Thirteen Heavens
Page 27
The old men said
that the giants greeted one another thusly:
“do not fall down,”
because he who fell down,
fell forever.
Rubén Arenal trying to rub the lines and figures from his hands and arms, nothing came off, no redness, imperturbable impermeable skin, and no pain either, rubbing as hard as he could, the Suzuki making its way home, and Rocket, ancient words might be a cure, now I’ll try a few lines from “Legend of the Suns” in Codex Chimalpopoca, a translation by John Bierhorst, first the preamble, to spark my memory, which needs a light, “Here are wisdom tales made long ago, of how the earth was established, how everything was established, how whatever is known started, how all the suns that there were began,” and now the second sun again, but this time from Bierhorst, that’ll work, “The sun is named 4 wind. These people, who lived in the second age, were blown away by the wind in the time of the sun 4 wind. And when they were blown away and destroyed, they turned into monkeys. All their houses and trees were blown away. And the sun also was blown away. And what they ate was 12 Snake. That was their food. It was 364 years that they lived, and only one day that they were blown by the wind, destroyed in a day sign 4 Wind. And their year was 1 Flint,” the Suzuki pulled up in front of Rubén Arenal’s neighbor’s house, Rubén Arenal parked the Carry Truck, his trembling fingers switched off the ignition, then he started searching his skin for lines figures symbols signs, now there was nothing there, the tigers had devoured them, the wind had blown them away, and Rocket, “In the perspective of the Great Time every existence is precarious, evanescent and illusory. Seen in the light of the major cosmic rhythms … not only is human existence, and history itself with all its countless empires, dynasties, revolutions and counter-revolutions, manifestly ephemeral and in a sense unreal; the Universe itself vanishes into unreality,” that’s Mircea Eliade, a really smart guy, one of the best expositors of the psychology of religion, mythology and magic, I wonder if I’ve vanished with the Universe into unreality, an inquiry is in order, an official iinvestigation, there was dried clay under my nails and in the creases of my palms, my arms were covered with clay-drawn lines and figures—what it tells me is that I’ve got to live with two sentiments occupying the same place in my heart, the lines and figures, they’re the directions open to me, plenty of north south east west, part of my evolution, the question now is which way do I go if I haven’t vanished, because I’m still here, Rubén Arenal getting out of the Carry Truck, wiping his face with a handkerchief, stomping his feet on the ground, his not-too-fleshy jowls bouncing, and Rocket, solid earth beneath my feet, I can feel the impact, Rubén Arenal jangling the keys, walking to his neighbor’s door, no one home, leaving the keys under a potted plant, turning around and following the sidewalk taking him home, and Rocket, a meaningful dialogue: Where are you going? Right now, home, Not now, tonto, who do you think’s walking with you, Ramón Navarro? where are you going? Just outside, not into the street, but outside, past the husk skin shell pod, Did you bring any money today? Yes, I brought some, How much? Does it matter? where I’m going, it isn’t money that counts, Now you’re talking, ’mano, but what’re you going to do when you get there, outside the husk skin shell pod? I’m going to live, feel everything, ¡no seas tonto! don’t be a fool! with what I’ve learned about myself today there’s enough for me to do for a lifetime, short or long, whether I’m killed by the police or soldiers or live to be an old man, whether I penetrated La Pascualita, got into her heart, and love her—she’s part of me and I’m part of her—or I never see her again, that’s life, And you can leave it at that? What’s “that”? you talk as if that isn’t enough, living with disappointment, rage, and that loving feeling for someone, all at the same time—the opposite of the Righteous Brothers—I call that plenty, We can’t choose the birth we’d like to have, it’s always others who decide what sort of birth we’re going to get, and when we’re old enough to think about our life, we’re already condemned to the life we’ve been given, accept it or refuse it, We can change, cabrón, you think you’re a tough guy because of living by the credo life’s what it is, maybe it’s true, but only to the extent that we’ve got a lot of things going on and they’re going on at the same time, simultaneously single-minded, enough to make a rat scream, that’s the part I’ll grant you, but it’s more than accept or refuse, and Rocket, a short conversation, as usual, back and forth, not the first time, not the last, and don’t ask who I’m talking to, it’s between me and myself, like most things, but let’s say that it’s straightened me out, what’s standing up ahead of me isn’t a matter of buying this or selling that or what can I have or get out of it, it goes deeper, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know there’re high and low roads, paths, alleyways, turnpikes, lanes and highways to take, and they’re real, not made of clay, the lines figures symbols signs that were written all over me just told me to open my eyes and take a good look around.
Two friends two friends, how close could they get without being one man, Ernesto behind the wheel of Rubén Arenal’s pickup, and outside the Ford Lobo, red and white or cream and faded green, nature’s drama continued: the wind, the moon, the sky, plants, animals, clouds, and Ernesto Cisneros, listen to the sounds, don’t listen to what your mind’s telling you, and the return of the cuervo tamaulipeco, a Tamaulipas crow, a companion, from Matamoros in Tamaulipas or from the town of General Bravo, it used to be called Rancho del Toro, in the state of Nuevo León, and the Tamaulipas crow, that’s good advice you’re giving yourself, a crow’s voice loud enough to hear with the windows open, and then a soft-voiced garlik, barely audible, a bird speaking to itself, and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s nice to have you back, compañero, come on in, don’t just stand there balancing on the edge of the window, it’s night and plenty lonely on this road, not a headlight in sight, my cuervo tamaulipeco, wherever you’ve come from you’re welcome, I’d embrace you warmly but I’m driving, the crow, fourteen inches long, sleek, handsome, with glossy dark, bluish feathers, hopping into the truck, standing on the bench of a standard cab, looking past the dash out the windshield at the cloudy night sky above the highway, nodding its head, a slender and black beak in the dashboard light, a Tamaulipas crow, gar-lik, croaking like a frog, a few more things to say to itself, then turning its head, taking a good look at Ernesto and the mask he was wearing, recognizing the wrestler, the face of Mil Máscaras, Aarón Rodríguez, “The Man of a Thousand Masks,” and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s it, make yourself comfortable, the bird snuggling up to him, tucking its head into his ribcage, Ernesto taking a long hard look at the empty road ahead, then down at the crow looking up at him, a crow making short sharp movements with its head and beak, indicating Ernesto’s hands on the wheel, Ernesto looking at them, loosening his grip, holding one hand in front of his face, his conversation with Aarón far behind him, remnants of it hanging in the air not far from Bodega Aurrerá, but here in the Ford pickup, wearing the mask of Mil Máscaras, and now his hand marked with figures and lines, symbols and signs written in charcoal, not clay, but two friends, how close could they get without being one man, Ernesto putting his hand back on the wheel, taking the other off and looking at it, more figures signs symbols lines, holding the wheel straight with his upraised knees, rolling up his sleeves, arms covered with the same charcoal drawings, including ordinal and cardinal numbers, the cuervo tamaulipeco, handsome and sleek, a fount of wisdom, and the Tamaulipas crow, you need a cigarette, and Ernesto Cisneros, what’s all this with the drawings on my skin, they weren’t there when I left Iguala, and now, even though they’re written with charcoal, they won’t come off even if I spit on them and rub with my fingers as hard as I can, and the Tamaulipas crow, repeating itself, you need a cigarette, and Ernesto Cisneros, if it’s a curse, I ask myself, what’ve I done to deserve this? I don’t feel any different than I felt before, when I found this mask and it became part of me, my skin, my soul, in the name of the Virgen del Sagrado Corazón, Our Lady of Guada
lupe, and the saints, what’ve I done? then Ernesto remembering his murderous behavior in Iguala de la Independencia, a convenient amnesia, and Ernesto Cisneros, I guess I’ve forgiven myself but my body hasn’t, and the Tamaulipas crow, a cigarette, ’mano, Ernesto showing signs of panic behind the wheel, not on his face, but hidden behind one of Mil Máscaras’ thousand masks, trembling hands, jerking knees, a spasmodic twitch of the muscles, alternately braking and accelerating, the crow watching all of it, offering a pragmatic prod with its compact head against Ernesto’s right side as a distraction, and the Tamaulipas crow, not a single gar-lik, but a loud and clear shout: cigarette! Ernesto hearing the voice, fumbling with his shirt pocket, and Ernesto Cisneros, you remind me, I need a smoke, and the Tamaulipas crow, shaking its head, that’s what I’ve been saying for a couple of miles, and slow down, get off the road, you’re going to have an accident, ’mano, and Ernesto Cisneros, but I left Rocket’s Faros in the bathroom at the hotel, and the Tamaulipas crow, a patient calming voice, the glovebox, check it, and slow down, Ernesto taking the first exit he saw, gliding slowly toward an intersection, then pulling off the road, nothing in sight, but fumbling now with trouser pockets, there wasn’t a chance he kept a soft pack of cigarettes in them, but he kept on shoving his hands in his pockets almost separating stitches, no rice-paper cigarettes, not a pack of Delicados or Fiesta, not a white and green and black pack of Aros, a gold, red and white pack of Capri, no, until the crow, a screech, bringing Ernesto to a halt, and Ernesto Cisneros, what would I do without you, my Tamaulipas crow, Ernesto, reaching past the crow and opening the glove compartment, finding two unopened packs of Faros, thanking Rubén Arenal for his supply of coffin nails at hand, Ernesto exhaling a sigh, opening a pack, inhaling a lungful of smoke, coughing, and the night wind carried tobacco smoke out the window.
With Ernesto calm but wearing the face of another, the Tamaulipas crow hopped up onto the dashboard, ducking its head, stretching its neck out and leaning away from the windshield, a crow fourteen inches long with not a lot of room for its tail feathers that were brushing against the glass, bending forward over the speedometer to speak directly to Ernesto, and the Tamaulipas crow, you have a friend who owns this truck, I think you should see him right away, so when you get to town don’t stop to change your clothes or wash your mask and scrub your hands but go directly to see him, and remember, November is the month for cempasúchiles, the Mexican marigold, flowers for the Day of the Dead, and alfalfa, too, but it’s the flowers that concern you and Lupe, your Guadalupe, not the alfalfa, a pea-family plant with cloverlike leaves, food for a beast is food for man, but you can’t eat when you’re dead, the marigolds are a tribute to your son, Ernesto putting out the cigarette by pinching the burning end of it between his second finger and thumb, not feeling the heat, but plainly feeling the words pronounced by the crow, a tear dropping out of his right eye, running down the face of the mask he was wearing, leopard-skin and gold, Ernesto tossing the butt out the window, the crow hopping back to the edge of the open window on the passenger side, body half in tail half out, and Ernesto Cisneros, you mean to tell me—the crow interrupting him, and the Tamaulipas crow, the more human you are the more human you feel, don’t get mad, don’t be angry, no bending out of shape, you’ve already got a mask for a face, but no foaming at the mouth, that’s not for you anymore, not after what you’ve done and been through, may God protect you from more suffering, the bird turning around, facing the night and the open sky, more tears flowing from Ernesto’s blinking eyes, the Tamaulipas crow taking off, a wide spread of black wings lost in darkness, the headlights were switched off to preserve the battery, the crow making several passes over the Ford, Ernesto didn’t see it, he was busy wiping the tears from his face, now wearing a blue-and-red mask with white shark’s teeth, Ernesto feeling the mask covering his face, tilting the rearview mirror, looking at himself, the mask changing color before his eyes, now green and red with white shark’s teeth, and Ernesto Cisneros, the masks are as changeful as spring, a moment for Lewis Morris, a Welsh academic, politician and popular poet, but quoting the poet didn’t make him feel better, Ernesto turned the rearview mirror back to its place, leaned out the open window and searched the black sky for the crow, a companion, no sign of it, the clouds, hurrying away, followed by others, giving pursuit, clouds chasing clouds, Ernesto starting the engine, hearing a song in his head and heart, a lonely kind of song sung by Vicente “Chente” Fernández Gómez, the Sinatra of ranchera music, “Voy a navegar,” “I’m Going On A Voyage,” by Chucho Martínez Gil:
Ya me voy muy lejos, vine a despedirme,
solamente Dios sabe si algún día tenga que volver.
Ahí te dejo todo, no me llevo nada
¿Pa’ qué quiero cosas que al final del tiempo
me hagan padecer?
Si alguien te pregunta que pa’ dónde me dirijo,
dile que me fui sin saber siquiera,
para dónde ir.
Voy a caminar, voy a navegar,
para ver si así, para ver si así
te puedo yo olvidar.
Puede ser que el tiempo
borre para siempre tu amor traicionero,
puede ser que un día llegue hasta mi vida
un amor verdadero.
Si alguien te pregunta que pa’ dónde me dirijo
dile que me fui sin saber siquiera,
para dónde ir.
Voy a caminar, voy a navegar,
para ver si así, para ver si así
te puedo te puedo yo olvidar.
I’m going far away, I came to say farewell,
only God knows if one day I’ll return.
I leave everything there, I take nothing with me.
Why would I want things that in the end
may make me suffer?
If someone asks you where I’m going,
say that I left without even knowing
where to go.
I’m going away on a journey, on a voyage,
to see if by doing so, if in this way
I manage to forget you.
It may be that time
will erase your faithless love forever,
it may be that one day in my life,
a true love will come.
If someone asks you where I’m going,
say that I left without even knowing
where to go.
I’m going away on a journey, on a voyage,
to see if by doing so, if in this way
I manage to forget you.
And with this song, Ernesto put the truck in reverse, then into first gear, heading for the highway, rejoining MEX-49 toward Gomez Palacio/Cuencame and crossing into Durango, then 55.87 miles, staying straight to go onto MEX-49/Carretera Entronque La Chicharrona-Cuencamé, continuing to follow MEX-49, then 42.42 miles, merging onto MEX-40D toward Gomez Palacio/MEX-40/ MEX-49D/Chihuahua/Monterrey/Torreón, in the direction of Torreón in Coahuila, La Perla de La Laguna, three lagoons long ago, Mayrán, Tlahualilo and Viesca, now dry, and the city of Gómez Palacio in northeastern Durango, a fine line separating two geographical areas, Ernesto traveling 55.48 miles, then merging onto MEX-49/Carretera Comarca Lagunera-Ciudad Jiménez via the exit on the left toward Chihuahua, 17.85 miles, and merging again onto MEX-49D via the exit on the left toward Jiménez, crossing into Chihuahua, accompanied by silence, no song, just the sound of wind passing through the open windows, the night almost becoming early morning, no crow, but what stayed the same for the rest of his journey was the flow of his tears, an echo of the words pronounced by the Tamaulipas crow, Ernesto feeling the tears falling against his chest, moistening his shirt, damp and sticking to his skin, Ernesto’s eyes red and swollen behind the mask, but he could see the highway clearly, tears coming and going, soaking his clothes, Ernesto, afraid he’d flood the cab, looking down at his neatly polished boots, damp laces from falling tears, the accelerator and brake pedal, salty water gathering there, a pond, sloshing forward or back when he braked or put his foot d
own on the accelerator, Ernesto Cisneros speaking to no one but himself, and Ernesto Cisneros, the Tamaulipas crow, my companion, no gar-liks, but the bird was right, I’ve got to get myself to Rocket, and then to have a face to face, I mean mask to face, my son my son, Ernesto seeing light in a spike of fire, an aurora of fire that seemed to be pricking the sky, while the charcoal signs symbols figures lines still covered his hands and arms, he was covered from neck to toe, and the aurora, an omen like one of the presages Moctezuma II, Moctezuma Xocoyotzin, saw in 1517, but just one of the many omens, it was Ernesto after all, not the ninth ruler of Tenochtitlan, a city-state located on an island near the western shore of Lake Texcoco, but Ernesto driving Rubén Arenal’s Ford pickup, just a vehicle, an F-150, not behind the wheel of a city or a state, and the light of dawn, sunlight on the horizon chased away the spike of fire, and Ernesto Cisneros, the first thing I’ll show him after he’s seen my face, one of the masks of Mil Máscaras, who knows which one, they keep on changing, the first thing I’ll show him will be these things written on my arms and hands, he’ll know what it means, all of it, mask and charcoal writing, because I’ve got to include what my face looks like now, and before Ernesto could get beyond a couple of the other presages and omens that Moctezuma II had seen, a list that wasn’t very long—the temple of Huitzilopochtli burning, or seeing a strange type of lightning, a thunderbolt without thunder, that struck the temple of Xiuhteuctli, the god of fire—he arrived on the outskirts of Chihuahua, the pond of tears at his feet had dried up leaving a salty residue on the floor mat and the soles of his boots, Ernesto taking a glance at the floor of the cab, and Ernesto Cisneros, “Cry! Cry! Cry!” again that song, it’s the message I sent to Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, I didn’t know it then, but now I do, because it takes a while and a lot of tears, and a few of the lyrics, Todo el mundo sabe a donde vas, cuando se pone el sol. / Creo que vives tan sólo para ver las luces de la ciudad. / Gasté todo mi tiempo intentádolo una y otra vez. / Porque cuando las luces pierdan su brillo, llorarás, y llorarás, “Everybody knows where you go when the sun goes down, / I think you only live to see the lights uptown, / I wasted my time when I would try, try, try, / ’Cause when the lights have lost their glow, you’ll cry, cry, cry,” and that reminds me, as if it was a year ago and I can’t figure out where I put it, my mind isn’t adding things up, there’s Ignacio, my second father, he should’ve hit me with his hand-painted wooden stick, knocked some sense into me, I don’t hold it against him but it didn’t happen, I didn’t give him the chance, so once I’ve spoken to Rocket, as the crow said, I’ll turn to Ignacio, a full confession if he doesn’t already know it, then maybe he’ll go to Mariano and Rosalía, an extended family, a family that extends beyond the nuclear family, including grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other relatives, who all live nearby, but not exactly a family, in this case they’re neighbors, but more than friends, Mariano and Rosalía, I want somebody to tell me what to do, it’s not their questions now but mine, and if Ignacio’s like a second father to me, that makes him a father, first or second one isn’t important, children don’t usually tell everything they do think feel to their fathers, not me, not even my father, but Ignacio, that’s another story, so whoever’s thinking up there, “Yakety Yak,” Leiber and Stoller for the Coasters, my brain’s talking at length but not about trivial or boring subjects, a flow of words in a rush like an express train, no tricks! I won’t stand for it, not now, not any more, it’s time to limit the damaging effects, Aarón said it, I’m wearing a thousand layers of faces to protect myself, representing the faces of the families of the disappeared, I’ve got to set an example through ethical, righteous, worthy-of-the-mask behavior, and Egon Kisch, a journalist: “the Man-automaton—” that’s me! “—working ever for the welfare of strangers and unconditionally subject to an extraneous will … ” my fate is absolutely my own, but I’ve got to know how to do it, what to do, and we’re still mourning, Lupita and I, whether Coyuco turns up or not, it’s grief sorrowing parents lamentation no matter which way it goes, remember what I said, there’s nothing she can do right now but cry, and weeping won’t get us any closer to knowing anything, only wrenching our guts, and for Irma, too, named by her parents after Irma Serrano, La Tigresa, broken hearts all around, a few more turns and I’m there, this Ford’s an inspiration, giving me the urge to do something, especially to do something creative, I can almost see the street entrance that leads to the foyer lit by an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling, a foyer separating Rocket’s apartment and pottery studio from the street entrance, time flies when you aren’t thinking out loud, and who needs a watch, Ernesto looking at his wrist, holding the steering wheel steady with his other hand, the watch his father gave him, a Timex, and Ernesto Cisneros, with a mechanical voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is John Cameron Swayze reporting for Timex in Acapulco, Mexico, just behind me you can see the rugged face of the famous La Perla cliffs, that gorge goes up up up to the height of a twelve-story building, and there, climbing barefoot to the top of the cliff, is one of the bravest men I know, that man is Raúl García, high diving champion of the world, take a good look at his hand, notice there’s a Timex waterproof watch strapped around it, that watch will bear the full shock of impact as García hurtles down to the bottom of that narrow gorge and hits that water at more than eighty-five miles an hour,” Ernesto admiring his wristwatch, remembering his father, long gone, not Ignacio, the other father, then another tear tumbling, and Ernesto Cisneros, he gave it to me in ’62, and look at that, it’s still going, still ticking away smoothly, see that sweep hand go! that’s the amazing Timex waterproof, dustproof, shock resistant—interrupting himself, taking John Cameron Swayze’s lead, but looking past the wristwatch at his hands, checking his arms, and Ernesto Cisneros, hold on, wait a minute, the figures signs symbols lines, they’ve all disappeared, carried out the window on the wings of the crow and the words of the song by Chente Fernández, that bird’s my good luck charm, and the Timex might be shock resistant, but I’m as fragile as a strand of rain, James Whitcomb Riley, writer, poet, and I’m not even the same Ernesto that left Chihuahua a couple of days ago, how many, it’s hard to tell, I don’t know what I look like because my face, this mask that’s my face, keeps changing, hang on hang on, eyes on the road, no accidents in a borrowed car or truck, not even if it was my own, and not a parking place, so once more around the block, Ernesto turning the steering wheel, making a corner with common sense, no speeding, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him, a glance in the rearview mirror, Ernesto seeing another change in the mask, a shiny silver lamé Mount Fuji mask with white and blue vinyl, a presentation mask, not by Don Ranulfo López, 84 Calle San Antonio Tomatlán, Colonia Morelos in Mexico City, but his son, Leopoldo, or Alejandro, Ranulfo’s grandson, a mask worn for press conferences, movies, or thrown to the crowd, Ernesto touched the zipper at the back of his head, but not a single strip of metal or plastic, straightening the wheel, squinting at the sunlight and the road with tired eyes and no sunglasses, it was still early, but the streets weren’t quite empty, Ernesto’s eyes following a cart drawn by a horse, out of the corner of his eye a bus idling at a bus stop, then a glance at a silver 1995 Lincoln Town Car, a white Nissan Versa with tinted windows, and finally, before turning the corner, admiring a 1972 white Dodge Dart two-door hardtop with a vinyl-padded black roof, and Ernesto Cisneros, there’s a spot and it’s right in front, like the old proverb, a poor man without patience is like a lamp without oil, Ernesto pulling the truck to the curb to park the Ford Lobo in the empty space a few steps from the entrance to Rubén Arenal’s home, his pottery studio, the engine was switched off, Ernesto reaching behind the bench seat for a rag to dust off the seat and dry the sweat off the steering wheel, then shaking out the floor mats, and Ernesto Cisneros, talking to himself, I’ll gather the things I took with me, but there was nothing to take out of the truck, his own body, and the clothes he was wearing, that’s it, he’d gotten rid of the rest, and so he climbed down, locked the door
, and stood wiping his hands on his trouser legs as the yellowish air feathered against a blue sky.