunque sea mujer paseada.
Grito:
¿Y tú, qué dijistes ya?
¡Pero no se pudo, chiquitito!
Si fueras hombre formal
no andarías divulgando.
Si me quieres como dices
¿Para qué lo estás contando?
Si he sido mujer paseada
es porque a mí me ha gustado.
Pero del hombre que es hombre
nunca jamás me he burlado.
Si yo te llegué a querer
fue porque nunca pensaba
que anduvieras difamando
a la mujer que te amaba.
A los hombres como tú
pronto les doy su cortada,
porque yo tengo palabra
aunque sea mujer paseada.
If you were an upright man,
you wouldn’t go around making it all
public.
If you love me like you say you do,
why do you go around telling stories?
If I’ve been an “easy woman,”
it’s because I’ve enjoyed it.
But of the man who’s a real man
I’ve never ever tried to make a fool.
If I ever came to love you,
it was because I never thought
that you would go ruining the reputation
of the woman who loved you.
Men like you,
I cut them off quick,
because I keep my word,
even though I may be an “easy woman.”
Shout:
And you, what do you say now?
But you just couldn’t do it, could you,
“little boy”?
If you were an upright man,
you wouldn’t go around making it all
public.
If you love me like you say you do,
why do you go around telling stories?
If I’ve been an “easy woman,”
it’s because I’ve enjoyed it.
But of the man who’s a real man
I’ve never ever tried to make a fool.
If I ever came to love you,
it was because I never thought
that you would go ruining the reputation
of the woman who loved you.
Men like you,
I cut them off quick,
because I keep my word,
even though I may be an “easy woman.”
That’s what Rubén Arenal heard, Little Pascuala, too, a shared instant of melodious music, a complementary coloring to the touching of hands, away from the dusty plains and distant seas and the snow falling outside like it was winter when he knew it wasn’t winter in Mexico but only here and here alone in the neighborhood of Pascuala Esparza and her daughter’s house, resembling a house he’d seen in a photograph taken in the high desert at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, Rubén Arenal having arrived there on a rough rutted road, nonexistent, with snowflakes fluttering down on the windshield of the Suzuki, not knowing what to expect and certainly not expecting what was happening right now before his eyes, something preventing him from giving his full attention to the sensation of her fingers touching his skin, it wasn’t the music, he was catching more than light right now, Rubén Arenal looking at Pascuala Esparza, a change of clothes without changing clothes, Pascuala Esparza wearing a white blouse with embroidery around the neck and on the sleeves, Rubén Arenal wiping his face with a handkerchief that didn’t succeed in removing his doubts, she wasn’t wearing what she’d been wearing a minute earlier, and Rocket, to himself, how the world turns and the people with it going around and around interchangeable and never the same dissimilar twins new and unfamiliar, and there’s got to be something in the Noche Buena, Rubén Arenal dropping his napkin on the floor, looking up under the table at Pascuala Esparza’s long dark blue skirt with stripes of embroidered flowers in vivid colors at the waist and near the bottom, a traditional skirt from Tabasco, sure that what he was seeing on her now wasn’t what she’d been wearing then, Rubén Arenal straightening up with a worried look on his face, not trying to hide it, and Rocket, what’s the point in dissimulated truth when honesty’s my goal, I don’t care what they think of what they see that’s written on my face, but perilous perilous, as certain as a tail will follow a comet, she wasn’t wearing that when she came into the room, but not a word from La Pascualita nor her mother, he was rubbing his eyes, shutting and opening them as quickly as he could, but the sweeping lids swept nothing away, he saw what he saw when his eyes were open wide, then Pascuala Esparza nudging her daughter, her lips were moving, but there wasn’t a sound, Rubén Arenal swearing he heard the words, “destiny is nothing but a trickster demon,” but not wanting to give the words any importance, Rubén Arenal under their spell if there was one, a silent incantation from the very start, not a hex but an enchantment, or it was the weight of the second burrito and three bottles of Noche Buena turning against him, turning his head, but love was love, and he was here where they were living, and Rocket, to himself, a sale’s what’s called for if the fruits are put to good use, but now, look here, La Pascualita, it’s her turn if it’s turns they’re taking, Little Pascuala wearing a dress typical of Chiapas, handmade in the town of Chiapa de Corzo, Rubén Arenal, a fount of knowledge, forcing himself to stay in his chair, dropping his napkin again to get a good look, Little Pascuala in a handmade wide black skirt with a full decoration of stripes with colorful flowers embroidered in silk, flowers symbolizing the region’s diversity, representing the jungle, mother and daughter, their clothes changing from one moment to the next, this region or that, without lifting a finger, he was struck by a figurative hammer with a large wooden head, startled out
of his chair, and standing up so fast his chair tipped over, Pascuala Esparza offering him a smile, raising her glass, tequila and grapefruit soda, the ice cubes clinking, Rubén Arenal staring at the overturned chair, his eyes returning to Pascuala Esparza’s smile, then looking at La Pascualita, love with lyrical eyes, but now Pascuala Esparza, a longsleeved high-collar simple white shirt, and Rocket, now you see it now you see it, a shirt without embroidery around the neck and on the sleeves, Rubén Arenal setting his chair upright, a moment of embarrassment, shaking his head and catching his breath, then bending at the waist, a foolish act, an indiscretion, no furtive glances sneaking out of the corner of the eye, like it or not he had to do it, another peek under the table, Little Pascuala’s mother dressed in an ankle-length skirt with horizontal stripes decorating the bottom, an example of turn-of-the-century Chihuahua, and Rocket, if this keeps happening I’m going to throw up, not from the spinning in my head but from the switching of their clothes at such high speed, remarkable transformations for a pair of stationary statuettes sitting in chairs, Pascuala Esparza gracefully wiping her lips with a lace napkin, and then it was La Pascualita’s turn, Little Pascuala wearing a dress with a huipil blouse, black thread embroidery around a square collar, Rubén Arenal, before sitting down again, peering beneath the surface of the table at the ankle-length dress in the Campeche style that she was wearing, and Rocket, okay enough is enough, I won’t look again, pressing his napkin against his mouth, a filter against the noxious fumes that must’ve been affecting his head, but the napkin didn’t change anything, a last glance at Little Pascuala’s delicate crossed ankles, no stockings or shoes, a seductive siren from Mexico, not Greece, alluring and fascinating, dangerous in some way, and La Pascualita, it’s comfortable without shoes in a house that’s your own, each time we go our own way, we carry a piece of the other, mother and daughter, our feet without shoes are more sensitive to each step, forward or backward, between identical beings, I’m speaking for both of us, and Rocket, not a word from Pascuala Esparza, less talkative than the last time he’d seen her at the pottery studio, leaving the words to her daughter, now wearing a white wide waving skirt with embroidery and lace, a white blouse, a black apron with embroidered flowers, a shawl, and three flowers on the left side of her head, meaning that she’s single, typical of the state of Veracruz, Rubén Arenal regaining his place at the table, reaching for another serving of meat, beans, rice, salsa verde, not salsa roja made with chile morita, and a tortilla, pouring himself another beer that stayed ice cold without an ice cube or ice bucket, and Rocket, a rigorous reminder, a mental note, what can be obtained in this life without payment? everything must be paid for, or redeemed, even the shortest happiness.