Outside the Gates of Eden

by Lewis Shiner

  «A former student of yours, come to pay his respects,» Félix said.

  Before Cole could remind him who he was, he saw recognition bloom in Jesús’s eyes. The old man struggled to get up even as Cole urged him to stay put. «¡El Mariachi Montoya!» Jesús said. He was massive in the chest and belly, unsteady on his feet, hair turned white and mostly gone, liver spots dotting his face. He gave Cole a hug that popped the air out of his lungs, and then sat back on the recliner. «And how is La Pelirroja?»

  Cole opted not to explain drug busts and stolen guitars. «Still the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever played.»

  Jesús nodded his satisfaction. «You and Félix have to play together. Promise me this. Make an old man happy.»

  «Of course,» Félix said.

  Jesús asked after Alex and Alex’s father and Susan, and then abruptly said, «Come again soon. We’ll have dinner and stay up all night and play guitars the way we used to.»

  As they walked downhill to the store, Cole said, «He doesn’t have long, does he?»

  «Hard to say. His mind is still good, obviously. And he’s strong. But he’s very tired. And since Leticia died last year, there’s nobody to give him the kind of care he needs.»

  «There’s nothing anybody can do?»

  «It’s just life. He’s had a long one. He’s ready to go.»

  Cole wandered through the shop, looking at the guitars, each beautiful in its own way. He said, «What kind of music do you like?»

  «Jazz, mostly. You know Al Di Meola? Paco de Lucía?»

  «Sure, they’re great.»

  Félix picked up a guitar and told Cole to try any of them he liked. Cole saw that he was the real thing, tuning by ear, long spidery fingers arcing over the neck. Cole grabbed the nearest guitar, tuned to Félix, and on impulse started to play “Perfidia.” Félix smiled in recognition and peeled off a few hot licks over the introduction, then played chords once the main melody got going. Cole took the first solo, knowing Félix was going to kick his ass when his turn came. Cole kept it simple and legato, more David Gilmour than Eddie Van Halen, working the timing and the finger tremolo. After a couple of choruses he turned it over to Félix, who cut the melody line into pieces and reassembled it in strange and haunting phrases, sounding more like Django Reinhardt than anybody else. When he did unleash a burst of speed it was indeed blinding, though each note in the flurry was cleanly struck. Cole tried to find some inversions and suspensions to keep the chords interesting for him, and it must have worked, because the longer they played, the deeper Félix dug in. Finally Cole blew off the chord structure entirely and they sailed away into outer space, just like in the days of The Quirq, except with more technical proficiency.

  They played for an hour and a half, until Cole noticed a teenager with a guitar staring at them open-mouthed and Félix recalled his four o’clock lesson. «If you’re not doing anything tonight,» Félix asked Cole shyly, «maybe we could get something to eat. I close here at eight.»

  «Órale. I would like that a lot.»

  And so Félix fitted himself into Cole’s routine, reminding him that he hadn’t had a close male friend since Lenny, all those years ago. At first they played in the street outside the fancy restaurants around the corner from the Plaza San Roque, then, over time, they began to be invited in to play for money. Some nights they sat at a cheap café afterward and talked about music and women and politics.

  Félix never drank more than one beer a night, saying, «Beer is the enemy of skill.» Like Cole, he had married young and it hadn’t worked out. «She thought I would outgrow the guitar.» He was active in the Partido de la Revolución Democrática, the new left-wing party that had just split off from the pri, the Institutional Revolution that had ruled Mexico since 1929 through universally acknowledged corruption.

  «Corruption used to be the glue that held this country together,» Félix said. «But you can’t fight los narcos with corruption. You can only fight them with ideals. And if we don’t fight them now, los narcos will end up ruling us all. They are the ultimate capitalists, and right now everything in Mexico is for sale—politicians, human life, immunity from the law.»

  «Not that different from the US,» Cole said, thinking of the immunity that Montoya had bought him.

  «In this,» Felix said, «for once, we are ahead of you.»

  When Alex called to say the family was coming for Jesús’s funeral, Cole immediately wondered if Susan would be with them. Less than a premonition, more than idle curiosity. The last time he’d seen her was Alex’s wedding in the summer of 1974. Sixteen years ago.

  Seeing her at the restaurant on Thursday afternoon, everything was apparent to him in an instant. Her sadness, her loneliness, her vulnerability. He could have been looking in a mirror. It gave him the courage to kiss her on the lips, and like in the fairy tale, he felt the kiss awaken her. He saw that she’d aged, that her body had softened. To him she was as beautiful as ever, still the unattainable princess, only now maybe not so unattainable.

  They were seated too far apart for privacy, so they sent each other messages through the general conversation. Susan brought up her divorce in the first five minutes, and Cole mentioned that he wasn’t seeing anybody. Susan talked about being at loose ends professionally and Cole talked about how he and Félix were now playing four or five nights a week, making enough for Cole to live on.

  When the last of the food was gone and the bill paid, Montoya announced that he was going to have a siesta to prepare himself for Jesús’s wake, happening that evening at the house above the shop. Food and alcohol would be abundant and it was likely to go on into the early hours of the morning. He and Alex’s mother excused themselves, leaving Cole alone at the table with Susan and Alex.

  Alex was hyper and wanted to talk about computers. Though Cole tried to pay attention, the technical details slipped away. Cole eventually got the topic shifted to Susan and her latest disastrous marriage.

  “I thought enough money could make up for everything,” she said. Cole didn’t remember when they’d switched to English. “I was wrong. When he wasn’t working late or cruising for hookers, he was buying coke to enable the first two.”

  “I’ll pass on the hookers,” Alex said, “but when the work is interesting it can be pretty seductive. And I don’t mind doing a line of blow now and again.” He looked at Cole. “Don’t you ever miss it? Not any of it? A cold beer on a hot summer day? A joint before sex?”

  Cole didn’t bring up his occasional cravings. “You can have good memories about something and still know that it was in the past, and that it wouldn’t be the same anymore, and that it’s ultimately no good for you. I mean, you wouldn’t want to still be dating Denise, would you?”

  “If she was here now, I would be on my way to the hotel room with her.”

  “Even knowing there’s no future in it? That you guys are not cut out for each other?”

  “How much future do you need? You can pack a lot into an afternoon.” Alex sighed. “I was never good at resisting temptation.”

  Cole felt the power of Susan’s gaze on him. “I want more than that,” he said. “I want forever.”

  Susan said, “I don’t know if I still have that much romance in my soul. I feel like it’s been squeezed out of me.”

  “You never know,” Cole said, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Alex give him a warning look.

  The idea of him and Susan as a real possibility was brand new, and yet it already had weight and momentum. He wanted nothing more in the world than to be alone with her and see what would happen between them. To Cole’s surprise, Alex was obviously unhappy about it. But even Alex could not fight the primal energy that flowed across the table, and after another ten minutes he got up. “I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.”

  “I’ll be there,” Cole said.

  He watched Alex walk away and felt his breathing go shallow. He said, “Is there someplace…”

  She laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. “What
did you have in mind?”

  “I just want to talk to you alone.”

  She stood. As he walked up to her, she slipped one arm around his waist. “I’ve been wondering for the last two hours,” she said, “if that felt as good as I thought, or if I was imagining it.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  She tightened her grip. She led the way to her room, took the key out of her purse, and handed it to him. The symbolism of the gesture only stoked Cole’s desire. He opened the door and ushered her in. She tossed her purse on the bed and turned to face him. He closed the door and kissed her, all out, with 25 years of hopeless longing. Some small part of his brain marveled at what he was doing, even as the rest of it was lost in sensory overload, perfume and the softness of her lips and the feel of her hands in his hair.

  When they finally pulled back, she put her forehead into his shoulder. “Something tells me,” she said, “this might not be the best idea in the world.”

  “Don’t listen,” he said. He picked her up and laid her sideways across the bed and kissed her neck and throat. He unbuttoned her blouse and saw that her unrestrained breasts were deeply tanned, matching her arms and face. “Nude sunbathing,” she said, “on the back deck in Savannah.”

  Shortly thereafter, when he raised her skirt, she stopped his hand. “Give me a minute,” she said. “I can’t seem to think straight, for some strange reason.”

  “Don’t think,” Cole said. “Feel.”

  “What about condoms? Do you have any?”

  “I’ve been using them since I broke up with Tina, and she and I were both tested.”

  “I’m not on the pill, and I’m still fertile. Theoretically.”

  Cole sighed dramatically and rolled onto his back. “There’s a farmacia down the street.”

  “What time is it?”

  Cole looked at his watch. “Almost four.”

  “I’ll need at least an hour to get ready for the wake.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Go home, get dressed for tonight. I’ll see you there. And when it’s over, I’ll come to your apartment with you. You have condoms there, right?”

  “Do you swear?”

  “Cross my heart,” she said, “and hope to die.”

  *

  Cole assumed things would get off to a late start, as usual in Latin America. He arrived at six to find throngs of people already in the streets around the house. When he finally made it inside, he was startled to discover Jesús on display, arms folded across his chest, face waxy with death, his coffin supported by a low wooden table, the lid standing to one side. Two women in black knelt on cushions by the coffin, saying la novena por los difuntos, the nine days’ worth of prayers that had started the day Jesús died.

  The house glowed with yellow light from dozens of candles. Flowers on every surface, a giant guitar-shaped wreath over one of the food tables. A few of Jesús’s least expensive student guitars sat on stands next to stools in an otherwise vacant corner of the living room, and Félix was already playing one of them. A heavyset guy Cole’s age played rhythm next to him. His wall eye looked familiar, but Cole couldn’t say from where. Cole and Félix nodded to each other and then Cole went back to looking for Susan.

  Outside the front door, a group of old men in guayaberas had commandeered a table in the midst of everything and begun to play dominoes. Cole saw the Montoyas then, walking uphill from the shop, Alex and Susan and Alex’s parents, and when Susan saw him she ran ahead and threw her arms around him and kissed him in front of God and everybody. It’s really happening, Cole thought. He was scared and happy and in love, and he ignored the alarm on Alex’s face and the confusion on the face of Alex’s parents, and fell into step with them, Susan taking his hand.

  «You look very beautiful,» he said to Susan in Spanish. She wore a long black skirt and a simple black knit top and a silver and turquoise necklace. She was thoroughly made up and clouds of perfume hovered around her.

  «You’re a liar,» she said, «but I’ll forgive you this once. I look old and puffy and tired.»

  «You look like the woman of my dreams.»

  “Flatterer,” she said in English. “Rascal.” Cole knew it was a quote but didn’t remember from where.

  Progress through the crowd was slow. Everyone knew the Montoyas and wanted to give them an abrazo and invoke God for a few words of consolation. Once inside, Susan headed straight for the drinks table and poured a glass of wine. Before she drank, though, she turned to Cole and said in English, “You don’t mind, do you? I mean, you’ll still kiss me if I taste of wine?”

  “I can’t imagine a situation in which I would not be willing to kiss you.”

  She took a long drink and said, “Prove it.”

  He kissed her and yes, the taste of wine in her mouth was weird. Not falling-off-the-wagon weird, more like playing-with-fire weird. Not that it mattered. This was fire that he could not walk away from.

  They rejoined Alex, who had just seen the guitar players. His first reaction was shock, Cole noted, which he quickly hid behind a smile. «Órale,» Alex said, «you remember Álvaro? Who gave you your first porro?»

  And who, Cole remembered, Alex had been smuggling marijuana for.

  Álvaro looked up and saw Alex and beamed at him, putting the guitar down to embrace him. Alex reminded him of his history with Cole, and Cole introduced Félix around, and then somehow Cole had a guitar in his hands and they were playing “La Corriente,” the Javier Solís hit. Alex sang lead and Cole and Álvaro sang harmony, telling the current to take them back, never to return. If the room didn’t exactly go quiet, at least the noise level dropped substantially. A few people sang along and a few others let out the traditional yipping gritos and falsetto howls of approval.

  Susan watched him like she’d never seen him before. Eyes glistening, mouth in a startled smile, tongue flicking out to touch her lips.

  For him.

  They played for an hour. Susan watched a while, then wandered off. Finally Cole couldn’t stand it any longer and went to look for her, handing off his guitar to one of Felix’s students. He saw her in the kitchen, where she smiled at him and moved into the crowd, leading him on, until he caught up with her outside Jesús’s bedroom, where she was opening the door.

  «Do you think we should…» Cole said.

  Susan held a finger to her lips and said, «We’re family. Nobody will mind… just for a second.» She pulled him into the bedroom and kissed him ravenously. «Seeing you play tonight… it made me crazy.»

  «We could leave right now,» Cole said. Susan was pressed against him and nothing else mattered.

  «It would be disrespectful. Our time will come.» She kissed him again, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and raking it with her teeth. «Go play some more. But don’t forget me.»

  First he filled a plate with black beans and rice and tortillas and stuffed a big bite in his mouth. He was all appetite. He found a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it in one pull, then finished his food while watching the mobs of people move through the house. Some of them, surely, had no idea who Jesús was and were merely freeloading. The vast majority had put their sadness on open display, women weeping into lace handkerchiefs, men clinging to each other. Cole knew that it was a vital escape valve for a macho ethic that disdained weakness, that married for life and practiced open infidelity, that revered mothers and mistreated wives. Cole loved the culture for its sentimentality and acknowledgement of pain.

  By the time he picked up a guitar again, people had started to call out requests and step up to sing lead. The band did what they could to make them sound as good as possible, whether they were on or off key, slightly drunk or staggering. Alex came and went, as did Susan, who blew him kisses when no one was looking. Though he was mightily distracted by her, he also had to acknowledge the chemistry between himself and Álvaro and Félix. Álvaro had the discipline of years as a professional mariachi, an encyclopedic knowledge of the songs, instinctive
vocal harmony, and a simple, powerful guitar technique. Félix was wildly inventive, finding hidden melodies and turning the chords inside out. Cole’s gift was his ability to knit the two together.

  During a break, Cole sat with Alex and Susan and tried to rehydrate himself. The candles and the cooking and the crush of people had created a feverish heat. Suddenly a turbulence moved through the crowd and out of it emerged a clean-cut man in his twenties, in an expensive black suit and open-collared white shirt. He had a single thin gold chain around his neck and another on his right wrist. He had a stylish short haircut and intelligent eyes. He and Álvaro embraced warmly.

  «Alejo,» Álvaro said, «let me introduce you to Miguel Ortiz. Miguel is a friend from work, very young, very ambitious, with a big future, we think.”

  So he was a narcotraficante, Cole thought, which explained the space that opened around him. Alex understood it too, and his nervousness showed in his eyes as Ortiz took his hand.

  «I was very sorry to hear of your uncle’s death,» Ortiz said.

  «Thank you,» Alex said. «Did you know Jesús?»

  «No. But I have heard much about you from mi primo Álvaro. He says you’re a good man, very trustworthy. And a very good card player.»

  Alex shrugged modestly.

  Álvaro said, «This is Alejo’s sister, Susana.»

  «Lovely,» Ortiz said, bowing over her hand as Susan inclined her head.

  «And this is our friend Cole, a wonderful guitar player.»

  Now it was Cole’s turn to shake Ortiz’s hand, and it reminded him of the time he’d locked eyes with a tiger at the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. The tiger had looked at Cole with mild, disinterested calculation, as if wondering if it was worth the trouble to kill and eat him.

  «I’d hoped to hear some music,» Ortiz said, in a way that suggested he was not used to disappointment.

  «We just finished our break,» Álvaro said, which was not remotely true. «Is there something special you’d like to hear?»

  «Do you know ‘Mexico, lindo y querido’?»