Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  En el silencio transparente

  el día reposaba:

  la transparencia del espacio

  era la transparencia del silencio.

  La inmóvil luz del cielo sosegaba

  el crecimiento de las yerbas.

  Los bichos de la tierra, entre las piedras,

  bajo la luz idéntica, eran piedras.

  El tiempo en el minuto se saciaba.

  En la quietud absorta

  se consumaba el mediodía.

  Y un pájaro cantó, delgada flecha.

  Pecho de plata herido vibró el cielo,

  se movieron las hojas,

  las yerbas despertaron …

  Y sentí que la muerte era una flecha

  que no se sabe quién dispara

  y en un abrir los ojos nos morimos.

  In the transparent silence

  day rested:

  the transparency of space

  was the transparency of silence.

  The unmoving light of the sky soothed

  the growing of the grasses.

  The bugs of the earth, among the stones,

  under the unchanging light, were stones.

  Time was sated in the minute.

  Noon consumed itself

  in the self-absorbed stillness.

  And a bird sang, slender arrow.

  A wounded breast of silver, the sky quivered,

  the leaves shook,

  the grass woke up …

  And I felt that death was an arrow

  that doesn’t know who shot it,

  and when our eyes open we die.

  And Ignacio Pardiñas, muchas gracias a Eliot Weinberger for the translation, and his voice didn’t have to whisper because it was no longer his voice, and the voice, it’s el pipiltzintzintli speaking, yes it’s me, none other, no whispering necessary, let’s get on with it, just no extraneous noise, that’ll drive you and your friend, lieutenant, y compañero de viaje, a fellow voyager, señor Mariano Alcalá, out of your minds—what’d you say? yes I know you’ve got señora Rosalía Calderón to look after both of you, I’m not blind or deaf, but I’m not watching or listening either because I’m in charge, what I’ve got to say speaks through you, may your two friends be witnesses! and the delicious smell of copal, my nostrils are savoring it by candlelight even if it isn’t night but a full round blue sky without a cloud, no shapes no omens, we’re working on our own, between the two of you, and señor Mariano Alcalá’s wife as lookout, shall we try to get your Ernesto back into señor Rubén Arenal’s F-150? he’s overdue here in Chihuahua, and I don’t mean in the process of being carried in the womb between conception and birth, and “not having been born, though beyond full gestation,” you follow me, don’t you?—the entheogen of prophecy, interpreter of visions, and healer, was silent for a moment while the three friends nodded their heads under a canopy of clear blue sky—and Ignacio Pardiñas, with the voice of pipiltzintzintli, I can swear that Ernesto’s changed as much as he’s going to change, inside and out, the face he saw in the mirror reflected the faces of the disappeared and dead, he knows, and he’s one of them, carrying the word, Emeth, or Truth, and a symbol of his salvation, and there’ll be hell to pay if he stays in Iguala, it’s dangerous for him there, so it’s Chihuahua and the sooner the better, here everything’s waiting for him, with open arms, expectations of a spiritual nature, and when he gets back in town, there isn’t just the sacrament of reconciliation, but a duty required of a person as part of this sacrament to indicate repentance, show us show us your mission responsibility role function, and he’ll have tasks to perform behind the thousand masks of Mil Máscaras, because freedom doesn’t come for free, and if you’re wondering if I’m strong enough as a drug, or if you’ve got any doubts, take my word for it, you’ve got the dose right, and you won’t be needing any jiculi, or peyote, I’m plenty strong, this is el pipiltzintzintli speaking, testing testing one two three, gently flows the water of the river to the sea, what was I saying? ah, yes, you can’t do what Ernesto’s done and live with it without sooner or later having to make good put right mend what’s been torn in the fabric, so it’s good works for him, nothing more nothing less, and in your nonordinary state of consciousness for spiritual purposes we will now recite, not in Nahuatl this time, “En plena primavera,” “In Full Spring,” from the Cantares Mexicanos, and gracias a Ángel María Garibay Kintana and Fermín Herrera:

  Brotaron, brotaron flores:

  abiertas se yerguen delante del sol.

  Ya te responde el ave del dios:

  tú en su busca vienes:

  “Cuantos son tus cantos,

  tanta es tu riqueza:

  tú a todos deleitas,

  cual trepidante flor.”

  Por todas partes grito,

  yo el cantor.

  Bellas olientes flores

  se está esparciendo

  en el patio florido, entre las mariposas.

  Vienen todas ellas de la región del misterio,

  en donde está erguida la Flor.

  Flores son que a los hombres hacen perder el juicio,

  flores que al corazón totalmente trastornan.

  Vienen a entretejerse, vienen a derramarse

  en tejido de flores, de narcóticas flores.

  The flowers blossomed, they blossomed:

  they bloom and stand erect before the sun.

  The bird of god answers you:

  you come in search of it:

  “Your songs are many,

  your wealth is great,

  you delight everyone

  like a trembling flower.”

  Through every region I shout it,

  I, the singer.

  Beautiful aromatic flowers

  are being scattered

  in this flowery courtyard, among the butterflies.

  They come, all of them, from the region of mystery,

  where the Flower stands erect.

  Flowers that make people lose their senses,

  flowers that derange the heart entirely.

  They come to be intertwined, to be scattered

  in a weave of flowers, of narcotic flowers.

  My friends, you’ve given me great pleasure, your voices clear as crystal in the clear as crystal sky of noon, a lovely poem, heartfelt voices for a chemical substance of plant origin like myself, el pipiltzintzintli, and for my benefit, it’s a celebration of me just between us, and we know and we’ve heard in the words telling the history of things that in this case, this song, a poem, anything like it, well, the magic will disappear if we throw more light on the words, and now we’ll send a message to bring your Ernesto back to Chihuahua, a message in more than one language, maybe he hasn’t reached the truck, maybe it’s not where he thought he’d parked it, but don’t worry, I promise you he’ll find it soon, it’s within my power, do you see him with the keys to the Ford Lobo in his hand? it isn’t me asking, or it is, because this is el pipiltzintzintli speaking, but speaking through you, señor Ignacio Pardiñas—if you had a mirror you’d see your lips moving, and Mariano Alcalá, his friend and witness, keep cool keep calm all’s well, El Fuerte, ¡mi Fuerte! but there wasn’t time to say more than that because—and el pipiltzintzintli, yes, I’ve got more to say, so señor Ignacio Pardiñas, you’re speaking to yourself, listen carefully, the words will come out of your mouth and your mouth alone, and to the understated accompaniment of a ranchera, “Cuidado con la lengua,” “Watch Your Tongue,” by Paulino Bernal, accordion and vocals, que bueno hermano, Dios le bendiga y siga firme en el camino de nuestro Dios, good brother, God bless you and continue steadfast on the path of our God, and a suitable selection of a song: Cuidado con la lengua / Con lo que tú dices / Porque lo que tú dices / Eso lo serás. / Cuidado con la lengua / Con lo que tú dices / Porque lo que tú dices / Eso lo tendrás, and the chorus: Soy prosperado / Tengo éxito / Vivo en salud / Porque ando en la luz, “Watch your tongue / And what you say / Because what you say / Is what you will become. / Watch your tongu
e / And what you say / Because what you say / Is what you will have. / I am prosperous / I am successful / I have health / Because I walk in the light,” perfect, absolutely just right and fitting, don’t you agree? I could almost hear it again, but let’s move on, there’s Ernesto’s face wearing the face of another, skin resembling pro-grade Lycra, all white with narrow blood-red antifaz and a blood-red M on his forehead, not quite transparent colors, dressed as he was dressed when he borrowed señor Rubén Arenal’s F-150, I can’t call him Rocket, it wouldn’t be right, because this is el pipiltzintzintli speaking, with respect, as señora Luz Elena says, my mind’s arm reaches over the world’s details like a benevolent cloud, and this is it, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the words to bring your Ernesto back to Chihuahua, in Spanish and English, we’ll skip the Nahuatl again, “En el interior del cielo,” “In the Interior of Heaven,” a poem by Nezahualcoyotl:

  Solo allá en el interior del cielo

  tú inventas tu palabra,

  ¡Dador de la Vida!

  ¿Qué determinarás?

  ¿Tendrás fastidio aquí?

  ¿Ocultarás tu gloria y tu fama en la tierra?

  ¿Qué determinarás?

  Nadie puede ser amigo

  del Dador de la Vida.

  Amigos, águilas, tigres,

  ¿a dónde en verdad iremos?

  Mal hacemos las cosas, oh amigos.

  Por ello no así te aflijas,

  eso nos enferma, nos causa la muerte.

  Esforzaos, todos tendremos que ir

  a la región del misterio.

  There, alone, in the interior of heaven

  You invent Your word,

  Giver of life!

  What will you decide?

  Will you be angry here?

  Will you conceal Your fame

  and Your glory on the earth?

  What will You decide?

  No one can be a friend to

  the Giver of Life.

  Friends, eagles, tigers,

  where will we really go?

  We do things badly, oh friends.

  But do not distress yourselves so,

  that makes us sick, it causes death.

  We must be strong,

  we will all have to go

  to the region of mystery.

  Bien hecho, well done, mis amigos, a big thank you y ¡chingón! that’s what I was hoping for, me gusta como lo hiciste, I like the way you handled it, there’s nothing like unity cooperation consensus solidarity—I’m being more familiar, but why not! after all we’ve been through together—and now my world’s a better place, the great star appeared, the sky grew brighter from end to end, and this from the Maya myth, “I am the sweeper of the path, I sweep his path. I sweep Our Lord’s path for him, so that when Our Lord passes by he finds it already swept,” and out of your mouth, señor Ignacio Pardiñas, with my voice, el pipiltzintzintli’s, come my last words to Ernesto: go in peace and don’t rest in peace until all is peace, and with these words they called Ernesto home, Ignacio licking his dry lips without knowing he was doing it, Rosalía wiping her dry mouth with a handkerchief, Mariano blinking his dry eyes open and shut, two of the three friends under the influence, and el pipiltzintzintli, this is el pipiltzintzintli speaking, a parting word, mis amigos, do you hear me, señor Ignacio Pardiñas and señor Mariano Alcalá?—always respect, no matter what drug’s speaking—two brothers of my family, users of our ancient herb and hallucinogen, prohibited by the Spanish during the Inquisition of New Spain, and over there, señora Rosalía Calderón, watcher and keeper of my brothers, myself, and so she is my sister, too, I leave you now, wishing you all a glorious afternoon in the clear light of day above your heads, the sun burning down upon you and the rest of Chihuahua, Valentía, Lealtad, Hospitalidad, in nuestro Estado Grande, as señora Rosalía Calderón put it so nicely, Mariano, Rosalía, and Ignacio baking in the heat, perspiration covering their faces, each taking a deep breath as they felt in one way or another the pipiltzintzintli moving on into the world of man to visit friends, users of entheogens, and to look at what man was doing to the world.

  Rubén Arenal woke up without a blanket or a sheet covering him, not cold but shivering, drenched in sweat from the efforts of making love, he’d been asleep, not moving, out cold, now rubbing his sleepy eyes, looking at the room that wasn’t a bedroom, no furniture but the mattress he was lying on, and several paper lamps in a Japanese style, andon, and detailed ariake-andon, or bedside lamps, a couple of bonbori, with their hexagonal profile, standing on a pole in two corners on one side of the room, not for the Bonbori Matsuri, a festival in early August each year when bonbori lanterns are lit in the sacred precincts of the Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine in central Kamakura city, these lamps were just part of the decoration, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter’s decoration, Rubén Arenal’s lips tingling like the first time they’d come in contact with La Pascualita’s lips, his head felt light, his nose and mouth breathing air he could see because of the low temperature in a room in the house surrounded by a low stone wall set back from the road on the rise of a hill in the fresh mountain air, its roof white with snow, straight out of a photo of a house in the mountains outside Reno, Nevada, Rubén Arenal pulling the covers around himself, hearing the sound of a generous river he couldn’t see, a wintery unfrozen strong and fast-moving stream of water still catching snowflakes like feathers, out there somewhere even if he couldn’t see it, a flowing river where there was nothing like it on any map, not snow-covered but icy-cold, absorbing each snowflake as it fell, out there where the Suzuki he’d borrowed was parked under a corrugated roof protecting a stack of cut wood, more than a single cord, Rubén Arenal sitting up wrapped in sheets and a blanket, alone in the room, misty-eyed, not from tears, but a blurry setting, not contemporary, of a faraway Japan in the present day, more than a day older than when he arrived, and not an hour younger, the Tepitotonteotl, a small household guardian, one of the messenger gods, responsible for maintaining contact between human beings and the gods, Tepitotonteotl telling him nothing, Rubén Arenal waking up in an old-fashioned place and an uncertain time that looked a lot like eighteenth-century Japan, and Rocket, am I here or am I there, when here is there? what was left of his memory wasn’t much of a memory at all, flickering images, bad quality, but the sensations were still fresh, the smell of Little Pascuala on his skin, the odor of burning oil from the lanterns in his nose, Rubén Arenal asking himself how much time had passed, it was daylight, but which day and how long had he been sleeping, questions he couldn’t answer, Yoaltecuhtli, the Lord of the Night, giving nothing away, and there was no sound in the house, just wind pushing fallen snow against the outside walls, tickling the window frames, forcing cool air into the room that mixed with his breath, Rubén Arenal getting out of bed, still wrapped in the blanket, bending over to pick up his clothes, putting them on one by one until he was decent, folding the blanket at the end of the bed, walking in his stocking feet to the living room, seeing the hand-woven Saltillo rugs from the state of Coahuila, or from Teotitlán del Valle, and the three Japanese paper kaku-andon whose soft beams of atmospheric light had fallen diagonally across all the pieces of his pottery, presenting his work in the best light and on fine hand-woven materials in a pattern of colors and a traditional style, but there wasn’t a single piece of his work on the rugs, the lamps without electric current stood where he’d placed them, unlit, the soft light of day coming in through the windows, and in the dining room not a plate, glass, crumb or dirty napkin, and Rocket, the kitchen’s clean as a rose after rain, in the words of James Whitcomb Riley, Rubén Arenal leaving the kitchen, passing through the dining room, one of his ears hearing birdsong, following the vocalizations with his head cocked sideways, the music in his ear guiding him, walking through the living room, then down the wide corridor leading off the living room, Rubén Arenal lured in the direction of the room where he’d spent the night with La Pascualita but walking past it, catching a glimpse of the mattress and Japanese l
amps, Rubén Arenal standing at the far end of the hallway, finding a door he hadn’t seen before, Pascuala Esparza’s bedroom, knocking at the door, no answer, hearing birds singing on the other side of it, turning the knob, pushing the door open slowly gently without making a sound, and a roomful of birds, three canyon towhees, a couple of hermit thrushes, and more than two but not many rare painted redstarts, eight birds in all, a canopy bed with the ornamental cloth torn and yellowed with age, bedcovers ripped frayed moth-eaten, off-white walls stained with mold, fragile-looking bedposts and bed frame, no rug no curtains no furniture except for a large wardrobe, and the birds flying here and there, fluttering their wings, or walking across the floor, several painted redstarts from the family of wood warblers, the most beautiful of all warblers, black above, large white patches on their wings, red lower breast and belly, white outer tail feathers, flitting through the air, then perched on the frame holding the tattered canopy, and the canyon towhees, large long-legged earthy-brown sparrows with long tails, chunky bodies, short rounded wings, warm rusty undertail coverts, buffy throats and a hint of a reddish crown, scurrying along the floor, two hermit thrushes, motionless, standing upright, slender straight bills slightly raised, round heads and fairly long warm reddish tails, rich brown on the head and back, pale underparts with spots on the throat, smudged spots on the breast, Rubén Arenal taking a closer look, seeing their thin pale eye-rings, hermit thrushes hopping and scraping in the torn bedcovers strewn from bed to floor, now cocking their tails, bobbing them slowly, flicking their wings, Rubén Arenal standing just inside the room, listening to the hermit thrushes’ melancholy song, a sustained whistle, ending with softer echo-like tones, oh, holy holy, ah, purity purity eeh, sweetly sweetly, pausing between each phrase, and the painted redstarts’ two-syllable phrases followed by one or more single-syllable chirps, and loud low-pitched “cheeyu” calls coming out of their mouths, the canyon towhees’ typical six to eight repeated, evenly spaced, double syllables, sounding like chili-chili-chili-chili, chur chee-chee-chee eh, introduced by a call note, Rubén Arenal sighing, no other sign of life, no Pascuala Esparza no Little Pascuala, and the birds ignoring him, landing on the top of the wardrobe, or standing on the edge of the far-gone mattress facing the window, but there was nothing more of life in the room, Rubén Arenal, hearing the birdsong, thinking of Ernesto, imagining he could hear the lonely cry of his friend, not behind the wheel of the Ford Lobo, but standing somewhere in Iguala, not alone but without hope, carrying a colossal quantity of longing to find his son, Rubén Arenal sinking to his knees, two tears falling down his cheeks, one for each eye, then the ducts drying up, and eight birds in flight, landing on him, a spiraling pattern of flickering light and feathers, settling on his shoulders head arms outstretched hands, birds and man man and birds, a moment of peace for Rubén Arenal, no worrying no thinking, just warm-blooded egg-laying vertebrates and a human being, no words but plenty of talk, and what the birds had to say, repeated and with variations, their voices thrown together, hermit thrushes, oh, holy holy, ah, purity purity eeh, sweetly sweetly, painted redstarts, two-syllable phrases, then one or more single-syllable chirps and the loud low-pitched “cheeyu,” and canyon towhees, chili-chili-chili, introduced by a call note, hidden languages with hidden secrets for an outsider, but Rubén Arenal wasn’t an outsider, he knew the coded language, understood every word, and the birds singing, Ernesto’s got something to say to you, Rubén Arenal, still as a statue covered in birds, waiting, three redstarts, two thrushes, three towhees, whispering in his ear, their birdsong but Ernesto’s words: “I’m still alive for you, you’re still alive for me,” Rubén Arenal, standing up from the kneeling position, the tear ducts dried up because there was nothing to cry about, what he hadn’t known he knew now, Ernesto was coming home, returning to Chihuahua, and Rocket, rebirth’s the miracle of life if you aren’t the terminal victim of the police, the army, the government, or your own stupid behavior, ciertamente, oh Jehová, the thrushes, redstarts, and towhees turning in the air above his head, it was the end of the message, transmitted by birds with unique voices, and the birds circling above him, rising towards the nonexistent ceiling, a piece of sky winking down at him through the tear in a roof in disrepair, birds fading in the cool fresh invigorating light of the room, less color less definition but he could still see them, and before they completely disappeared, two hermit thrushes, three painted redstarts, three canyon towhees, voices in unison, we’re playing on your team, and you know it.