Jemez Spring

by Rudolfo Anaya

  A few eyes turned to study Sonny and Naomi as they entered. By now Sonny felt sweaty and beat, but he looked well dressed compared to some in the crowd.

  “You know Woody?” Sonny asked.

  “Yes,” Naomi answered, resigned to her fate. “He’s an old friend. He can get me out. If it’s not too late,” she added.

  Woody, the one-eyed man behind the bar, was muscular, with a rugged face cut from Sandia granite, a black patch over one eye. Obviously he had climbed the tree of beer casks more than once. Beside him stood a handsome woman, gypsy-like with red bandanna tied around her hair, long dangly earrings, and eyes that saw through any illusion the world might offer. In short, it was clear she had been around the block more than once. Smoke from the cigarette at her lips wisped upward, creating a blue aura.

  “Naomi, cara mia, comed sta,” Woody bellowed, coming around the bar and lifting Naomi in a bear embrace.

  “Fine, Woody, just fine,” Naomi replied. He used the traditional abrazo of the Mexicanos to full advantage. His Spanish was just awful, but in such a place, who cared.

  “Woody, a friend of mine, Sonny Baca.”

  “Sonny Baca! El famoso detective? Bueno, I am Woody, your amigo.”

  He gave Sonny a bear abrazo, deftly feeling to see if Sonny was carrying a gun.

  “It is an honor, soguro,” he went on, “and this my exposa, Prajna. Say hello, para mi hita,” he boomed, introducing the gypsy lady. “I call her para mi hita, my little daughter, but miralo, she is as beautiful as Jezebel.”

  Prajna was beautiful, in an ethereal way, not connected to the real world at all. When she took Sonny’s hand, she could feel his destiny, as it had been cast in runic characters long ago.

  She felt the obsession he carried, the desire and dread of meeting Raven and reclaiming the two lights that were Sonny’s blood.

  “You are too attached to life,” she said cryptically.

  “Ah, mi amida,” Woody interrupted, saying “amida” for “amada,” the Spanish word for beloved. “Do not read his fortuna before he drinks a beer. Come, I have cirvesa that will tickle your fancy.”

  He motioned them to a round table, but Naomi protested. “Thanks Woody, but we don’t have time. You know what’s happening.”

  “Yes, we know, saber, sabeduria.” He smiled and winked at his wife. “She knows everything. Sabe todo y mocho. But if you do not have the beer of heaven,” he pointed at the tree of beer casks, “you cannot know.”

  “Prajna, tell him, I’m in a hurry,” Naomi pleaded.

  Prajna shrugged. She shivered and turned away. As far as she was concerned Naomi’s fate was already sealed. She wondered if Sonny’s life would be spared, or if his obsession would that very day destroy him.

  Woody filled four large cups he called kantharos, and offered one to each, cups with a dark beer whose froth spilled and ponded on the table.

  “You see, amigo, each kantharos is a way to heaven. To Dios, as my amigos the Mexicans say. We go to nirvana—”

  “It’s too late,” Prajna protested.

  “What do you say?” Woody cried. “No, not too late. I will cast the runes.”

  He took a leather bag from his shirt’s pocket, clay tablets with their cryptic lettering, and threw them on the table, where they splashed on the beer foam and instantly began to dissolve.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Ah,” Prajna said. “A pity.”

  “Yes.”

  Woody, with his one brilliant eye, stared at Sonny. “Amigo, you must sacrifice your ego.”

  Not on your life, Sonny thought. He had played this game before. He knew the cantina was a place of illusions and not even the saddest mariachi love song could make things right. Yes, you could go to nirvana, whether on beer or mota or a high-priced hallucinogen, but when you returned to terra firma you still had to deal with the layers of illusion. The thought that one could escape the world of illusion was an illusion.

  Sonny looked up at the beer sign, which now read “Have A Bud.” They weren’t drinking Eggdrasil beer at all, just plain Budweiser. And the clay tablets dissolving on the table were part of the illusion.

  Sonny felt the hair along the back of his neck prickle. Raven was near. He reached across and grabbed Woody’s wrist.

  “Raven was here!”

  Woody winced. “Yes.”

  Naomi jumped up. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, cara mia. He threatened us—” He looked pleadingly at Prajna.

  “They knew you would come here,” she said. “They threatened Woody. What could we do?”

  “Where is he now?” Sonny asked, tightening his grip.

  “He goes to his old friend, Tamara.”

  “And Augie?” Naomi cried. “Where’s Augie?”

  “He called, he’s coming here. Ah, cara mia, you must run. Desaparcida, very quickly. I expect him any moment. He’s dangerous—”

  “You should have told me!” Naomi cried and bolted for the back door.

  “It was a mistake!” Woody cried. “Forgive me!”

  “He’s here now,” Prajna said. The siren outside belonged to a state police car, she was sure.

  “Danger!” Woody cried.

  Sonny tossed Woody aside and jumped up to follow Naomi, but he tripped into Prajna and they both went down.

  “Your obsession will kill you,” she whispered as they fell to the floor.

  He tried to break her fall, knowing that wisdom was fragile, something to be held onto if once you stumbled into her arms. By the time he got to his feet, a gunshot had exploded in the back room. He hit the door hard, splintering it and falling forward into the dark wine and beer storeroom musty with cobwebs and the scratching sound of rats scurrying away, a perfect Raven place.

  Naomi lay slumped on the floor, and the shadow was already out the door, racing down the littered alley and disappearing as it passed a group of teenagers doing crack.

  There was no use following in the congestion, so he turned back to Naomi and knelt beside her. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “I’ll call an ambulance!” Woody shouted at the door. Prajna entered and stood by Sonny.

  “The sonofabitch—” Naomi choked on her words, her complexion gone pale. At her lips appeared an oval tear of ripe blood. “He said I knew too much …”

  “Take it easy,” Sonny said, knowing words fail at such times, the wound on her chest was fatal, the blood already pooling on the floor, the heart hardly pumping.

  “Tell Bear …” she whispered, “… I loved him. I had to screw around the world … come home to realize … I loved him.”

  She smiled, her eyes closed, the flame disappeared from her face.

  Cihuacoatl, the Aztec’s Snake Woman, curled in her death, returning to the depths of the earth to bless the seeds.

  Sonny laid her softly on the floor. “Virgen de Guadalupe,” he whispered.

  Prajna took off her shawl and covered Naomi. Woody returned to stand by them.

  “Oh, cara mia,” was all he could say. “Sorry … sorry. I was afraid for Prajna. They threatened me. We loved Cassie. Such a great artist. Only evil men kill such talent.”

  “Men who have not washed in the Ganges,” added Prajna. “They have no way of letting go of their sins. Go wash in the river,” she said to Sonny. “When your day is done, go.”

  Outside a siren sounded, but the partying along the street was going full blast and the paramedics could be going to any one of a dozen places where the good times were getting out of hand.

  “It’s the dread of the bomb,” Prajna said. “People’s fears turn into desire, then back to fear again.”

  “Take care of her,” Sonny said.

  “Yes. Do not worry, amigo. We will deliver her to her people.”

  He hated to leave Naomi, but Woody and Prajna would see to her, and he had a matter of life or death on his hands—much to do before the day drew to a close.

  He walked back into the bar, where hardly anyone h
ad taken notice of the commotion or of Naomi’s death. The desire, or need, or lust, to be somewhere with someone at this time of inevitability had taken over. It drove the patrons to drink, and with Woody’s beer they sank deeper and deeper into the illusion of self, which is why Prajna did her best to warn them that the ego itself is an illusion; in fact, the many egos within the psyche were the most dangerous illusions, for the minute the ego desires the illusions of the world, it becomes the enemy of harmony.

  Sonny walked outside where the bright sunshine reminded him there was another reality, the truth of light, the same light that created shadows, forms of illusions that from the shadow’s point of view were as real as the light that created them. No light, no shadow. No shadow, no light.

  Shadows have their healing properties. The shadow of Jesus of Nazareth was said to heal the sick. And shadows can be mistaken for reality.

  He tried the pay phone on the corner, rang Rita.

  “Sonny,” she answered, “where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m downtown. I’m fine. How are things there?”

  “Settled down, a bit. People are getting used to the bomb. The panic’s gone, everyone’s taking a holiday.”

  “The guys left?”

  “The guys? The regulars? Oh, no, most of them are taking a day off. We’re busy. Things are returning to normal, except the traffic on the street. If people can’t use their cell phones they drive. It’s incredible. What are you doing downtown?”

  “I had to see the mayor.”

  “And you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t tell her he had lost the truck and Chica. Right then he didn’t feel like telling her he had been suckered by Raven.

  “I need to talk to Diego.”

  She hesitated, then he heard her call Diego. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine. I need him for an hour.”

  “You be careful, Mr. Sonny Baca. I’ll stay open till you get home.”

  “Gracias, amor.” He felt a lump in his throat. Maybe he should be home with her, taking care of her, not of the affairs of the world. But catching Raven did have to do with her, if only he could recover her womb seeds. Yes, he had to see it through.

  On the phone he told Diego about losing his truck, and said for him not to tell Rita, but to get over to the city impounding lot and get the truck out.

  “No problem.”

  “Park it on Broadway right in front of Alburquerque High.”

  “Can do,” Diego replied.

  Sonny knew his friend could do magical things in the city, for he knew its streets and its people.

  He remembered the Gilgamesh epic and the loyal servant, Enkidu. He knew he was no Gilgamesh, but when it came to being a camarada, a real compadre, Diego was Enkidu, willing to go to the depths for a friend.

  For that Sonny was thankful.

  19

  Sonny entered the crowded street, cast into the human sea like a shipwrecked sailor. History has recorded that sailors from the villages of New Mexico have left their loved ones on the docks, the tide sloshing at the ship, the excitement of the adventure written in a last kiss, for who knows when the sailor gone to sea will return, or if he returns at all. Landlocked as it was, New Mexico had sent its warriors abroad, to the fields of Normandy, the trenches of France, Bataan’s deadly march, Iwo Jima, San Juan Hill, the frozen hills of Korea, the steaming jungles of Viet Nam, Kosovo, the deserts of Iraq, and other distant places, geographies that became part of the history embedded in the language of the New Mexico paisano. Even in their landlocked nation of mountains, deserts, and muddy rivers, the New Mexicans had sailed with the tide of history.

  The same wars had brought strangers to the desert nation, La Nueva Mexico. Foreign languages from Babel had arrived in the City Future, immigrants bringing their food, culture, and their business sense, offering at the foot of Mammon their hard, back-breaking work, just trying to get ahead, be part of the American dream, work so their children need not suffer what they had suffered in their past.

  The city prospered as the newcomers gave of their sweat and muscle. Now the city belonged to many cultures, many ethnic groups, many languages, and that gave a new sense of vibrancy and joy to the desert polis, new colors, nuevas idiomas in the air, new songs over the radio, the colorful call of Chihuahuanses laborers building walls, the roughneck call of workers as they completed the Big I, the interchange that had become the city’s symbol.

  There where interstate 1-25 met 1-40, a Zia sign had been created. Seen from the air the two roads met and formed a center, a circle from which radiated four lines, roads to eternity. Those who journeyed into the city were flung out from its center to settle with their heavy loads in one of the four quadrants of the burgeoning city: NW, SW, NE, SE. Points from the compass became points in the heart. Home.

  The four quadrants reflected the four spaces of the universe, the four ages of life, four humors, four corners of the heart, all as it had been since the city fathers laid a square grid on the city, a quincunx dormant in their souls.

  A prophet of the land had declared that each person keeps seven seals, each to be broken as revelations of life at a particular time and place. Each person is destined to break open those seals in one of the four quadrants of life. When the fourth is broken the soul enters the center of the quincunx, the zenith and nadir, the heaven or hell of old legends.

  The riddle of the Sphinx, the prophet said, was no riddle at all. It was a giving up of the ego. Only thus could the psyche enter the center.

  And so the immigrants settled in the City Future, and learned a sad part of the story, which is also part of the American dream. They learned that every city demands that the newcomer leave his old culture behind, discard it like an old coat. Leave your past behind and become American. Adopt the new image, the American way, a way of life copyrighted and owned by tradition, also by those who hold power. “America: Love it or Leave it” became a new burden, a polis pressure. Either speak the common language and learn the common ways or live on the margin. And Americans hate the margin, the border, the sense of not fitting, and so those who wished to become good citizens made a god of conformity.

  Great cities resist this homogenizing of their immigrants, and that is part of their greatness. Such cities thrive on diversity, an ethno-and biodiversity. Great cities remain multicultural. Could the City Future resist the pressure to homogenize the diversity that fed it? Could the children of the immigrants keep the language of their ancestors and their traditional ways? Why were the old ceremonies attended by politicians only when they were on the stump, only when they needed votes?

  On Saturday summer nights the city celebrated its ethnic communities at festivals in the city hall mall. When it was Greek night, the denizens of the city went to eat Greek food and hear Greek music. Theme song from Zorba.

  Some complained. “We found the tub, but we didn’t find Diogenes.” The Greek philosophers were missing, consigned to menus in a few Greek restaurants around town.

  Few could say we sail with the tide in Greek.

  Was the journey from Ilium so long and torturous they had forgotten their language?

  In consolation, the following Saturday nights Hispanics were celebrated, then Germans, then Indians, on and on. Diversity offered in coffee spoons.

  The equinox day was multicultural, for there was a sense in the air that if one perished everyone would perish. Singing, dancing, raising steins of cold beer, chewing on fat hamburgers, bean burritos laden with green chile, tacos and tamales steaming hot, Greek salads, Chinese egg rolls, Thai sweet and sour, chutney, you name it, the city was on a roll and hungry, because it wasn’t every day the rank and file got an afternoon off from work.

  “Viva la bomba!” someone shouted and a loud hurrah went up from a nearby table of revelers.

  They were cheering the bomb? Yeah, cheering the cause of their release from work, the cause of their merriment.

  Only in Alburquerque, Sonny thought, as the cheer went
up again, “Viva la bomba!”

  The leader, obviously an out-of-work actor who spent all day bemoaning his outward state because of the few roles available to a fading baritone, and because funding for the arts had hit an all-time low, jumped up and bellowed to the tune of La Bamba. “Para explotar la bomba, se necesita una poca de mota! Bomba, bomba …”

  Others joined in, forming a snake-like line, dancing, swaying hips, a human rope winding down the street, singing and laughing.

  Sonny had to smile. Was this the way to face the inevitability of possible death by nuclear fire? Not with a whimper but a fiesta? Why not? Fiesta and ceremony were at the heart of all the cultures of the city. Any excuse for a fiesta. “Mi hija made First Holy Communion.” “Pues, let’s have a fiesta.” “Confirmation.” “Let’s party!” “Mi hijo graduated from high school.” “Let’s boogie!” “I wrecked my truck.” “Sorry, compadre, so let’s drown our sorrows con una fiestecita.”

  Marriage, a new baby, a matanza, Bar-mitzvah. A Lobo win. Halloween. A mass for the dead. Whatever, let’s party!

  Even death was celebrated with a fiesta, beer cooling in the coffin of the deceased if it was a hot summer day. After all, one needs to turn personal prayer and grief into community ritual, as the old priests of the clan and the cave had discovered long ago. Praying without ceremony was okay for hermits or monks who preferred to live alone with their thoughts of God, but the community needed ritual to complement each person’s story. In short, the people needed fiestas.

  And who was drawn to the fiesta? Why, every conceivable angel and devil, which is why Sonny was stalking brother Raven down the main avenue of the City Future. Raven was probably just steps ahead of him. But was it Raven’s shadow that had appeared in the dust-streaked window of Woody’s Nest? Or Augie’s? Naomi knew too much, Augie had said. She knew the names of the conspirators, Dominic’s cronies. The net to capture the water rights of the world had been cast wide and deep.

  Sonny opened his hand, revealing the four black feathers he had taken from Naomi’s side, and with a curse he tossed them in the gutter where they might be trampled into the dust and spilled beer.