Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Rubén Arenal, leaving the room in his stocking feet, taking a last look around him, and Rocket, if this is Pascuala Esparza’s bedroom, and why shouldn’t it be, then in what century? and how is it possible? sliding his feet forward on the polished floor like an amateur ice skater, the floor the only part of the house still in good shape, since he’d woken up alone on the mattress where he’d made love with Little Pascuala the night before, Rubén Arenal had seen only a ruin of a house, nothing like what it was when he arrived by way of Calle Apicultura past the Díaz building supply store in the Colonia Zootecnia, driving toward the mental hospital off Calle Apicultura, on the winding and twisting road, a landscape of mesquite, silverleaved guayule shrubs, and ocotillo, heading toward Mápula, a location in the middle of nowhere, on a plain between the mountain ranges of Santo Domingo and la Yerbabuena, and then the potholed road, rough rutted, nonexistent, nothing like Mápula, with snowflakes fluttering down on the Suzuki’s windshield, Rubén Arenal gliding down the hallway into the living room, finding a chair but not his boots, settling himself there to smoke a cigarette, taking one out of a pack of Faros sitting on the table where he’d left it, and Rocket, a few lines from a flower song, “The Flower Tree,” by Nezahualcoyotl, Tiazque yehua xon ahuiacan. Niquittoa o ni Nezahualcoyotl. Huia! Cuix oc nelli nemohua oa in tlalticpac? Yhui. Ohuaye, “We will pass away. I, Nezahualcoyotl, say, enjoy! Do we really live on earth? Ohuaya, ohuaya,” words from the Cantares Mexicanos, Rubén Arenal, putting a cigarette between his lips, a sigh of satisfaction, and Rocket, repeating the words, I, Nezahualcoyotl, say, enjoy! lighting the cigarette, the match light flaring in his face swallowed up by his depthless black eyes, taking deep drags of smoke, exhaling, watching the smoke swirl up and out and break against a silent wall of air, and Rocket, answering himself, I’m enjoying it, and how! and give this room the once-over, you don’t have to squint, nothing’s left of what I brought here, just the rugs, but there’s the furniture belonging to Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, a tumbledown table with a broken leg, cobwebbed chairs, and three torn paper kaku-andon standing where I put them, no electricity, yes, and everything’s in apple-pie order, decay and dilapidation, no sign of life, but where’d they go, Pascuala Esparza and La Pascualita, and what happened to my mugs for posol, bowls, plates, a hidria, cups for tea, mugs for coffee, a vase for flowers, a couple of ashtrays, and an urn? blowing smoke out his nose, picking loose tobacco out of his mouth, pushing untidy long hair away from his eyes following from bottom to top the contours of an uncared-for cabinet with lots of drawers and shelves, catching sight of an oversized kraft envelope on a shelf, Rubén Arenal crossing the room, weighing the bulging envelope in his hands, seeing his name written on it in blue ink, opening the envelope, spilling the contents out on the horizontal top part of the table, finding plenty of pesos, paper and coins, 50-pesos banknotes from El Banco de Londres y México, 1889-1913 issue, on one side a portrait of Benito Juárez on the left, a gaucho with longhorn cows on the right, and on the reverse, a golden eagle devouring a snake, 50-pesos banknotes from El Banco Oriental de México, 1900-1914 issue, a portrait of Esteban de Antuñano on the right, Euterpe, the Muse of music, on the left, 100-pesos banknotes from El Banco de Durango, a steamship on the left, seated Justice on the right, and on the reverse 100 printed three times, and like shuffled cards, 5-pesos banknotes from El Banco de Nuevo León, a vignette of a jaguar on the left and a portrait of General Ignacio Zaragoza on the right, the reverse, Indians with a shield, Mexican revolutionary 2-pesos banknotes, Gobierno Provisional de México, 1916 issue, with a Christopher Columbus statue on the left, the Aztec Empire Royal Throne Hall in the center, a Toltec stone head on the lower right, and on the reverse, in the center, the Aztec Sun Stone with a young woman in the middle, more than a few 5-pesos banknotes, El Banco de Guerrero, 1906-1914 issue, on one side a Mexican girl holding a basket of pineapples in the center, and on the reverse, a view of the port of Acapulco, a couple of 25-centavos banknotes from El Banco de Santa Eulalia, Chihuahua, series B, 1875 issue, a steam locomotive in the center, a handful of coins at the bottom of the envelope, silver Mexican 8-reales coins, San Luis Potosí mint from 1837, Rubén Arenal, no clue as to the value of the money he found, a costly collection, or what he’d do with it, Rubén Arenal cupping his hand and sweeping the paper money and coins back into the envelope, a hissing sound coming out of his mouth, rubbing the calluses on the palm of his right hand, a habit that never completely disappeared, a tongue that respected nothing but it’s own meaning, and Rocket, it’s time to leave this house that’s straight out of a photo I’ve seen but can’t remember where or when I saw it, like everything around here, in these hills or foothills or right-below-what-looks-like-mountains, snow and a river with a thin covering of ice, unless it’s melted, there’s a little sun now, and heat comes with it, melt melt my little snowflakes, my little lacy layers of ice.

  Rubén Arenal switching on the ignition of the Suzuki, letting the engine turn over a couple of times until it decided to start, it’d been a cold night for cold times, seeing the bottle of homemade pulque he’d left behind on the passenger seat, breaking open the wax-sealed top, swallowing a couple of mouthfuls to warm him up, and now the Suzuki with right-hand steering was taking him back to Chihuahua the same way he’d come, almost automatic pilot, a vehicle with a 660cc engine that knew its way, the air coming through the open window no longer cold, almost warm, and Rocket, summing it up for himself, the weather’s changing back to what it should’ve been but wasn’t up there at Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala’s house, odd thing, and no weatherwoman or man could explain it, a climate of its own, don’t fight it, don’t ask questions, don’t mull it over, why start now, you didn’t when you were up there, and here, no snow no gray no half-frozen river, a seasonal day, and before he knew it, Rubén Arenal saw the mental hospital off Calle Apicultura, passed the Díaz building supply store in the Colonia Zootecnia, driving on Calle Apicultura, heading more or less north into Chihuahua, remembering what he was saying to himself just after he’d pulled the minitruck out of town: La Pascualita’s waiting for me, and I’m waiting for her, it’s a special kind of love, and Rocket, it feels like years ago or was it the night before last? it doesn’t matter, I am driving my neighbor’s truck back into town, so Rubén Arenal, the morning after, or a couple of days later, always a little letdown after the buildup, a modest disappointment in love, and Rocket, otherwise it wouldn’t be love, ’mano, it’s nobody’s fault, I already miss her, my Little Pascuala, and now a few words from Nezahualcoyotl, “Hungry Coyote,” Coyote Hambriento, or fasting coyote, King of Texcoco, my King, and to think of him, I’m as relaxed here in this Suzuki as if the seat was as soft as a feather bed, maybe this poem’s words are out of context but they’re in context with my heart, from “In Chololiztli Iciic,” “Song of the Flight,” just this much, no more: Azomo ye nelli tipaqui ti ya nemi tlalticpac? Ah ca za tinemi ihuan ti hual paqui in tlalticpac. Ah ca mochi ihui titotolinia. Ah ca no chichic teopouhqui tenahuac ye nican. Ohuaya ohuaya, “Is it true we take pleasure, we who live on earth? Is it certain that we live to enjoy ourselves on earth? But we are all so filled with grief. Are bitterness and anguish the destiny of the people of earth? Ohuaya ohuaya,” yes, that’s what I’ve got to say, Ohuaya ohuaya, and Nezahualcoyotl’s words are mine, his feelings my own, O, La Pascualita, a dream? I can still taste her kisses in my mouth, O, Coyuco, a nightmare? as real as this road the Suzuki’s driving on, suddenly this seat’s as uncomfortable as the flat pad of a prickly pear, Nezahualcoyotl or no Nezahualcoyotl, and Coyuco’s fate smashes my face, a lesson a warning: stick your neck out, chop! reach for a pencil, a pen, slice! voiceless, fingerless, no complaints because there’s no voice to complain or disagree or say not this but that, just ask a question, bang! a bullet, dead on the spot because you haven’t got a right to say a word, just comply, be silent, any objections? no no shut up! that’s what I told you, not a word, written or spoken, and no tears, don’t cry, anyway, true tears ar
e wept for the sake of oneself, I wasn’t weeping for him but for myself, for what I’d lost, quoting that out of a book I read, and I’m telling you now, we lost a lot when those students disappeared, they’re probably dead, so we can weep for ourselves, for where we’re headed, we’re off the starting blocks like greased lightning bound for a brick wall, and where’s the room for Little Pascuala when my heart’s breaking for our country of ghosts, check your watch, citizen, there’s no time for love, and you might argue our pain is our humanity, well, I’m feeling just about as human as I can stand, and that goes for a lot of us, any proportion or share in relation to a whole, and I’ll bet pesos from El Banco de Guerrero, El Banco de Nuevo León, El Banco de Santa Eulalia, El Banco de Durango, and whatever’s in my pocket, that the percentage of people feeling just about as human as they can stand is pretty high, personal suffering, not suffering the way a star or storm suffers, which is shit compared to really suffering, like dogs, like men broken by their fate, words blown through the Suzuki’s open window by a warm breeze because they’re light as a feather and don’t mean a thing, just words, like pain’s only real for the person who suffers it as a fatality—incident accident chance event—by giving it citizenship, allowing it into his soul, nods and a wink to Julio Cortázar’s ghost standing by the side of the road, playing cat and mouse with poetry and suffering, and in Coyuco’s case, a hundred percent agony, no choice, the decision was made elsewhere, police, army, Guerreros Unidos, Los Caballeros Templarios, CJNG, the civil government of our country offering up another corpse to the inventory, El mar los descubrió sin mirarlos siquiera, con su contacto frío los derribó y los anotó al pasar en su libro de agua, “The sea discovered them without even looking at them; with its cold contact it knocked them down and listed them, in passing, in its book of water,” from House in the Sand, by Pablo Neruda, and I, Rubén Arenal, driving a borrowed Carry Truck with right-hand steering, a man in love with La Pascualita, and I bet she’s in love with me—first days of love, we’ve got to start somewhere—a world of its own where I’m so close to what I’d call happiness, if that happiness is a forest, I’m in the center of it, breathing its freshness, the smell of earth and trees, but there’s another smell, it’s Coyuco decomposing or burning on a pyre of other students, pure horror, wracking sadness and anger deep as a well reaching all the way down to hell, and the result, psychological stress, exhilaration frustration, two for the price of God knows how much because it costs a lot to put two sentiments up in a room under the same roof, so where does it leave me, let me look at the palms of my hands, maybe the answer’s there, the Suzuki’ll drive itself, besides, I’m almost home, ready to return this truck to my neighbor, Rubén Arenal glancing at the palms of his hands, focusing his bright black eyes, the Suzuki making each turn, or following a straightaway with its own power, and Rocket, let’s see what the dried clay under my nails and in the creases of my palms has got to say, although I’d swear my hands were clean when I left Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala’s house, so it’s clay reminding me of my source, like a river, Rubén Arenal rolling up his sleeves, not looking through the windshield, the Suzuki was doing fine on its own, and Rocket, what the fuck! my arms are covered with clay-drawn lines and figures, Rubén Arenal thinking of the “first foundation of the world,” many thousands of years ago, so many that four distinct ages, called Suns, with their four different universes, existed prior to the present epoch, a spiral evolution of progressively better, more complex forms of inhabitants, plants, and food, the four primordial forces, water, earth, fire, and wind, successively reigning over those ages, until the fifth epoch, our Sun, right here right now, and Rocket, reciting part of the Anales de Cuauhtitlán, according to Miguel-León Portilla:

  Then the second Sun [age] was founded.

  Its sign was 4-Tiger.

  It was called the Sun of the Tiger.

  In it it happened

  that the sky sunk,

  the Sun did not continue its course.

  When the sun arrived at midday,

  then nightfall came

  and when it became dark,

  the tigers devoured the people.

  And the giants lived during this Sun.