Saint Death

by Marcus Sedgwick

  He walks on, turns up Tiburón, heading for José’s auto shop. Behind him is the house he has been very careful not to look at: Doña Maria’s, home to the shrine to Santa Muerte. Arturo sees himself from the night before, slipping the money into his shoe, and just as quickly he tries to block that image in his mind. He finds he cannot. It does not even occur to him to ask himself if he actually believes in her, or not. She is there, that’s all he knows. She’s everywhere. All that matters is that he has a day to prove whether she is still on his side or whether he is going to pay the price for cheating her, or, he thinks, trying to cheat her. Because no one cheats death in the end. She is the skull, the calavera. She is the white bone and charcoal eye, she is the one waiting to act as deliverer, and she does not discriminate; she chooses rich and poor and good and bad alike, and she does not even ask that you come to find her. She will seek you out, when the time comes; so do not fear where you go, for death will find you wherever you are, and deliver you from this earth to the next.

  Arturo walks on, a little faster, putting Gabriel’s body behind him. He’s trying not to think about the large amount of blood seeping from the plastic, trying not to think what that probably means: that it was not swift. He tries not to think about how long it took, or what they did. Back there, on the corner, Gabriel’s wife is still screaming, but as Arturo walks on into the distance, her screams fade.

  * * *

  Nations are like people: first, they are born, they become children, they behave like children. They fight, they explore. They become adolescent. They fight even more but maybe they begin to understand. They might even become adults for a short time. But it’s important to remember that the process of civilization does not only work in one direction. Having reached adulthood, nations get even older; they forget, they become senile. And so, civilization starts to crumble, and once-great empires become debased, violent and die. They destroy themselves.

  It’s true.

  Nations are like people.

  The migrants from the south and from Mexico heading to America. They are a sign. Refugees from Africa and the Middle East heading for Europe. They are a sign. Migrants from Southeast Asia trying to get to Australia. They are all unwitting messengers, and their message is this: We are just the tip of the iceberg. Though iceberg is the wrong word, because it’s when the icebergs melt, and the world changes forever, that the migration we see today will look like nothing. Nothing. Then all civilizations will crumble. It will be biblical. It will be apocalyptic.

  * * *

  THE ANALYSIS OF THE EGO

  Arturo finds José under the hood of a white Chevy that has seen better days. He sticks his head out for long enough to complain to Arturo that he is late for work, and to listen while Arturo tells him he is not coming to work today, and that in fact, he needs José’s help.

  Five minutes later, Arturo is halfway across Anapra, José’s mocking laughter still in his ears. He didn’t even get as far as saying why he needs five thousand dollars, José just began laughing when he asked him for money, and when Arturo said it was dollars that he needed, and five thousand of them, he got nasty.

  Arturo told him what he thought of him, and then he quit. He told José he wasn’t coming back, so he could find someone else to whine at every day. It feels like a small victory to Arturo. The feeling only lasts a few minutes, but while it does, he feels better for having taken some control in his life. He told someone else how he wanted things to be, not the other way around, and though the conscious thought has worn off, it’s left something significant behind in Arturo.

  In his head is a list of people he can try to ask for the money. It is, in truth, a very short list, and José has just been removed from it. Now, Arturo heads toward somewhere he knows he will find a better reception: El Diván.

  Bar by night, El Diván runs as a simple cantina by day, cooking up basic things for the workers of Anapra. On Saturday morning, it is always quiet, and today is no exception.

  Arturo climbs up the steps and goes to open the door, and finds it locked. He peers through but can see no one.

  He bangs on the door, and bangs on it again.

  —¡Hola!—he cries, but there is no reply.

  He hesitates. His time is short, but Siggy and Carlos are probably his best hope. Unsure whether to come back later, or wait, he flops down on the abused sofa that sits on the stoop. Cars come and go, a black sedan with a roll of insulation poking out of the rear window, a white pickup with four guys in overalls dozing in the back, off to a job somewhere. A woman walks with two little kids down the sidewalk, she nods at Arturo. He nods back, then shuts his eyes.

  ¿Is it possible? he thinks. ¿Is it possible that, just yesterday morning, none of this had happened? It cannot be possible. Time cannot work that way; and life cannot go from bearable to fatal in such a short moment of time. He knows he’s wrong, of course. It happened for Gabriel, last night. And for Gabriel’s wife, now his widow. Her name comes to him: Ana. She’s sold him things in the past, when Gabriel wasn’t around.

  Ana. Arturo wonders what he will say to her if he ever goes in there again, and whether he will go to the police after all, and tell them who did this terrible thing to her husband. Then, just as he’s wondering if there will be a next time, he hears footsteps inside El Diván, and after some rattling, the door opens. Carlos sticks his head out, grinning.

  —¡Arturo! ¿Come to pay us another visit?

  Arturo nods.

  —Carlos. ¿Is Siggy up? I need to talk to you both.

  Carlos looks hard at Arturo. He’s not smiling anymore.

  —Give me five minutes. ¿You want some breakfast? Get off the couch and come on in.

  Carlos waves Arturo in and then locks the door behind them again.

  —We don’t want to open just yet—he explains to Arturo.—Siggy had too much last night. Worst person in the world to run a bar. I’ll go find him. You put some coffee on.

  Carlos points over behind the counter where there’s a hotplate and pot. Arturo wanders around and starts to fix the coffee, and by the time it’s ready, Siggy stumbles out into the deserted bar and lifts a weak hand in greeting to Arturo. He looks terrible. Still unshaven, with long, white stubble; his eyes are begging to shut, but he’s out of bed, he’s here.

  Despite everything, Arturo grins, and shoves a big mug of coffee over the bar to Siggy.

  —This might help—he says, and somehow, just the act of handing over the coffee makes him feel a little better too.

  —Carlos said you want to talk.

  Arturo nods as Carlos comes back into the bar.

  —¿That trouble didn’t go away?

  And Arturo shakes his head.

  —Food first—says Carlos.—I’ll make some eggs. We’re not going to talk trouble on an empty stomach. That goes for you too, cabrón.

  He points a wooden spoon at Siggy and then breaks into a smile and Arturo thinks how nice it must be, to be the two of them, and to run a place like this. And they fight sometimes but they have each other and they serve food and pour drinks and make people feel better than they did when they walked in. That must be nice, Arturo thinks. That must be very nice.

  So Carlos makes scrambled eggs, a huge pile of eggs, and sprinkles it with pimiento and brings the whole lot over with some tortillas and the coffee pot. There, at a table by the window, the three of them eat.

  Carlos wolfs his food down, Siggy picks at his, and Arturo eats slowly, forcing himself to eat forkful by forkful, because though he does not feel hungry he knows he will need the energy before the day is done, and when they’re finished, Arturo tells them everything. He tells them everything about Faustino and Los Libertadores, and he tells them about the game, and the money, and he tells them he has to find five thousand dollars by five o’clock.

  Siggy and Carlos look at each other and then they look at Arturo, with a deep sadness written across both their faces, as Carlos explains that they do have some money, but that they have pesos, not dollars
, and even with all they have, they do not begin to have enough to change into five thousand American dollars. Of that, gringo money, Carlos explains, they have very little.

  —I think we have maybe five hundred stashed away somewhere—he says.—They’re yours, if they are any help at all …

  Arturo hears what they say, but it takes a while to sink in. They were his best hope, he knows. So I’m dead, he thinks. I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead. He stares across the deserted bar for a while, as Siggy and Carlos exchange glances. Carlos widens his eyes at his friend, and Siggy knows what he means. Do something, say something.

  Siggy coughs, clears his throat.

  —You know, Arturo. You’re our very good friend. If there’s anything else we can do for you, you know …

  He trails off. Carlos is shaking his head and all three of them know full well that the only thing Arturo needs right now is five thousand dollars.

  Arturo nods. But I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead.

  —Yes, I know—he says, somehow.—Thank you. Keep your five hundred. God knows you’ve earned it.

  He starts to get up but Carlos puts his hand on his arm, gestures at the chair.

  —Sit, Arturo. Finish your coffee before you go. You need it.

  —No—says Arturo.—I’m fine. I just have to get going. I’m fine.

  Siggy points at Arturo.

  —Arturo. You are not fine. That is a lie, but the first person a liar lies to is himself. So admit it. You are not fine. Give yourself a moment. With us. Talk to us.

  Arturo nods, and sits down again, and suddenly Siggy slams his hand on the table so hard it makes Carlos and Arturo jump.

  —¡Damn it!—he snaps.—¡Damn it all!

  Carlos tries to comfort him, calm him down, but Arturo can see that Siggy is on the verge of one of his rants. He holds up his hands and tries to calm himself down, but ends up shaking his head angrily.

  —To hell with it—he says.—Arturo, my poor friend. ¿What words can be said to console you? Look at us all; all of us. Everyone. We all struggle to achieve a long life, to avoid death. ¿But finally, what good is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?

  Carlos pulls a face at Arturo, but strangely, Arturo smiles. He smiles at his friends.

  —Siggy—he says.—You’re a good man. You have Carlos. And you’re so clever, I wish I was like you. ¿But why are you so sad?

  Siggy looks up, blinking, not expecting such a question from their young friend. He laughs a short, hard laugh and then spreads his arms out wide.

  —Look around you—he says.—Look at the world. Look at what people do to one another.

  —People do good things too—says Carlos, then he turns to Arturo.—Siggy and I disagree about certain matters. I believe in community. In togetherness. That we can help each other. But Siggy believes that people only serve themselves.

  —¿Is that true?—asks Arturo.

  —It’s not their fault—Siggy says.—Not all the time. And sometimes, maybe small acts of self-sacrifice are possible.

  —Like right now—says Arturo.—You would have lent me the money. If you had it. ¿Right?

  Siggy nods.

  —Yes, my friend. Of course. But maybe we would only have done so to feel good about ourselves. Ultimately we would just have been serving ourselves.

  Carlos shakes his head sadly.

  —¡Always so complicated!—he says.—¡Always so negative! You say we should look around us; but here, in Anapra, people are doing good things. Look at Las Hormigas, at the things they’ve managed, despite everything.

  Arturo agrees with Carlos. Las Hormigas, the community organization known as the Ants, has worked hard on the little colony of Anapra, striving to make things better: getting kids educated, getting women to the factories safely, providing therapy for people who’ve suffered, and there are enough of those in Anapra.

  —A drop in the ocean—says Siggy.—And I say that with no joy, with no satisfaction. I ask you to look around, at what Juárez is, what it really is. There is a fence being built here, but it is not the fence of steel and wire you see over there.

  He waves his hand toward the north.

  —It is a wall that is being built. And these are the bricks in the wall: the drug gangs, the police of Mexico and of America, Migra, the DEA, the governments and politicians of these two countries. Then there are the biggest bricks of all: companies; these giant corporations that are more powerful than anything, more powerful even than the countries where they operate. The maquiladoras here; they pay no taxes. None. They pay wages so low that even a job still means living on the poverty line. ¿And why does this happen? Our leaders; they tell us that this capitalism of theirs will save the world, that it will create jobs so that everyone will get richer. ¡It’s a lie! ¿How can there be a consumer society when its workers do not earn enough to consume anything?

  Carlos tries to interrupt, but Siggy will not be stopped now.

  —These are the bricks in a wall that is being built not just here, but across the world. ¿And who are we? We are the mortar that is squeezed between the bricks of the wall. We are the ones who glue them together. And when the wall is finished, on one side will be the rich, and on the other, the poor. ¡So a small number of rich people get richer, and the rest can go to hell!

  Siggy thumps the table again, and Carlos reaches out toward his friend.

  —Siggy, be calm. I agree with you, you know that. But calm down. It’s not good for you. And Arturo doesn’t want to hear—

  —No—says Arturo.

  He turns to Siggy. He knows he doesn’t have the time for this. He knows he has to go out into the streets and find five thousand dollars. But he also knows that the chances of doing that are extremely slim, and if this is his last day on earth, if this is to be the last time he sees his friends, he wants more of it. Greedily, he trades his chances of surviving for a few more minutes with Siggy and Carlos. It’s another wager, but Arturo finds it’s one that’s surprisingly easy to make.

  —I do want to hear—he says.—Really. Siggy, last night you were going to tell me something. Something about you. You said only Carlos knows who you are. ¿What did you mean?

  Siggy looks at Carlos, as if seeking permission.

  Carlos holds up his hands.

  —¡Very well!—he says.—But be calm, my friend. Be calm.

  Siggy catches his breath. He laughs, shaking his head, smiling at Carlos. As the sun climbs and moves, light slides sideways into El Diván, slowly spreading shadows of the bars on the windows across the floor. As they talk, the bars creep toward Arturo, fraction by fraction.

  —Last night, I was going to tell you something I learned, long ago.

  Arturo nods.

  —Go on.

  —Everyone here calls me El Alemán. The German. ¿Right? ¡But I am not even German! My parents came from Austria. We moved to the States when I was small and they were well off and I was a spoiled little brat. This was in LA. I dropped out of school and I did some stupid things, and then I got addicted to drugs. Yes, now I drink too much, but back then, I was a user. Of cocaine, weed. Other stuff. My parents disowned me, but I had enough money for a time and I sank lower and lower into the lowest pits of America and I couldn’t stop using the drugs. And one day, I met my dealer and I said something to him I’d heard on the radio that day, someone going on about Mexicans coming over the border and taking our jobs. I didn’t even think for myself; I just repeated what I’d heard this guy saying on the radio. ¿And you know what the dealer said?

  Arturo waits, shaking his head. Siggy takes a sip of coffee and then pours more for all three of them.

  —This is what he said: ¿You know why some come here? They come here to escape a drug war that is fueled by you. That is fueled by you. He meant me, and others like me; because if no one was using drugs, there would be no one to sell them to. And then the drug wars would be over.

  �
��But that’s never going to happen—Arturo says.—People are weak. Drugs make them feel better. For a while at least.

  —Yes—says Carlos.—And by then, it’s too late. But Arturo, I don’t think it’s because people are weak. I think it’s because they are scared.

  Siggy’s nodding at what Carlos has just said.

  —¿Scared?—Arturo asks.—¿What are they scared of?

  But even before Carlos can answer, Arturo knows what he’s going to say.

  —Everything, Arturo. They’re scared of everything.

  Arturo shakes his head.

  —¿Can that be true?

  —¿Why not?—asks Siggy.—It may be horrific, but that doesn’t make it any less true. The world as we find it is a lie. A lie made between those with power: those who run the companies, those who run the government, and those who control the police and the army. I think they believe their own lie. And this is what I learned: that most of us believe it too. The first person a liar lies to is himself. ¿Right? But we are part of it, this lie, and meanwhile, we are eaten up, even as we help the rich get richer. Women slave in the maquiladoras, old and broken by the time they’re forty; girls are abducted and used by the narcos. It’s all the same; all food for the machine that is driving us to our future. And it’s only when we recognize the real prison we’re in that we can start to find a way out.

  Arturo doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand half of what Siggy is saying, not in detail, but he doesn’t mind. He knows it’s important, he thinks he might understand, one day. One thing he does understand now is that Siggy must have changed, somehow, somewhere. That is what he wants to know about the most.