Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  Shirley laughed off the dream and called it a cheap trick. He wasn’t going to let some two-bit spic scare him off. Still, he knew Curva didn’t suffer fools gladly, and he may have been a fool to think he could match her. From wrestling alligators as a younger man, he could see Curva had more teeth than those reptiles, though they may not have been so visible.

  Curva and the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  I’ve left the trail for good, mi hermano, and am writing this last letter from the casa I bought with my winnings. I also left parts of Curva behind. And you. While on it, I could feel you nearby.

  My new place reminds me of the one we grew up in. That gives me some comfort. But it’s so different from the trail. Sleeping under a roof instead of the stars. Closed in by fences. A flat prairie surrounding me instead of trees.

  I’ll need to get used to clocks again. Time stopped when I was traveling and didn’t exist except when winter approached and I had to find a town to hibernate in. The seasons helped me keep track of how long I’d been on the trail. At night the heavens opened themselves to me, and the stars and constellations gave off piercing slivers of light. I lost myself in shooting stars and all the other activity up there. That’s when I felt nearest to you, Xavier. I believed you were one of those stars.

  All that has changed. And so have I. The twenty years since you died have forced me to become much stronger. These letters have shown you some of what I experienced to get here. And look: I finally finished what we started!

  I’m sure I saw you applauding as I rode away from the trail. Applauding us. You were with me the whole time. Prodding. Laughing me through tough moments. Cheering. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’m sure of that. You gave me courage to go on.

  Sometimes I backtracked and lost my way. Sometimes I didn’t want to continue packing up and moving on. But the trail lured me back to it. The trail and you.

  Anything seemed possible there, and I saw things I never would have if I’d married and stayed put in some town. I also learned I could meet any challenge. Una mujer fuerte.

  The day I left that ancient route for good all of the animals—wolves and bobcats and bears and squirrels and the rest—whimpered and howled and growled. I’m sure they were as sad to see me leave as I felt in saying goodbye. I couldn’t help tearing up when I looked back and saw them all on the forest’s edge watching us for the last time. I almost changed my mind. But I also knew it was time to give up my years of wandering. It was time to claim my own life. I couldn’t keep living for both of us.

  I don’t know exactly when I crossed the border into Canada. There was no trail marker. No sign that said recepción a Canadá.

  I traveled all day along a road leading to Calgary. Puffy clouds chased each other around the heavenly blue sky’s border. It was a relief to finally see tall buildings in the distance. I rode Alanzo into the city with a parrot on each shoulder and paraded through the streets. Melosa was pulling the travois and the dogs trotted behind. Don Quixote, the goat, was tied to the travois.

  Men, women, and kids stuck their heads out of car windows and gawked. People on the streets stopped and stared at me. Excited to be with people again, I smiled and waved and called out, Buenas tardes. Some of them waved back and shouted words I didn’t understand. I still don’t get everything in English. But I keep improving. Especially my writing. I have time now to get it right.

  Calgary’s a real city and we stopped traffic. The animals and I didn’t pay any attention to the horns honking. I pretended they were Canadian geese and just kept moving. I’ve seen those birds everywhere on my travels. They’re taking over the world and leaving their mark.

  I asked a woman in a big white Stetson and baggy jeans for directions to the stampede. She said I was in luck because the grounds weren’t far from there. She asked if I was riding with the Indians in the parade. I guess my darker skin made her think I was one of them.

  I said, Could be.

  She said, You need to sign up at the stampede grounds and pointed the way.

  I said, Gracias and followed the directions.

  Everyone was wearing a cowboy outfit for stampede week, and the place looked like a cow town. Bales of hay hugged the sidewalks. Chuckwagons were everywhere. A few Indians roamed the streets. I’d seen enough real western places to know this wasn’t the real thing.

  Relieved to finally arrive at the grounds, I told the hombre at the gate I was riding with the Indians in the parade and competing in the rodeo. He looked at my American money and sent me to a nearby bank to have it changed into Canadian dollars. After, he sent me to the Indian village and said I could stay there.

  I didn’t plan to ride in any parade. I just wanted to get the rodeo over with. It was the last time I would have to pretend I was you when I competed. The judges still won’t let women do anything but barrel racing, so I was lucky no one caught on over the years to my disguise.

  I pulled my long hair back and tightly tied the chinstrap on my sombrero so the brim shaded my face. The other cowboys thought I was some weird Chicano. Of course I had to bind my breasts so they didn’t bob around and give me away, and as usual I pretended to be mute.

  After bedding down my animals in one of the barns and pitching my tent next to the teepees, I settled in for the week. My neighbors didn’t pay much attention to me, and I didn’t try to get friendly with them. I just wanted to collect my money and leave town.

  At the rodeo competition, I ran into a few hombres I’d seen at other events in the States. They weren’t happy to see me and kept their distance. They knew they didn’t have much chance if I were competing too.

  First I entered the bareback bronc riding. As long as I get a good grip on the rigging strap and make the right connection with the horse, I can stay on forever. Or until the horse gets worn out.

  I won every prize in sight.

  During my last saddle bronc ride that week, I shocked everyone. I untied my hair, flung my sombrero at the crowd, and whipped off the scarf I used to bind my breasts. They flopped up and down as I rode the bucking horse and held the hack reign tightly with one hand. I never missed a beat.

  The crowd roared, It’s a woman for crissakes!

  I sang Besame Mucho to the horse and he eventually stopped bucking. Then I circled the ring, whipped out a Mexican flag from beneath my shirt, and waved it at the crowd. A lot of them cheered. Some booed. I didn’t care.

  I rode off with most of the prize money that day.

  Kadeem’s Wandering Troupe

  Kadeem’s ragged band passed through Weed for the first time on one of their world tours, along with some Berumba adventurers. Over fifty of them paraded in the streets with their weathered, horse-drawn wagons and worn out wares. Some of the men played accordions, violins, and guitars they’d picked up on their travels, fingers unleashing unfamiliar minor-key melodies with a hint of cinnamon, cumin, and cardamom. These musicians accompanied the female singers’ trilling and the belly dancers’ rotating hips, the sounds streaming into the Weedites’ houses and shops, drawing many into the street.

  The sight of these foreign travelers traipsing through town, their animals dropping scat on the fresh asphalt, angered Nathan Smart. He had just swept the sidewalk in front of his store and swore at the strangers. Speaking to those standing nearby, Sophie mocked the strangers’ tattered clothing and shouted at the visitors to leave: You’re in the wrong place! This isn’t the Calgary Stampede. Ian MacGregor and his sister Edna nodded in agreement. They didn’t want their town blemished by these ragged aliens.

  Kadeem, cheeks dimpled in a perpetual smile, waved from his seat on a red wagon, loosely holding the horse’s reins. He laughed frequently at his troupe’s antics, his body shaking in merriment. His signature stovepipe hat, bound in the red, white, and black colors of the Trinidadian flag, flopped on his head. Inspired, he picked up a steel pan
resting next to him and placed it on his lap, flipping sticks over the drum’s many bumpy surfaces, the sounds so enticing that eventually the Smarts were unable to hold off and began moving their feet to the irresistible rhythms. Ian and Edna frowned at their friends’ response, but then their feet began to patter, the music striking an inner chord. Even old man Hawkins found himself rapping his foot on the sidewalk and doing several intricate steps. Soon more townsfolk were in motion, each swirling and swaying to the songs. A cyclone of sound burst over the land, reaching those working on the nearby farms and ranches. Shortly, those people were also drawn to Weed and the fiesta happening there.

  Eyes popping, jaws dropping, the townsfolk watched members of Kadeem’s band perform on frayed Arabic carpets that levitated above the crowd. The acrobats juggled lit torches and created human pyramids, violating gravity, causing viewers to crane their necks and ooh and aah in amazement. Several children, wearing scarlet harem alibaba trousers, did cartwheels and somersaults at the head of the procession, making spectacular flips and spins in the air.

  Eager to execute moves she’d been practicing for months, Curva joined the dancers, rotating her hips and clicking her homemade castanets. She wore Suelita’s purple harem pants fringed with gold and the matching top. Clapping, Kadeem nodded at her in appreciation and shouted, Bueno, bueno, señora, his black cape flapping behind him like wings.

  Now fully caught up in the fiesta spirit, the townspeople clapped, too, cheering on Curva, reminded once again of how important she had been to them. Shouting ole, Catherine and Inez encouraged other women to twirl their hips, trying to imitate Curva and the other belly dancers’ movements. Even the men stiffly swiveled their bodies, glancing uncertainly at each other, envying the dancers’ fluidity, a motion that appeared as natural as a waterfall.

  A scruffy elephant followed Curva, kicking up dust in the road, carrying a dark-skinned beauty in its mouth: she appeared almost naked, wearing only a G-string with two sunflowers covering her nipples. The crowd gawked, tittering and snickering. Another curvaceous woman followed. Standing on the back of a white horse, wearing a pink tutu, she gracefully held her arms aloft and slowly pirouetted. The animal snorted and threw back its head, shaking gold tassels that hung from its bridle.

  The exotic images titillated everyone, expressing a world that Weedites knew little about. Adults and children alike were agog, their eyes fixed on the spectacle passing before them. Pop-eyed, they imagined themselves living a life free of restraints and the bruising banality of the everyday, following their whims like these entertainers instead of being herded by daily tasks, whether in town or in the country- side. They stood clustered on the sidewalks until the troupe had disappeared up the road, bodies still moving to the music, unable to return just yet to their work. Some ran after the group, hoping to get a ride on the elephant, Victor leading the charge.

  But soon the followers fell behind. They felt as if they were treading on a magic carpet themselves that kept slipping backwards, preventing them from gaining traction. Running in place, they couldn’t catch up with the group no matter how fast they moved. Disappointed, they watched Kadeem and his band fade into the foothills. Their last image was of the elephant’s tail swishing back and forth like a metronome, the beat staying with them for days afterward.

  The Weedites, moving in a daze, lingered in the streets, swaying to the remembered melodies, smiles on their faces. Wondering if they had imagined the whole thing, they frequently peered into the distance, hoping for just one more glance of Kadeem and his band before returning to their usual routines. Nathan’s feet continued to tap out the rhythms he’d heard, and Sophie hummed some of the songs. Ian did a little soft-shoe shuffle on his way home.

  The group had offered a fresh perspective that gave everyone a boost. In days to come, the memory of Kadeem and his entertainers would arise frequently when their daily routines and the weight of existence bogged them down. But it also reminded them that Curva still lived nearby, and she had a similar effect on them.

  Right after the parade, Inez Wilson and Catherine Hawkins met for lunch at a local café, both crooning the same tune. They laughed at themselves for duplicating what they’d heard and howled about Curva’s sultry dancing, reminiscing over the old days at her place. Inez said, I miss Curva’s dandelion wine and other goodies. You know what I mean?

  Catherine nodded and said, Curva was right. We need more of that elephant’s rhythms here. Not Shirley’s. And they both gazed out the window at their neighbors still dancing in the streets, some of the children trying to do flips themselves, smiles on everyone’s faces, laughter softening their bones.

  Making Music Together

  Before moving on, Kadeem and his crew camped on Curva’s property, cooking over open fires that burned until all hours of the morning and continuing to play music, slower now and mellifluous, growing more melancholy and bone piercing as the night progressed. Curva joined them on Xavier’s guitar, not surprised when he and Suelita showed up, as did Ana Cristina Hernandez and Ernesto Valenzuela Pacheco. Their arrival made Curva feel as if she were back in Berumba. Family surrounded her again—the Pachecos now seemed like a mother and father, Xavier and Suelita her brother and sister.

  Curva glanced at everyone’s faces, some familiar, some not. They all had certain characteristics in common. They gestured frequently with their bodies and hands, smiling readily and laughing with ease at the slightest provocation. Unlike the Weedites that were weighted down by new responsibilities and even debt, her visitors seemed fully alive, reflected in how lightly they moved, buoyed by the air surrounding them. Many broke out in song, playing off one another’s tempos and words, spontaneously inventing new tunes. Laughing, they tossed refrains back and forth, faces lit by campfires, music just another language for them. All shared a passion for fiesta, for adventure, for unusual experiences. Feeling fully at home at last, Curva didn’t want the evening to end.

  Xavier tapped Curva on the shoulder. May I, mi hermana, he said, and took the guitar, embracing it like a long lost child. He stood in the center of the camp, wearing a white shirt, black pants, and purple vest, a scarlet kerchief tied loosely around his neck. Someone added wood to one of the fires, and it flared up, the flames turning Xavier’s face the color of red clay. A harvest moon hung behind him in the sky, almost full—a gold pendant. A hush descended over everyone.

  Xavier strummed the guitar flamenco style and ululated in Spanish of lost love and human sorrow, his deep baritone voice piercing his listeners’ hearts and sending shivers through Curva. Tears ran down the faces of men and women alike, creating rivulets in the earth that eventually flowed into the Pacific, leaving behind a trail of salt that cattle licked off the land for months afterward. The music rippled across the plains, following its contours, awakening residents for miles around. It spoke of longing and loss, all emotions they had experienced at one time or another but couldn’t themselves have articulated so intensely. Xavier somehow conveyed these feelings in music’s universal tongue that needed no interpretation.

  The songs even reached Shirley in Sweet Grass. The sound knocked him off his feet. Shaken, he looked around, wondering where the music came from. Something new had entered his vocabulary: feelings. He didn’t know what to do with them. Nor did many of the others whom Xavier’s singing touched. The melodies reverberated in everyone’s bones and lingered long after he had stopped.

  Curva felt as if she were floating on one of Kadeem’s carpets. The group’s energy held her aloft, each person’s face aglow from the firelight, as if lit from within. The music wove them together, resonating within each person’s cells, connecting everyone—the dead and the living—through the reverberation of atoms. Xavier and his music linked them to past, present, and future, a tone first made in primordial time undulating through the centuries, uniting each new generation.

  Was this the elixir she had been searching for all these years? Were they all or
iginally part of something larger so that their individual identities lived on in this way? Or was the idea of immortality itself immortal, humans’ ability to think of immortality already suggesting timelessness?

  Before going to bed that night, Curva decided to visit the greenhouse and invited Kadeem to join her. He scratched his head and yawned: At this hour?

  Sí, señor.

  The roosters will be crowing soon.

  I think they already are, señor. Don’t you hear them?

  Sí. And the hens are cackling too—with delight, Kadeem said, ambling next to her on the path from his group’s camp, wrapping himself in a cape made from Trinidad’s flag. Curva shivered in her thin cotton blouse and peasant skirt, wishing she had brought a serape with her. The full moon bathed everything in a crepuscular light.

  Remember the seeds you gave me, señor?

  Ah, the germen. Sí, sí. What happened to them?

  They turned into huevos grandes.

  Huevos? Imposible.

  Not imposible. It happened. I’ll show you.

  Kadeem followed her into the greenhouse, the two of them startling Sabina. She was sitting on a stool in front of the cage Curva had built for the butterflies, eating popcorn, wearing a pair of coveralls and her sombrero. Dios was sleeping at her feet.

  Curva felt a rush of affection towards her daughter, wanting to hold her close, longing to hear Sabina call her madre. Hola, Curva said, touching Sabina’s shoulder. You’re missing all the fun. Listen!

  Music and laughter drifted into the room. Sabina glanced at her mother and shook her head vigorously. She said, They’re the ones who are missing out. Look! The butterflies are hatching.