Outside the Gates of Eden

by Lewis Shiner

  The Mass went on like that for another hour and a half, and if it indeed involved a lot of standing and sitting and kneeling, it also included majesty and eloquence and transcendence enough to leave Cole shaken.

  “Holy shit,” he said to Alex as they walked out. “What happened in there?”

  Alex gave him the single raised eyebrow that he’d recently affected. “Don’t tell me you’re getting religion.”

  “That was really intense.”

  “Got to put on a good show if you want the rubes to keep tithing ten percent of income they can barely live on.”

  “It was more than that.”

  Alex stopped and faced him. “It was the music, man. It talks directly to the body. Throw in a little razzle-dazzle to distract the brain and it’s even more effective. Exactly like the Dylan concert, only Dylan was selling something real, and this is just a two-thousand-year-old scam.”

  Cole nodded, unconvinced, and gradually drifted away to walk next to Susan, whose silence and sad contentment better suited his mood.

  *

  They changed clothes and assembled again in the dining room, where Guadalupe brought in a ceramic pot filled with steaming pork tamales. They were the best Cole had ever tasted, tender, moist, with a hint of smoky darkness. Alex, in a voice low enough to exclude his grandparents, said, «Ask me what I believe in, and I’ll say, ‘I believe I’ll have another tamale.’»

  After the table was cleared they opened presents. The big gift-giving day was El Día de los Reyes, Three Kings’ Day, on January 6, but it was a generous culture, so there were presents on Christmas morning, too. Cole got a guayabera, the pleated shirt that was standard casual attire for Latin men. Al Montoya laughed at his fútbol jersey and immediately put it on over his regular shirt. Susan and Linda Montoya both loved their earrings and took turns hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. Cole and Alex brought up their guitars and sang a few songs from Alex’s new songbook.

  They staggered off to bed as the sun crested the mountains that surrounded them. Alex was asleep in seconds. Cole lay awake and tried to imprint details and emotions in his memory. The power of the massed voices in the cathedral. The feeling of linking hands around the dining room table and the smell of tamales in the air. The warmth in Al Montoya’s eyes as he looked at the family arrayed before him, which now included Cole.

  *

  Cole felt a hand on his foot and slowly opened his eyes. Susan stood at the end of the bed, a finger to her lips. She then beckoned to him with the same finger and backed into the hall.

  One in the afternoon, Christmas Day. He’d slept seven restless hours. In the other bed, Alex slept with one arm hanging off the side, mouth slack.

  Cole had to give himself a few moments for his morning erection to subside, then he brushed at his hair as he padded after her. She had dressed somberly in a long skirt, black turtleneck, vest, and high-heeled boots. She wore the new earrings Cole had given her. “Would you go somewhere with me?”

  “You know I’d go anywhere with you,” Cole said.

  “Oh, Cole.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Can you get dressed without waking Alex up?”

  Cole nodded, curious and flattered in equal parts. He put on his new guayabera, a blazer, and jeans, used the toilet and brushed his teeth, and found her waiting for him in the living room. “I’m going to see my mother,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d want to come.”

  It regularly slipped his mind that Linda Montoya was not her mother. “I’d love to. You’re not telling the rest of the family?”

  “They know. There’s no point in rubbing their noses in it.”

  «Bueno,» Cole said. «Vámonos.»

  The sun shone fiercely despite the chill in the air, a dissonant sensation like standing in an icy spring on a summer’s day. Susan, ever polite, made small talk about the Mass.

  «So,» Cole asked her. «Do you really believe in all that stuff?»

  «I believe in God, sure. It’s too depressing to think we’re just a cosmic accident. Heaven and hell, transubstantiation, the infallibility of the Pope, I don’t know. I do know it’s terrible to be alone.» She gave Cole a penetrating look.

  Cole passed up the flirtatious comeback. He’d been alone most of his life, had come to depend on it in a masochistic kind of way. «Sí,» he said.

  To the extent that he’d thought about it at all, Cole had imagined Susan’s mother as one of those working-class women that sold vegetables on the streets, swaddled in black, overweight, and old before her time. He was surprised when Susan turned into the patio of a new, white stucco building and knocked on a door that was decorated with dried gourds and grasses.

  The woman who opened it couldn’t have been older than her late thirties. She was long-haired and slim, wearing a loose black top and long skirt. She had a good deal of makeup around her eyes, which were lit up by an alert intelligence. She ushered them into a high-ceilinged room, sparsely furnished in black leather and chrome. Susan hugged her, and her mother held on for a good long time.

  «And this is Cole,» Susan said, when she finally stepped away.

  Cole took her hand and held it. «Encantado,» he said. «It’s easy to see where Susana got her great beauty.»

  «You will call me Iliana,» she said, addressing him as «tu.» She tilted her head at Susan. «Your new boyfriend?»

  «A friend of my brother’s,» Susan said, and Cole winced.

  «Es muy guapo. Don’t be too hasty.»

  «Mother, please. You’re not funny.» She held out a package. «Feliz Navidad.»

  «Gracias, m’ija.» She kissed Susan lightly and set the package on the bare coffee table without looking at it. «Come, sit down. Have you eaten yet?»

  As Iliana threw together some huevos revueltos, Cole watched the conversation struggle to stay on course. The safe islands were linked by the narrowest of channels. Iliana asked about ut and Susan asked about Iliana’s work. Cole, who didn’t want to expose his ignorance by asking questions, gradually figured out that she was a law professor at the local university and was involved in legal actions against the government. The rest of the Montoya family was clearly off limits.

  Cole’s eggs were overdone and could have used some hot sauce for moisture, not to mention flavor.

  «I don’t cook much,» Iliana said. «I usually grab something along the way.»

  «It’s fine,» Cole said. «I was really hungry.»

  «Cole is a musician, mama.»

  «Really? What do you play?»

  «Guitar. I’m in a rock and roll group.»

  «Ah. So you’re an enemy of the state, like me.»

  «I’m doing what I can.»

  «Are you famous? Are you on the radio?»

  To relieve the awkwardness, Cole started to talk. He never said Alex’s name or explicitly mentioned that Alex was in the band as he told the story of Johnny Hornet and “Laura Lee.” From there he talked about being on scholarship at a rich kid’s school. He gauged Susan’s reaction as he went, and it looked like relief and approval and gratitude. Iliana laughed and continued to flirt with him, and if the flirtation was a bit perfunctory, Cole didn’t mind.

  «So you must have many girlfriends,» Iliana said.

  «I have one serious girlfriend,» Cole said, «but of course it’s Susana that I’m really in love with.»

  «Of course,» Iliana said. «How could you not be?»

  «You two,» Susan said. «Stop encouraging each other.»

  They stayed an hour and a half. Iliana cried noiselessly when they left and didn’t want to let Susan go. She hugged Cole, too, kissed his cheek, and gave him a wink that lacked conviction. As they walked back, Cole said, «I don’t get it. Didn’t you tell me once that your father left her because he was embarrassed by her?»

  «You saw how she was. Flirting, saying whatever comes into her head. She’s political. She doesn’t cook or play the good little wife. No way Papá could take her to
the US. And she’ll never forgive him for that.»

  «I liked her.»

  «Of course you did. She flirted with you and laughed at your stories. Men always like her. That’s part of the problem.»

  Stung again, Cole didn’t respond. Susan took his arm in both hands and said, «Thank you, by the way. For being so sweet to her. Seeing her like that can be really uncomfortable.»

  «Do you not like her?»

  «Of course I love her,» Susan said, which was not the question Cole had asked. «She’s my mother.»

  *

  When Cole and Susan walked in, the rest of the family was at the dining room table. Nobody greeted them, and Cole sensed a distinct chill in the air. Susan went downstairs. Cole washed his hands and face and sat at an empty place next to Linda Montoya. She asked if he was hungry, which in fact he was. He helped himself to the platters of eggs and bacon and fruit and Guadalupe brought him a glass of fresh orange juice. Al Montoya, who was wearing his fútbol jersey, broke off his argument with his own father about the World Cup long enough to acknowledge Cole with a nod and pass him the tortillas.

  Later, Cole went to the patio to watch night fall and listen to the fountain. Alex joined him a few minutes later and they stood at the railing watching lights flicker on in the city below.

  “Is your dad pissed off at me?” Cole asked.

  “Not pissed. Disappointed, maybe. So far you’ve seen the good side of the family. Time for the blinders to come off.”

  “What’s he got against Iliana? I thought she was pretty cool.”

  “He doesn’t like to be reminded of his mistakes. She’s history that won’t go away, and Susan won’t let it go away. Your going to see her today, that could be perceived as taking sides. Just so you know.”

  “I didn’t want to say no to Susan.”

  “Well, that’s a skill you may need to develop.” Having delivered his message, Alex visibly relaxed. “I’m going to grab a guitar and look at some of the songs in that book. Interested?”

  They did it in the living room. Jesús, who had come for breakfast and stayed, joined them on guitar and made a few corrections to the printed chords. The room soon filled up with family, who sang along. Cole couldn’t imagine anything like it ever happening at his house. “Malagueña” and “Cielito lindo,” “Perfidia” and “Volver,” “Bésame mucho” and “Quizás, quizás, quizás.” Loose and spontaneous, with stops and starts and lots of crosstalk. They put their hearts into it where they were able, and pushed each other to flights of improvisation that sometimes, miraculously, succeeded. Their tiny audience clapped and whistled and cheered wildly.

  That night, when they were both in bed with the lights out, Alex said, “That was good tonight. We should maybe do something with that.”

  At their lesson with Jesús the next day, they asked about playing in the Jardín de la Unión. «You have to be good,» Jesús said, «obviously. Like with anything else in this country, you have to be connected. And you have to give up la mordida. It’s not the cops you have to worry about so much as the musicians who have waited and kissed ass and paid a lot of money for that territory, and it’s not the musicians so much as the people the musicians are connected to.»

  «Oh,» Cole said.

  «However,» Jesús said, «if you wanted to sit on the steps of the Teatro Colón across the street, nobody is likely to fuck with you there. You can catch everybody coming and going from the plaza.»

  «Will you come with us?» Alex said.

  «Tempting,» Jesús said. «But I would get all the women, which would be a disappointment for you and more trouble than I could handle from Leticia. You guys will do all right.»

  They spent the afternoon working up an hour’s worth of material. Alex took the lead vocals on most of the Spanish songs because he already knew the words, and they filled out the set with quieter stuff from the Chevelles repertoire, including a slowed-down version of “Laura Lee.”

  Darkness was falling as they took their positions on the steps. The night had turned cool enough to wear jackets. The streets were crowded and two other young people plinked idly at guitars nearby. Alex rubbed his hands together and Cole checked his tuning. They hadn’t brought a copy of their set list for fear of looking contrived, and Cole suddenly felt nervous in a way he never had with an amplifier behind him.

  At that moment the two trouble-seeking gringo girls walked by and Cole did the only thing he could think of to get their attention, which was to stand up, hit an Am7, open his throat, and sing «Bésame» right at them. The girls stopped and turned around. He and Alex looked at each other and came in together on the D7, singing «Bésame mucho» in lingering harmony, and then they were off and running.

  The girls stayed, and a knot of people quickly formed around them. Both girls were blushing and laughing, and Cole played to them shamelessly. The taller one had long, curly black hair, and a feral look that dared Cole to impress her. She overshadowed the other girl, whose long, thin fingers were always moving, touching her mouth, smoothing her hair, grabbing her friend by the arm. When they drifted away after half an hour, Cole was relieved. Teasing them had gotten his blood up and he wasn’t sure how much restraint he was capable of.

  As they closed in on the one-hour mark, Cole noticed a couple of mariachis lurking at the edges of the crowd, which had grown to respectable size. Short black jackets embroidered in silver, monstrous sombreros hanging down their backs. One of them, who kept staring at Alex, had a scraggly mustache and eyes that didn’t track right. The other was short and thick, from his neck to his fingers to his legs. They both looked insensitive to physical pain.

  «We should finish up,” Cole said to Alex. “Let’s do ‘Last Time’ and quit.»

  «Órale,» Alex said.

  They played the song and the crowd applauded and moved away, and Cole watched with increasing alarm as the mariachis began climbing the steps toward them. Just play the dumb gringo, he told himself. Sorry, we didn’t know any better.

  Before he could say anything, the one with the mustache charged Alex. It took Cole a full, panicked second to realize they were hugging, not fighting.

  «Man, you guys were great,» the mariachi said. «I didn’t even know you played guitar. Oye, this is Ernesto, Ernesto, mi primo Alejo.» He turned to Cole. «I’m Álvaro, ¿qué tal? I’ve known Alejo since we were this big, back in Monterrey.» He held his hand down as far as it would go.

  «Cole. Mucho gusto.» They shook hands the normal way, then shifted to a soul grip, and then Cole shook with Ernesto too.

  Alex suggested they get some beers and Álvaro said, «I’ve got a better idea. Follow me.»

  He led the way through the plaza while Alex asked about people they’d known as kids. When they came out on the other side, they passed a convenience store and a bakery and then ducked into a narrow alley that smelled of rotting lettuce. Cole, already alarmed, became seriously afraid when he saw Álvaro pull a joint out of his traje jacket. He’d never seen marijuana in real life and suddenly his father was in his head, talking about musicians on dope and the long, downward spiral his life would take.

  «Mira…» he said nervously.

  «Don’t worry,» Ernesto said. «It’s the same thing as legal around here. Nobody cares.»

  Alex was certainly eager enough. Álvaro lit the joint, took a lungful, and handed it off to Alex, who also took a deep drag. He passed it to Cole and said, in English, while holding his breath, “Just suck a little into your lungs and hold it.”

  Cole was more afraid of looking like a coward than he was of getting busted. He put it to his lips, puffed on it, and inhaled some stagnant alley air with the smoke. He held back the cough that was trying to escape his burning throat and gave the joint to Ernesto.

  «First time?» Ernesto said, and Cole nodded. «¡Qué padre!» How cool.

  By the time they’d smoked it down to the last quarter inch, Cole had gotten the hang of it. Álvaro extinguished it with a wet thumb and forefinger and swallowe
d it.

  «Now it’s our turn to play,» Álvaro said. «You want to come watch?»

  «Absolutely,» Cole said.

  They walked to the plaza, Cole and Alex carrying their guitars over their shoulders like hobos with their bindles on sticks.

  «How’d you like la mota?» Ernesto asked.

  «I don’t think it did anything,» Cole said. «Listen, can we get something to eat where you’re playing? I’m starving.»

  Álvaro and Ernesto stopped on the sidewalk and shouted with laughter, and Alex was laughing too.

  «What?» Cole said, hating being a laughing stock, hating Alex for going along. «What did I say?»

  «I’ll explain later,» Alex said. «We’re all hungry too.»

  The rest of the mariachis had assembled outside the Hotel de Santa Fe. The violinist, who was about 40, made a point of looking at his watch as they walked up. Cole’s anxiety flared again. Living with his father had taught him to read moods, and this one was easy. Álvaro and Ernesto had let themselves get perceived as the fuckups, and the band was getting sick of them. The resentment had generational overtones, and Cole was sure they could all smell the marijuana smoke that hung like a fog over the four of them.

  Álvaro played requinto, the small-scale, high-pitched lead guitar, and Ernesto played guitarrón, the oversized guitar that functioned as a bass. They picked up their instruments, failing to look as serious about it as they should have, and the violinist marched them onto the patio of the restaurant. They surrounded the nearest occupied table and immediately struck up “Allá en el Rancho Grande” with thunderous volume. Attitude problems aside, Álvaro and Ernesto were on the money with their playing, and Álvaro pulled off a great solo halfway through the song.

  «Let’s eat,» Alex said, and they took a table and put their guitars in the empty chairs. Alex’s eyes were bloodshot and Cole wondered if his were too. They both ordered chicken in mole sauce and were well into it when the mariachis arrived at their table.

  The violinist glanced at their guitars. «You are musicians also?»

  Another easy read. «We’re students of Jesús Montoya, that’s all. Not good enough to play with a wonderful orquesta like yours.»