by Mark Fishman
Closer to the Periférico Sur than Hotel Obregón, a supermarket, frutas en Iguala de la Independencia, alimentos congelados en Iguala de la Independencia, verduras en Iguala de la Independencia, carnes en Iguala de la Independencia, limpiador en Iguala de la Independencia, fruit, frozen food, vegetables, meats, cleaning products in Iguala de la Independencia, and Bodega Aurrerá, Ignacio M. Altamirano 89C, not far from the Walmart de México, Ernesto walking down the aisles, looking for nothing and seeing everything, drawn by the magnetic force of a display of masks, and Ernesto Cisneros, faces faces faces, and none of them mine, profoundly popular really respected honestly celebrated wrestlers’ masks, El Santo, El Demonio Azul, El Murciélago, Aníbal, El Solitario, Mil Máscaras, Dr. Wagner, Ángel Blanco, all the faces looking back at him, positive in attitude and full of energy and new ideas, a genuinely dynamic display of masks, Ernesto standing like a statue in a town plaza, with no possibility of doubt, full of energy, and a new idea unfolding like the first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise, and Ernesto Cisneros, un regalo de Dios, that’s the coupling that’s missing in my plans, like a fitting on the end of a railroad car for connecting it to another, because I’m not completely here, continuously possessed by something alien, what have I done what have I done, a permanent idiot, I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam, oh Popeye! Ernesto reaching out to touch the masks, undecided, his fingers itching to take them all, as many as he could buy with the pesos in his pocket, but it was the mask of Mil Máscaras, Aarón Rodríguez, “The Man of a Thousand Masks,” born in San Luis Potosí, 1942, it was his mask, with the letter M in center position on the forehead, not Mil Máscaras’ leopard máscara that went with the matching costume, Ernesto and a classic mask chosen from a wide range, the sweeping selection of false faces worn as a disguise, or to amuse or terrify other people, but Ernesto, not a result of Valente Pérez’s contest, holding a replica of Mil Máscaras’ wrestling debut mask from 1965 in Guadalajara, no Plancha Suicida, no Mexican Surfboard, known as the Romero Special, or La Tapatía, invented by Rito Romero, a.k.a. Rayo Mexicano, no Quebradora con Giro, just watchful Ernesto, holding the mask, heading for the cashier, and after he’d paid for it, a search for a mirror, and Ernesto Cisneros, to himself, right this way, señor Cabrón, I pray to San Judas Tadeo, the Saint of Lost Causes, and instead of a flame above my head, I’ll wear this mask and the face of Mil Máscaras with an M decorating my forehead, it’s the only way I can live with myself, Ernesto loosening the laces, slipping the mask over his head, pulling it down in order to peer through the cutouts for the eyes, and Ernesto Cisneros, now take a look at yourself, trained by Diablo Velazco, not you, señor Cabrón, but the face you’re wearing, the face you’re looking at, Ernesto, inspecting his own profile, seeing a young man in the mirror, a teenager, coming up beside him, admiring the face of the third member of the holy trinity of enmascarado greats, without the body to match, not at his age, and Ernesto Cisneros, ay, jovencito, will you give me a hand with these laces? the young man, almost an adult and tall for his age, pulling the laces and tying them with all the strength in his fingers, helping Ernesto secure the mask of Mil Máscaras, which was the pride of all and in particular Aarón Rodríguez, a mask tight and laced in place, so Ernesto wouldn’t have to look at a murderer in the mirror, a traitor to all he’d believed in, a disappointment to Guadalupe, his wife, Coyuco, his son, whether living or dead, because the dead could see what the living only imagined, a disappointment to his friend, Rubén Arenal, and to Ignacio, like a second father to him, but Ernesto, a hero to the unforgiving members of the families of the disappeared, or only a handful, or just one, or none at all, because not everyone wanted revenge, but they definitely wanted justice, and the return of their children, and Ernesto Cisneros, I, too, am a witness, I’ll give testimony, about what if not myself? Ernesto turning away from the mirror, looking at the young man, and Ernesto Cisneros, what do you think, jovencito, how do I look? a hero in my time, a legend in yours, Ernesto feeling better on the inside thanks to how he looked on the outside, in the mirror, and in the noble eyes of the young man, catching a radiant reflection of himself in the expression on the boy’s face, appearing at last as the kind of man he’d always wanted to become, and the young man, señor, my name’s Aarón, intentionally named after the wrestler whose mask you’re wearing, and Ernesto Cisneros, Aarón, m’hijo, two good things have struck me at once in a life that’s been going from bad to worse, finding this mask to wear as my own face, and you, Aarón, who’s fixed it with laces on my head, Aarón took two steps back, maintaining a respectful distance, a warm and friendly smile on his face, Ernesto reaching out, taking him by the arm, leading the boy out to the street, Ignacio M. Altamirano, taking a left, Ernesto not letting go of Aarón’s arm, but the young man gently pulling his arm until it was free, snaking out of Ernesto’s grasp but continuing to walk beside him until Ernesto, unavoidably attracted by the deep lavender color painted on the walls of a deserted location not far from Bodega Aurrerá, the two of them passing under a rectangular sign prohibiting littering without ducking their heads, Ernesto leaning against the far lavender wall with a painted red line drawing a circle with a large black letter E in the middle, and a red line slicing diagonally through it, Aarón standing facing him, looking at a diminished version of Mil Máscaras, and Ernesto Cisneros, do you smoke? and Aarón, I’m not an angel or a saint, señor, reaching into his baggy trousers, removing a crumpled pack of cigarettes, Ernesto watching him closely, eyes on the pack in the boy’s hand, not Delicados or Fiesta brand, or a cigarette out of Rocket’s pack of Faros, he’d left it on the shelf beneath the mirror in the bathroom of Hotel Obregón, but a gold, red and white pack of Capri, Aarón offering one to Ernesto, and Ernesto Cisneros, I don’t really smoke, it’s just a habit, but I don’t usually kill people either, so I’ll take one, his voice a hesitant bell ringing in a busy street, Aarón putting both cigarettes in his mouth, lighting them like he’d seen an actor do in a movie, turning the cigarette and passing it filter first to Ernesto’s trembling fingers, Ernesto taking a long haul on it, filling his lungs, smoke flowing out of his mask-covered nose and mouth, blinking his eyes that were the weary eyes of Mil Máscaras, a bluish-gray cloud lingering between them like there wasn’t a current of air, all stillness, and a voiceless world making a lot of noise, conversation bargaining chattering discussing terms, and with the nicotine, Ernesto slowing down, the rhythm of his heart stimulated and peaceful at the same time, Aarón watching him, the mask against a lavender background with only part of a red circle visible on the wall, no noticeable letter E, Mil Mascaras was in the way, and Ernesto Cisneros, I jumped into a hell I made for myself by losing control of my emotions, the fuse was lit when my son disappeared, and where I’ve landed is a spiritual realm of suffering I know I’ll never climb out of, not even with the world’s longest ladder, m’hijo, I’m stuck where I am, there’s no before, only after, and the space separating then and now can be no longer because the Devil’s settled down right smack in between them, blocking my view—he’s casting a helluva shadow—and that’s the truth, as far as I’m willing to tell it, not to you, not everything, not now, but it’s worse than you can imagine for a man like me who’s lived without a vicious bone in his body, I might as well hang myself now with a hemp cord, but I’m bleating like a sheep, you’ve got your own troubles, everybody does, and Aarón, flicking ash off his Capri, my troubles are the troubles of everyone I meet, señor, and you can take my word for it, in these times we’re all sitting on the comal burning the seat of our pants, but from what I can tell, you’re nicely roasted, burnt to a crisp on the inside, and it’s only a matter of time before you crumble into a heap of ashes, consumed, so let’s take a minute to see what you believe in, señor, if you believe in anything at all, Ernesto inhaling another lungful of smoke, looking at the burning tip of his cigarette, waving it like a tiny flare in front of his mask, and Ernesto Cisneros, what I want to believe in and what I’m feeling now are two different
things, no, not just two, but more, let’s not make things more complicated, I used to believe in everything a man who’s been raised on the words of the Bible is supposed to believe in, and breast-fed on words spoken by the priest in church, but now those words are written on sheets of paper marked with symbols and signs I can’t read, it burns my tongue to say it, and that’s from somebody who’s been reading longer than you’ve been alive—old enough to be your father, m’hijo, older, in fact—but I still have a memory for things I’ve heard more than once, and what comes to mind are a few words my father used to tell me whenever I slipped into a state of miserable melancholy—why not call him my father, because that’s what he is, yes, m’hijo, Ignacio Pardiñas, my father of the living because my parents are no longer here on earth—a fiesta of words I have faith in today, right now, and right out of the Bible and Ignacio’s mouth, words from Ezekiel 36:26: Os daré corazón nuevo, / y pondré espíritu nuevo dentro de vosotros; / y quitaré de vuestra carne el corazón de piedra, / y os daré un corazón de carne, “And I will give you a new heart, / and a new spirit I will put within you. / And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh,” it fits me like a toreador’s suit of lights, and I want to believe them, but those words are shifting altering shining unsteadily before my eyes, symbols and signs signs and symbols, guttering flames, and Aarón, what you’re saying, it’s very good, tell me your name, señor, and Ernesto Cisneros, Ernesto Cisneros Fuentes, named after the football midfielder, a happy coincidence, my true father’s first apellido, qué en paz descanse, may he rest in peace, and Aarón, what the words say after that, that’s the beginning of my worry for you, señor Cisneros, in Ezekiel 36:27, Y pondré dentro de vosotros mi Espíritu, / y haré que andéis en mis estatutos, / y guardéis mis preceptos, / y los pongáis por obra, “And I will put my Spirit within you, / and cause you to walk in my statutes and be careful to obey my rules,” and there’s more, it’s at the heart of your suffering, let’s skip a few verses, straight to Ezekiel 36:31, Y os acordaréis de vuestros malos caminos, / y de vuestras obras que no fueron buenas; / y os avergonzaréis de vosotros mismos por vuestras iniquidades y por vuestras abominaciones, “Then you will remember your evil ways, / and your deeds that were not good, / and you will loathe yourselves for your iniquities and your abominations,” not so good for you, not at all, señor Cisneros, with a conscience like yours, but your cigarette is out, so’s mine, let’s have another.
And Ernesto Cisneros, to himself, let him talk, it’s a great moment, the return of a great wrestler, I can see it, but Mil Máscaras in my body, that’s a laugh, Aarón lighting a couple of cigarettes like he’d done before, offering the second to Ernesto, each taking a long drag, and Aarón, the real Mil Máscaras is seventy-four years old, Aarón Rodríguez Arellano, a legendary pankratiast, I know you know that, but you don’t know his address, and Ernesto Cisneros, I didn’t ask for his address, and I suppose if I was wearing Blue Demon’s face your name would be Alejandro, or you’d be calling yourself Roberto if I had on El Solitario’s golden mask—I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, m’hijo, but something tells me to trust you, and I do, so I’ll ask the question that’s been jabbing me in the ribs, is it shameful for a killer to wear the mask of a hero? I can’t walk around with my own face, I’m ashamed to look at myself in the mirror, then Aarón, taking a wallet-sized pocket mirror from his trousers, held it to the pair of eyes staring at him through the mask, and Aarón, take a good look at yourself, the M doesn’t stand for murderer, it stands for mil of Mil Máscaras, nothing more nothing less, a thousand layers of faces to protect you, and they’re representing the faces of the families of the disappeared, not the disappeared themselves, usted está en el lado de los que sufren, you’re on the side of those who suffer, señor, whatever you’ve done, and I know what it is, don’t be anxious brood or lose sleep, señor, do you really think you’ll do it again? a repeat offender? what’s the likelihood, what’re the chances, do you have any statistics to lay out in front of us right here right now? and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s not what I’m asking, it’s the mask of a hero and it hides my guilt, the young man paying attention but with something to say, and Aarón, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, isolating M1 and M2 from the larger category of homicides, in one decade, from 2000 to 2010, national statistics in the US showed a 1.6 percent recidivism rate for murder, you can believe it or not, not that it’s of any real use, but you know that statistics—and Ernesto Cisneros, interrupting him, statistics, what a science! and Aarón, statistics are democracy in its scientific state—essences isolated by means of individuals! and Ernesto Cisneros, statistics my ass! you aren’t making me feel any better no matter what the recidivism rate is or isn’t according to your sources, m’hijo, whether it’s here in once-great Mexico or en el Norte, all I know is that I’ll have a lifetime of crying ahead of me, it’s what I’ve done, not whether or not I’ll do it again, and Aarón, what we know, and it’s according to an expert, is that inflicting pain on the wrongdoer doesn’t restore the thing that was lost, and that’s a quote, señor Cisneros, don’t get me wrong, I understand you, and maybe under the same circumstances I’d have done what you did, what separates you from them, killers who reoffend, is the strength of your religious beliefs, an important factor along with your feelings of guilt, not shame, and Ernesto Cisneros, now you’re beginning to get on my nerves, cut out the psychological crap, por amor de Dios, I just asked you a simple question, mask of Mil Máscaras, or no mask, Señoras y Señores, Damas y Caballeros, may I have your attention, please, I’d like an answer to my question, what’s the decision? no wrestling pun intended, and Aarón, you don’t have to shout, and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s the best I can do to get a little volume through this mask, m’hijo, and cut through the wind you’re sending my way, meaningless rhetoric, not that you’re insincere, but don’t be a gasbag, remember who you’re talking to, a likeness of Mil Máscaras, in the flesh, not physically, but like you said, look at my face, and by the way, while you’re at it, in case you suffer from a weak memory, m’hijo, give me an answer, is it a loss of respect or honor for Aarón Rodríguez that I’m wearing the mask of Mil Máscaras? Aarón breaking into a smile, taking a pull on his Capri, a gust of wind catching the bluish-gray smoke and throwing it against the lavender wall behind Ernesto, who took advantage of the breeze to suck in as much air as he could, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, filling his lungs, not with Aarón’s smoke but the oxygen that followed it, and Aarón, I answered your question but you aren’t listening, you’re wearing a thousand layers of faces to protect you, representing the faces of the families of the disappeared, anonymous and familiar faces, changing faces, there’s no shame in that, señor, anyway, I don’t think he lives here in Iguala, I don’t know where he lives, and I believe he’d be honored, under the circumstances, as long as from now on, no matter what, high or low, you follow the unwritten laws of faith and set an example through ethical, righteous, worthy-of-the-mask behavior, Ernesto turning to face the lavender wall, his shoulders unevenly rising and falling, his knees nearly giving way, he was crying discreetly, Aarón swore he heard sobbing before the wind carried the sounds away, and Ernesto Cisneros, with a muffled voice directed at the painted red line forming a circle with a large black letter E in the middle, m’hijo, the mask feels tight, can you loosen the laces? and Aarón, taking a step closer to him, examining the back of his head, there are no laces, not anymore, and there’s no sign except my furrowed fingers that there ever were laces, in fact, there’s no mask, no four pieces of fabric sewn together, no cotton, nylon, leather or vinyls, no tongue of fabric under laces to keep it tight, no nothing, señor Cisneros, Ernesto turning around, wiping tears from his eyes, and Aarón, no mask but an additional layer that isn’t the usual thin layer of tissue forming the natural outer covering of your face, and there’s still antifaz, or trim, around the openings for your eyes, nose and mouth, a wrestler’s mask that’s no longer a mask, but the
living Mil Máscaras, with the M on your forehead, Aarón taking the mirror from his pocket again, Ernesto seeing himself, watching as the skin of his face started to change color, from a metallic-blue and white to all white with narrow blood-red antifaz and a blood-red M on the forehead, skin resembling pro-grade Lycra, colors that were almost but not quite transparent, Ernesto breaking into a smile, stretching the elastic polyurethane fiber of his skin, and Ernesto Cisneros, a blessing in disguise, laughing at his joke, a different appearance in order to conceal his identity, no longer having to live with the face of a murderer no matter how he tried to justify what’d happened, with or without Aarón’s help, Ernesto knowing his face would keep on changing, he was Mil Máscaras, after all, not the wrestler, not with his build, Aarón dropping his Capri, rubbing it out with the heel of his laced left boot, the wallet-sized pocket mirror returning to his trouser pocket, Ernesto, a final drag to finish the cigarette pinched between steady fingers, extending his arm, his fingers letting go of the butt, Aarón’s right heel crushing it, and Ernesto Cisneros, as long as your father’s first apellido isn’t Rodríguez, and Aarón, don’t worry, it’s not, and it couldn’t be, since my name, first and apellidos, changes according to who I’m talking to, and what’s in a name? as the saying goes, I might as well call you a golem, yes, the Golem of Iguala, or the Monster of Fate, your doppelgänger, like Pernath’s in Meyrink’s book, and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s a name I know and understand, m’hijo, an artificial man of clay made by Kabbalistic magic, created to serve its creator, and Aarón, The Golem’s before all else an exploration of identity, a “painful quest for that eternal stone that in some mysterious fashion lurks in the dim recesses of … memory in the guise of a lump of fat,” Ernesto whistling through his teeth behind the lips of his non-mask, and Ernesto Cisneros, from what I’ve read and with the help of a hint of light in a dimming memory, Gustav Meyrink was a founder member of the Theosophical Order of the Blue Star, and became a disciple of Bo Yin Ra, a German charlatan—Aarón interrupting him, and Aarón, the idea of a golem originated in mediaeval Jewish commentaries on the Sefer Yetzirah, Book of Creation, the central text of the Kabbalah, but in the eighteenth century it became a legend identified with Rabbi Loew, and Ernesto Cisneros, Rabbi Loew, Rabbi Leib, or Rabbi Liva, depending on who you’re reading, Chayim Bloch, Isaac Singer, or Yudl Rosenberg, who wrote pulp in the early twentieth century, and there’s Meyrink, who doesn’t even mention the rabbi by name, and Aarón, and Yitzkhok Peretz wrote a story called “The Golem,” and Egon Kisch, a journalist, with his investigation, “On the Track of the Golem,” writing, “Standing by his grave, I know why God so willed it, that the Man-automaton, working ever for the welfare of strangers and unconditionally subject to an extraneous will, should be buried here,” and Ernesto Cisneros, I’m not dead yet, Coyuco is, that’s my son, but today I’m flesh and blood, and according to my reflection in your pocket mirror, it’s only my face that’s changed, and Aarón, in your case, a transformation, yes, but in your transformation is a reference to the Maharal of Prague, Moreinu ha-Rav Loew, our Rabbi Loew, Talmudic scholar, mystic, and philosopher, you can’t deny it! and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s not our story, not here not now, I can’t change what I’ve done but I can do things to make up for it, and Aarón, you could call it a miracle and exactly what you need, and Ernesto Cisneros, without moving his lips, since Coyuco disappeared I’ve longed for an answer, one that didn’t come from a human mouth, but from the realm of the supernatural, through some nonhuman being as an intermediary, maybe today it’s some supernatural being roaming in the daylight like him, and maybe this being, invisible but somehow part of my experience with this mask has whispered the answer to me, I’ve got to listen to everything I hear, and to everyone I meet, Ernesto leaning against the wall, slowly descending to a crouching position before Aarón, who followed him down to stay on eye level with his companion, Ernesto’s wrists crossed with his forearms resting on his knees, and Ernesto Cisneros, let’s stick to the mystical, that’s where I’m headed, or I’d better say, that’s where I am, transcending human understanding, and definitely concerned with the soul or the spirit, not with material things—it’s my shot at salvation—I’ve done enough damage with a .38 Special, bang bang bang, there’s nothing more material than that, m’hijo, take your pick, the Glock I took off a cop I knocked unconscious, or the .38 Special I used, one weapon’s the same as another, death’s what I’ve brought to the world, when I came here to Iguala de la Independencia just to find my son.