by Mark Fishman
There wasn’t a shadow, shape or glow that resembled Coyuco in Ignacio’s living room, not a body covered with gems, or a face with precious stones, but Coyuco had been there, Ignacio’s living room was bathed in calm, Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Ernesto, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena were deep in thought, then suddenly Rubén Arenal jumped up from where he was sitting, his bottom sore from the floor, and Rocket, my hands, look at them! Rubén Arenal pushing up his sleeves, and Rocket, what do you see? do you see what I see, or am I under a spell? no dried clay under my nails, nothing in the creases of my palms, but take a look, the return of the “first foundation of the world,” clay-drawn lines and figures on my hands, clay you can’t rub off, making their way north, look out elbows here they come! Mariano, Rosalía, Guadalupe, Irma, Luz Elena getting up to look at him, Ignacio didn’t move, not a single tap on the floor with his cane, but he leaned forward, perilously close to falling out of his armchair, Guadalupe and Irma keeping their cigars behind their backs, no smoke in the eyes, a clear view of Rubén Arenal’s hands and forearms, Ernesto quiet as a statue without birds, and Rocket, a translation from Bierhorst worked the last time, wisdom tales made long ago, but I can’t find anything in my memory to help me out, Ernesto thinking of his hands marked with figures and lines symbols and signs written in charcoal while driving the F-150 Lobo, his arms covered with charcoal drawings, including ordinal and cardinal numbers—two friends, how close could they get!—and remembering with pleasure the presence of the fount of wisdom, handsome and sleek, the Tamaulipas crow, out of nowhere, silent as snow falling on the earth, but with the vision of a bird, the cuervo tamaulipeco, and Rosalía Calderón, I’ll get a little water from the kitchen, Rosalía hurrying from the room, returning with a wet kitchen towel, Ernesto not forgetting the charcoal drawings and the Tamaulipas crow, Rosalía using all her strength trying to remove the markings on Rubén Arenal’s hands and arms, Rubén Arenal hoping the tigers were nearby to devour them, or the wind to blow them away, if only he could invoke the tigers, the wind, Rosalía busy with the towel, Ernesto keeping his eyes on Rubén Arenal, the wet towel did nothing but make his skin red from rubbing, the drawings were all still there on his hands and arms, and Ernesto Cisneros to himself, what’s happened to him is what happened to me, but for me it was charcoal, his lines and figures are drawn in clay, they’re back as a sign or warning that something momentous or calamitous is going to happen, there’s something he’s left undone, only God knows what it is, and only God can take him through it, good or bad, Ernesto, a man of action and no words, not now anyway, saving them all for the community center near Parque Revolución between Calle Tercera and Calle Séptima, Ernesto didn’t say anything but searched his mind for something Rubén Arenal might’ve said in the bar that was a clue to how he could help him, and Ernesto Cisneros, God never said no to a helping hand.
And Ignacio Pardiñas, that’s no spell, it’s a message, Ignacio looked at Ernesto, and Ignacio Pardiñas, I can read your mind, my son, take another look, they’re forming into letters, Ignacio turning to Rubén Arenal, and Ignacio Pardiñas, I’d bet the money in my pocket, not a lot, eight hundred pesos, that you’re hearing from La Pascualita, and Rosalía Calderón, from La Popular, Calle Victoria and Avenida Ocampo? Mariano nodding his head, and Mariano Alcalá, there’s only one, my flower, and Irma Payno, bursting with curiosity, what what what? and Luz Elena, fixing her eyes on her brother, Xihuitl, my comet, my brother, with respect to what we know and what we don’t have to know, maybe you don’t want to talk about it now and with everyone here, maybe you do, so with respect to freedom, and more precisely with respect to liberty, it’s up to you, and Ignacio Pardiñas, let’s leave it to Rocket to decide if he wants to tell you what I already know, it’s Segundo’s secret, Ignacio settling back into the cushions of his armchair, Mariano and Ernesto putting Rubén Arenal in a chair with a lamp beside it so he could keep watch on the writing on his skin, Guadalupe went on smoking the cigar Irma’d given her, Irma smoked, now and then running her hands through her hair, Rosalía pacing back and forth behind Rubén Arenal, who sat with a worried expression on his face as the signs and figures and symbols continued changing into letters spelling words everyone was afraid to look at closely for fear of what they’d find written there, but it wasn’t long before Rosalía stopped pacing, her hands behind her back looking intently over Rubén Arenal’s shoulder at his arms covered in writing, and Rosalía Calderón, come here, everyone, look at what’s written on Rocket, his neck, shoulders—she pulled back the collar of his shirt—and you, Luz Elena, you’re his sister, unbutton his shirt to see what’s on his chest, he can’t do it, he’s too busy trembling, and besides, his eyes are shut, Guadalupe stroking the hair on Rubén Arenal’s head while Luz Elena checked on the state of his chest, finding writing there, too, all the way to his waist, including the tattoo of a maguey on his stomach, Luz Elena asking permission to go further, Rubén Arenal nodding yes, Luz Elena unbuckling his belt, peeking past the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, Mariano, Rosalía, Guadalupe, Irma, Ignacio, Ernesto, in deference to privacy, turning away with a sense of embarrassment at the thought of seeing something that was none of their business, Luz Elena inspecting her brother’s skin, confirming that the writing ended below his navel as if an invisible hand had neatly trimmed the bottom of the page that was his upper torso, then making him stand up, tugging gently at his trousers, Mariano, Rosalía, Guadalupe, Irma, Ignacio, Ernesto, each with their back turned toward Rubén Arenal while his sister found the southern half of his body unblemished, blank except for the pubic hair and hairs on his thighs, and Luz Elena, with respect for what my eyes have seen, and it isn’t the first time and won’t be the last, I’ll leave my inspection at that, you’re free and clear where it counts, you can open your eyes, my comet, my brother, and don’t forget to zip your zipper and buckle your belt, the others turning around, Luz Elena standing up, Rubén Arenal surrounded by family and friends, and Guadalupe Muñoz, don’t be shy, take off your shirt, m’hijo, let’s read what your skin has to say, Ignacio, sitting in his chair, tapped three times on the floor with the tip of his walking stick.
What was written
A woman with too much beauty could either keep a man alive or kill him, and these words will either keep you alive or kill you, what I mean is they’ll be your guide, it’ll be your choice, once and for all, and the beauty I speak of is my daughter’s, you’ve witnessed that beauty, tasted it, her migrant flesh has rubbed right against your own, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: how beautiful is beauty, but you were saved from joining us once before, your masked friend, a brother to you, wearing all the faces of Mil Máscaras, kept you from entering our circle by invitation, from our welcoming arms outstretched, La Pascualita’s and mine, and thousands of others, the numbers are many and can’t be counted, each traveling in a world beyond reach of life, a world populated by what all of you would call ghosts, the unsettled spirits of the dead, what we’re offering is a state of intense excitement and happiness, eternal delight in mint condition, and the achievement of something desired, promised, or predicted—just look it up, that’s what it says—and we aren’t expecting a centavo of compensation, no repayment’s necessary, your presence is all that matters, for my daughter’s sake, but we make no emotional appeal, no entreaty, it sounds an offer right out of a comic book like your cherished Fantômas, La Amenaza Elegante, or more on the order of Kryptonite rocks, X-ray Specs, a miniature monkey, or Charles Atlas’ Dynamic-Tension, “Just fifteen minutes each day in the privacy of your room is all it takes to make your chest and shoulder muscles swell so big they almost split your coat seams … turn your fists into sledgehammers … build mighty legs that never tire!”—leave it to el Norte, crazy as loons, but nobody’s perfect—once you’re dead you’ve read it all and remember it, but it isn’t Kryptonite or Charles Atlas, what we’ve got is nothing you’ll ever find at the back of a comic book—yours not mine, I wouldn’t buy one—it’s the genuine a
rticle, what I mean is you’ll enjoy being in Heaven, where you can do as you like as long as you’re side by side close together in solidarity and in love with La Pascualita, a wrong move and it’s over, not a threat, what I mean is it’s just a fact, indisputably the case, now you’ve all had a chance to read these words, some out loud, some to themselves, and señor Arenal, Rocket to your friends, you’ve heard what’s written on your skin, so what do you say, and at the risk of repeating myself, remember, you’re our maestro, expert, genius, wizard and pro.
They were all sitting around Ignacio, waiting for his first words after they’d read the writing on Rubén Arenal’s skin, early afternoon light spreading itself out at their feet, and Ignacio Pardiñas, a last ditch effort, that’s what I’d call it, reminding me of a paragraph in El pueblo del Sol, The Aztecs, People of the Sun, by Alfonso Caso, the Mexican archaeologist who, like his older brother, Antonio, was a rector of the National Autonomous University, and a founding member of the Mexican Academy of History, “The people of the sun, led by the priests of the god, settled in the middle of the Lake of the Moon. Then they began to fulfill their mission by collaborating in the cosmic function through human sacrifice, a symbolic representation of the assistance that man must give to the sun so that the latter can continue his struggle against the moon and the stars and vanquish them every day,” but let’s get one thing straight, we’re far from our past and our present is strewn with different kinds of obstacles, so here and now, in our circumstances, we can’t let ourselves be sacrificed, whether it’s to corrupt violence or to a false form of love, the disappearance of forty-three student teachers and Coyuco, or to misleadingly attractive ghost-love, too many of us die, and there’s work to do where we live and breathe, Ignacio tapping the floor with his hardwood walking stick, hand painted with the design of an eagle and snake, and Ignacio Pardiñas, that’s right, take a good close look at it, an eagle represents the sun, and the sun’s a symbol of Huitzilopochtli, Blue Hummingbird of the Left, or of the South, it was Huitzilopochtli who, in the year One Flint, encouraged the leaders of the Aztec tribe to migrate, leaving their mythical homeland, Aztlan—it was in the middle of a lake—and beginning their long wanderings, hundreds of years roaming through the north and central parts of Mexico, and during those years, Huitzilopochtli, guiding the priests, his spokesmen, carrying his statue—that’s why their name was teomama—the priests giving the people instructions on their journey, centuries centuries, and at last the priests saw the eagle land on a spiny cactus whose red tunas were like human hearts—you can see them if you close your eyes, just concentrate—the eagle poised on the cactus was the omen Huitzilopochtli had given them, a cactus in the middle of the island in the Lake of the Moon, Lake Texcoco, the trees turning white, the waters becoming white, a sign that there, in the land of the sun, the Aztecs were to stay and found a city, to build a life in Tenochtitlan, Ignacio tapped the tip of his cane three times on the floor, and Ignacio Pardiñas, the chosen people of Huitzilopochtli arrived at last at the place where they were to grow great and become the masters of the world, instruments through which the god would accomplish great deeds, an eagle just like the one on my walking stick revealed their home to them, Guadalupe putting her face in her hands, releasing a sob, then looking up at Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ernesto, Ignacio, and Guadalupe Muñoz, well, things change and time passes, whatever’s conceived is born, and whatever’s born dies, nothing stays behind, Ernesto reaching for her hand, caressing it, and Mariano Alcalá, what our El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, is saying is that here’s where we’ll stay because this Mexico is our home, and it’s from our home that we’ll fight, for better or for worse, and Ignacio Pardiñas, we aren’t relying on chance, not a game of Siete y Medio, getting seven and a half points, the cards worth as many points as their face value, except the figures, which we all know are worth half a point, and we aren’t playing a sure thing either, we’ll do what we’ve got to do, that’s that that’s all, Rubén Arenal, not saying a word, concentrating on the marks on his skin, Luz Elena raising her head to look at Ignacio, and Luz Elena, with respect to respect itself, or simple courtesy, my brother’s silent as the growth of flowers, in the words of Aphra Behn, seventeenth-century dramatist, poet, novelist, translator, woman and short-lived spy—you couldn’t ask for more accomplishments, and Ignacio Pardiñas, we haven’t had far to travel, not physically, with the exception of our Ernesto who, alone in the arms of the night, went to Iguala and back, now a changed man, though we’ve all gone a long way in a short time since Coyuco and the others disappeared, worn the treads off our souls, but consider well the words of Salmo 25:14, Psalm 25:14, La comunión íntima de Jehová es con los que le temen, / Y a ellos hará conocer su pacto, “The friendship of the Lord is for those who fear him, / and he makes known to them his covenant,” and we do fear him, or love him, it’s about the same, so this is where we stay, grow great like our ancestors in Tenochtitlan, “dedicated to maintaining cosmic order and struggling against the powers of darkness,” no, you can’t knock us for trying, we’re God’s coworkers, it’s our pride, that’s why you can’t let La Pascualita take you away, Segundo, we’ll need as many hands as we can get, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Luz Elena, Ernesto, Guadalupe, each with their eyes fixed on Ignacio, their ears tuned to his words, no one paying attention to Rubén Arenal, until he jumped up from his chair, knocking it over, and Rocket, they’re gone, look look look! nothing’s written on me but the hairs and brown birthmark of my skin, and the maguey tattoo, Rubén Arenal smiling from ear to ear, his hands on his hips, Irma the first to look at his arms, hands, chest and back, the others followed, then a common joyful murmuring, and Luz Elena, with respect to a signal that the danger’s over for now, he’s all clear, Ernesto reaching out with his bare hands to lift Rubén Arenal off the floor, the strength of the muscles in his shoulders and arms holding him in the air before his masked face, the mask known as The Cyclops, handmade by maestro Ranulfo López, a red leather mask with silk threads, olive green leather applications around the eyes, nose, and mouth, and the center eye, red and black on white leather trimmed with green, and a plush black quarter moon above it, Ernesto’s mask inches from Rubén Arenal’s grin, only Ignacio remaining where he was sitting comfortably in his chair, knowing the words of the Bible had done the trick, and Rocket, I’m convinced, Esto, “good rewards for good deeds, evil returns for evil deeds,” Ernesto lowering Rubén Arenal until his feet touched the ground, and Rocket, it’s too bad criminal anthropology doesn’t include police uniforms and politicians’ neckties, look out Lombroso there’s work to do if you weren’t already dead and disapproved, not just sloping foreheads, really long arms, funny ears, a fucked-up mandible or maxilla, just take a gander at the uniforms of the municipal police, the ministerial police, federal police, or the soldiers of the 27th Battalion, it’s the clothes that make the man, maybe I’m exaggerating, they can’t all be bad, not like Alacrán and his reptile Queen, my brothers and sisters, there’s a wide river between the few honest ones and out-and-out evil, let’s pray it’s a river whose waters we won’t cross, not ever, not one of us.