Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Aarón reached out toward Ernesto’s face, Ernesto turning his head first this way, then that, left and right right and left, wanting to avoid any human contact, Aarón’s finger touching the letter M on his forehead, and Aarón, the M that stands for mil on your brow is your Emeth, or Truth, in Hebrew, and in your case, no one can remove the first letter of it, the aleph, to spell Meth, or death, but don’t get me wrong, señor Cisneros, you can’t stop bullets and you aren’t going to live forever, with or without your dream question, which you’ve asked without knowing yourself that you’ve asked it, and this, your face, is your answer, and Ernesto Cisneros, but m’hijo, I never asked you who you are, and Aarón, it’s because of that, which I’ll call your faith, señor, that I can guide you, another proof in the answer to your question, because in order to perform the tasks you’ll carry out to put right what you’ve done, you must have faith in your transformation, “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul,” you’ve read Yudl Rosenberg, you said so yourself, and Ernesto Cisneros, a smile on his face, there isn’t a book about what I don’t know that I haven’t read, then again there’s a lot I don’t know and plenty yet to read, Aarón, patting him on the shoulder, helping him stand because the muscles in Ernesto’s legs were cramped, he wasn’t a young man and didn’t exercise, and Aarón, there’s nothing mysterious about it at all, it’s only magic and sorcery—kishuf, a kind of magic—that frighten men, but the rays from the sun of the spiritual world are mild and warming, okay, just in case, let me check, there’s probably a scrap of paper, a shem, with a magic formula behind your teeth, attracting free stellar energy from the cosmos, like the seal the rabbi forgot in the golem’s mouth, then Ernesto, a false long drawn-out yawn, and Aarón peering past the antifaz around his lips and into his mouth, a broad grin on both of their faces, and Aarón, remember, whatever you do, there’s no amulet to make you invisible when you go to a dangerous place to help others from misfortune and don’t want to be seen, but you can always make use of disguises, Ernesto and Aarón walking slowly away from the lavender wall and the red circle with the letter E in the center and a red line slicing through it, Aarón, his arm over Ernesto’s shoulder, whispering in Ernesto’s ear, and Aarón, just beware of the priest Thaddeus or anyone like him, Ernesto nodding his head, in the picture clued in and fully informed by the writings of Yudl Rosenberg and the others, Ernesto and Aarón, together, a steady pace as they left the location not far from Bodega Aurrerá, walking beneath something like a cloak of contentment, arm in arm like old friends, Ernesto was no longer afraid, the oppression in his spirit had been lifted, the message got through, and only if he heard the lonely cry of a bird did he stop and look—Aarón standing by his side—perhaps because the bird was calling after the daylight moon or crying out its longing for a lover who’d never arrive.

  Ignacio, hearing all the news that circulated in Chihuahua and other cities in Mexico long before anyone else knew about what was happening there, including Iguala de la Independencia, whether it concerned people he knew or those he’d only met briefly, knowing not by mysticism and magic, because no one could swear to Ignacio’s adherence to any belief other than being a good Catholic, but a kind of second sight or sixth sense, an awareness or feeling accompanied by words and pictures that somehow made their way to him, enlightening him to more than just current events, filling his days with the ups and downs, a succession of both good and bad experiences in the lives of human beings he’d encountered in his more than seventy-five years on earth, and so it was that a handful of images and a few words written beneath them featuring Ernesto in Iguala played before his eyes like pictures in a silent movie, Ernesto’s face had changed, Ignacio couldn’t put a finger on what the difference was, not from the flickering pictures he saw that were passing in front of him so quickly, no close-ups, taken from middle distance, seeing Ernesto speaking with a young man wearing baggy trousers, a couple of cigarettes, and then a zoom straight into Ernesto’s face, and the details presented themselves at last, Ignacio wasn’t shocked but paid close attention to what he saw, immediately recognizing a version of Mil Máscaras’ many masks, Ignacio a wrestling fan himself, going to more than a hundred matches in almost eighty years, Ernesto’s skin impregnated with a substance that looked like prograde Lycra, elastic polyurethane skin that was all white with narrow blood-red antifaz and a blood-red letter M on Ernesto’s forehead, Ignacio removed his pajamas, showered, and got dressed to go out, taking his hardwood walking stick, hand painted with the design of an eagle and snake, locking his door, and the iron gate that protected it, leaving his house on Barrancas del Cobre, turning right, walking slightly uphill toward a cement staircase, more or less nine steps up, a railing on the left-hand side, nothing on the right, moving through the brighter stage of daylight toward Calle 38A, carefully crossing Calle 38A, continuing on Barrancas del Cobre to see Mariano and Rosalía, and Ignacio Pardiñas, in the words of Charles Reade, novelist and dramatist, “Good advice is like a tight glove; it fits the circumstances, and it does not fit other circumstances,” Ignacio heading straight for the white door of the single-story house, almost an extension of the house standing next to it to the left, and the retired shoemaker answering the door, a welcoming smile, and Mariano Alcalá, come in come in señor Pardiñas, our house is always open to you, it’s small as a shoebox—hehe!—you’ve heard me say it more than once, more than a thousand times, and after all the years we’ve known each other, but I’ll say it until my dying day—hehe!—you know it, but thanks to Rosalía, a magician for a welcoming home that folds its arms around you, a real embrace, she’s a marvel at the management of household affairs, Mariano closing the door, turning toward the kitchen, and Mariano Alcalá, Rosalía! jazmín mío, my flower, our señor Pardiñas is here to see us, then taking his friend by the arm, Mariano indicating with an outstretched hand the small living room and dining room, his fingers and thumb pointing to Ignacio’s favorite sofa, the only sofa in the house, Ignacio making his way on tired legs, lightly tapping the floor with his cane, burying himself in the inviting cushions, plump and deep, and the fabric worn, Rosalía drying her hands on a kitchen towel, no apron, and Rosalía Calderón, your turn, mi Jícama Gigante, Mariano taking the dishtowel from her, and Mariano Alcalá, back in a minute, a wink and a nod in Ignacio’s direction, then disappearing in the kitchen, Ignacio turning the hand-painted cane with his fingers, then rolling it between the palms of his hands like he was starting a fire by friction with a spindle, and Rosalía Calderón, we’ve got to forgive him with all our heart and soul, then he’ll be free of his sin—I’m talking about Ernesto, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you know why I came here and what I’m thinking? and Rosalía Calderón, we haven’t been friends for this long without our knowing exactly what’s going on in your head, señor Pardiñas, and your hardwood walking stick, a cane painted with a serpent and an eagle, a symbol of nuestro México, well, it’s a country of ghosts, you’ve heard Rocket say it, and so have I, let’s all call him Rocket, because Ernesto does, otherwise it’s Rubén Arenal, so formal so correct and so far away, and Ignacio Pardiñas, well, that’s settled, and leaning forward, putting his weight on his stick, shouting in the direction of the kitchen, can you hear this, Mari? Mariano returning from the kitchen, no towel, his hands were dry, and Mariano Alcalá, you haven’t called me that since we were kids, when I called you El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, always stronger and sturdier, el fuerte viento, a strong wind, Rosalía clapping her hands, and Rosalía Calderón, that’s what I want to hear, solidarity, and the energy of youth, a breath of air for our old bones that’ve grown and shrunk together, at the same time, in a sort of trinity, if you’ll excuse the comparison, we’ve known each other that long, so Mari it is, an offspring of Mariano—en los primeros tiempos del cristianismo se asoció con el culto a la Virgen María, un nombre de pila llevado por varios primeros santos, in the early days of Christianity it was associated with the cult of th
e Virgin Mary, a first name taken by several holy Saints—we’ll try our best to help Ernesto in our own way, unconventional as it might be, to return home, here, to our Chihuahua, Valentía, Lealtad, Hospitalidad, Courage, Loyalty, Hospitality, en nuestro Estado Grande, and Mariano Alcalá, a few words from Borges, but first, when I think of what’s happened to Ernesto in Iguala and how he looks today—your vision’s passed to us through the symbols of a serpent and an eagle painted on your walking stick, yes, that’s our Mexico, sending a wire, direct, and now for Borges, words having a bearing on Ernesto’s dream of finding his son, “Oh, incompetence! Never can my dreams engender the wild beast I long for. The tiger indeed appears, but stuffed or flimsy, or with impure variations of shape, or of an implausible size, or all too fleeting, or with a touch of the dog or the bird,” and Ignacio Pardiñas, a wise choice, the words of Borges fit like a glove, because what Ernesto’s found in his search for Coyuco isn’t exactly what he thought he was looking for, instead he’s stumbled on a part of himself he never imagined he’d meet face to face, and it could be our fate, too, if we step over the line that’s drawn before us we’ll discover what we’re capable of, and then, like Ernesto, we’ll need more than a mirror to see what it’s done, Isaías 35:8, Y habrá allí calzada y camino, y será llamado Camino de Santidad; / no pasará inmundo por él, sino que él mismo estará con ellos; / el que anduviere en este camino, por torpe que sea, no se extraviará, “And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness; / the unclean shall not pass over it. / It shall belong to those who walk on the way; / if they are fools, they shall not wander in it,” Isaiah 35:8 and Rosalía Calderón, let’s pray that Ernesto’s on the right path now that he’s wearing the masks of Mil Máscaras, burned into his skin with the brand of a special kind of redemption, and Mariano Alcalá, to the roof, as usual? Ignacio and Rosalía nodding their heads, and Rosalía Calderón, but first a drink to put us in the mood, a glass of el pipiltzintzintli, meaning niñitos, and not just a dose of Salvia divinorum, because pipiltzintzintli, by its name, is related to Piltzintecuhtli, Señor Niño, 7 Flower, the Young Prince, a god of the rising sun, healing, hallucinatory plants and visions and the word piltzintli, meaning “offspring, child,” and they’re identified with Xochipilli, the Prince of Flowers, the deity of sacred plants, a solar god and the god of maize, and his twin sister or female counterpart Xochiquetzal, Lady Precious Flower—what am I saying? I know you already know it, I’ll be right back, I’ve got the dried leaves soaking in water in the kitchen, not for me, I’ll abstain, somebody’s got to look after you, Mariano sitting next to Ignacio on the sofa, and Mariano Alcalá, “the dramas of the modern world proceed from a profound disequilibrium of the psyche, individual as well as collective, brought about largely by a progressive sterilization of the imagination,” not my words, El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, but Mircea Eliade, and Ignacio Pardiñas, I’ve read it, and here’s more, “To have imagination is to be able to see the world in its totality, for the power and the mission of the Images is to show all that remains refractory to the concept: hence the disfavor and failure of the man ‘without imagination’; he is cut off from the deeper reality of life and from his own soul,” I trust the visions I’m presented with—you get them, too, and Rosalía—thanks to my walking stick, that’s why we’re united in going to the roof to perform our rituals, the voice of pipiltzintzintli will be guiding me, Rosalía returning with three glasses on a tray, two with the infusion, and the third glass, a whisked amber-colored liquid, a beer made from corn, and Rosalía Calderón, yes, it’s for me, a homemade tesgüino, or batári, the most sacred, according to the Tarahumara, or Rarámuri, depending which side of the street you’re on, another recipe from Luz Elena, so you know it’s delicious, Rosalía sitting down with them, each taking their time but not too much, there were places to go, things to do, then the empty glasses of tea were returned to the tray, Rosalía bringing the tray back to the kitchen, Mariano leaving the room to assemble the things they needed for the ritual, a dry gourd painted red with red flowers containing dried jiculi, from the Tarahumara, peyotl or peyote, in case the pipiltzintzintli wasn’t strong enough, two candles, one each for Ignacio and Mariano, a box of wooden matchsticks, incense, a hand-engraved pocket knife with a bone handle, and on the blade, soy amigo de los hombres, I am a friend of man, to protect them against those who call them yn teyxcuepanime yn diablosme yn intlayacahuan yn yztlacati yn titiçi, “enchanters, devils and their leaders, those who lie, the doctors,” a bag filled with handfuls of earth, ash and potsherds from an archaeological site, the ruins of Casas Grandes, or Paquimé, sealed in plastic, airtight packed tight and bigger than a baseball, a couple of saints in plaster, and a mini-ziplock bag holding the powder of a ground bird skeleton mixed with eggshell fragments kept in a drawer in their bedroom closet, Mariano returning to the small combination living room and dining room, opening the bag of powder in front of them, using a couple of spoonfuls to clean his hands, offering the same to the others, eggshell fragments and powder ignited in mid-air by it’s own properties, disappearing before it hit the floor, Rosalía gathering flowers from a vase in the kitchen, the three friends climbing a ladder at the back of the house, accompanied by the first stanza of the song “Plegaria,” “Prayer,” a waltz sung by Lydia Mendoza with María Mendoza on mandolin, a recording made in San Antonio in 1936, playing somewhere in the sky above them, Ignacio the last up the ladder, handing his walking stick to Rosalía in order to get a better grip on Mariano’s hand pulling him up onto the flat roof, and the repeating lyrics of the first stanza, a relaxing vals caressing their faces: Traigo estas flores de mi jardín / a tu santuario con devoción / vengo buscando consuelo a mis males, / en el amparo de tu protección, “I bring these flowers from my garden / to your sanctuary with devotion, / I come seeking solace from my cares / in the shelter of your protection,” Mariano putting the dry gourd with dried jiculi where the roof abutted the corrugated iron extension, Rosalía placing the saints and a handful of flowers at the edge of the roof, Mariano spreading a thin layer of earth, ash and potsherds gathered at the ruins of Paquimé on the surface of the roof, a bird’s-eye view showing the sweeping gestures Mariano’s hand made when spreading the earth, ash and potsherds with an arcing movement of his outstretched arm, a human windmill with one vane turning, Mariano and Rosalía helping Ignacio to lie down comfortably on the flat roof with its layer of earth, ash and potsherds, his walking stick within reach, the potsherds not disturbing anyone because Mariano and Ignacio were wearing clothes, no fabric would be torn, no skin scraped by sharp edges, Mariano and Rosalía placing the first of the two candles to the left of Ignacio’s head, lighting the candle, and setting the other candle where it’d be nearest Mariano’s head once he lay down, Rosalía lighting five cones of gray copal resin incense from trees of the Burseraceae family, neither hardened resin nor sap, borrowing from their ancestors, five to represent their three bodies and the bodies of Ernesto and Coyuco, putting two of the cones next to the two candles, not close enough for the smoke to sting their eyes, Mariano lying down, Rosalía lighting Mariano’s candle with a wooden match, then walking carefully across the corrugated iron roof, sitting on the low red brick wall with a satellite dish attached to it, her hands resting on her knees, she tilted back her head, looking up at the streetlight and all the wires extending out from it, phone lines or electricity, the air was still, not a bird flew over their heads, and the three of them kept their eyes open wide searching the noonday sky for clouds, which might present an omen depending on the shape they took, but there weren’t any clouds, the sun had burned them out of the sky early that morning, leaving nothing but glare and blue staring down at them, incense smoke rising straight up, nothing else stirred, their clothes didn’t move because there wasn’t even a breeze or breath of air, Mariano, Rosalía, and Ignacio set to start and concentrating, a tight-knit trio trying to get in touch with what was above them, not just the sky itself, because it wasn’t a matter of high or low, up or down, th
e important thing was what the blue expanse of the sky represented, arms embracing the earth, “Mexico is a solar country, but it is also a black country, a dark country,” and the hope that their voices, when brought together as one, would be heard from one end of the world to the other, and Mariano Alcalá, whispering, I’m ready, and Rosalía Calderón, with a small but single-minded voice, so am I, and Ignacio Pardiñas, unfaltering and a bit too loud, count me in! and Mariano Alcalá and Rosalía Calderón, together, shh! we’ve got to keep our voices low, our Pardiñas, señor Pardiñas—there’s always room for an honorific—words have windows to all levels of understanding, Ignacio exhaling a sigh, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you don’t have to tell me, mis amigos, how many times have we done this in how many years? and when the time’s right—you can count it out in seconds, not minutes—our voices will be filled with a strange force, I’ve chosen words today that’ll carry all the way to Iguala and back again, returning in their own sweet time, of course, it’s not up to us, and with Ernesto in tow no matter what he looks like or how he’s changed, appearance and temperament, temperament and appearance, and Rosalía Calderón, forgive our impatience, you’re our paini, señor Pardiñas, our messenger, accompanied today by Mariano, a branch of Mars, second only to Jupiter in the Roman pantheon, as guardian and friend, because you can’t be too sure, and as for me, I’ll watch over you both, keeping you from getting up, breaking the spell, and taking care that there isn’t any noise because that’ll drive you crazy, and Ignacio Pardiñas, enough, mi familia, I feel it, el pipiltzintzintli is speaking now, telling me to begin with a poem by Octavio Paz, a timely choice, who resigned as Ambassador to India to protest against the government’s bloodstained suppression of the student demonstrations in Plaza de las Tres Culturas in Tlatelolco, and I’m asking now which poem, and el pipiltzintzintli tells me to recite “El pájaro,” “The Bird”: