by Mark Fishman
Ernesto, asking himself where the other side of the human mind was hiding, knowing it wasn’t on his face, not in the reflection he was looking at, but convinced it was in his heart, a good place for Quetzalcoatl’s judgment and reasoning, so Ernesto, counting on the half of himself that was still Ernesto Cisneros Fuentes, with a lively vein of the football midfielder, thanks to the happy coincidence provided by his father, invested with Quetzalcoatl’s mental ability, Quetzalcoatl, also the Power of Kingship, First of the Lords of Toltecs, the Precious Twin who was thrown together now with the terrible Tezcatlipoca, two mighty forces in cooperation, right side left side, and Ernesto Cisneros, a real pair, you can’t beat ’em, and since they’ve joined me, I’ll ride an exceptionally fine and well-kept steed, wearing a canana, a wide double band of leather with compartments stuffed with cartridges, the two bandoliers worn by Pancho Villa, right out of the picture from the Bain News Service, George Grantham Bain, and Francisco Villa, commander of División del Norte, the caudillo of the state of Chihuahua, provisional governor—the meaning isn’t lost on me, not you either, I can see it on your faces, mis amigos, my right side, my left side, because it’s going to be a struggle, and finding Coyuco, I’ll need all the help I can get, Ernesto taking on the role with enthusiasm and unselfishness, purposeful perception, calculated cleverness, and insight, a kind of brilliance born of suffering, starting with the responsibility he’d assumed the minute he learned that Coyuco had disappeared—a duty to deal with, and the unique opportunity to act independently and make decisions without authorization—Coyuco and the forty-three other normalistas, together, more than a few of them dead, six extrajudicially executed right from the start at four different crime scenes, including a tortured student, another two who were shot at point-blank range, and Ernesto Cisneros, point blank, that’s less than 15 cm, almost six inches away, ask Dr. Francisco Etxeberria Gabilondo, a forensic doctor from the University of the Basque Country, ask anyone anywhere, Ernesto, right now, on his own in Iguala, things that were difficult or impossible to understand or explain, looking at his reflection in a shop window, standing there, revitalized, breathing a breath of new life with oxygenated blood, and Tezcatlipoca’s desire for revenge, maybe Ixtlilton, Little Black One’s brain making sounds, thinking, click click click, but not out loud, Tezcatlipoca and Ixtlilton and a fifty percent solution of Quetzalcoatl’s conscious intelligence, whether he saw it on his face or not, Quetzalcoatl, god of the winds and the breath of life, personification of wisdom, symbol of the origin of everything precious, Ernesto—in qualli yiollo, in tlapaccaihioviani, in iollotetl, “his good heart, humane and stout”—confident he’d get to the bottom of it, find his son, he couldn’t miss, Guadalupe’s Coyuco, Irma’s Coyuco, his Coyuco, and Ernesto Cisneros, so if it’s Tezcatlipoca and his lieutenant making my heart race, pushing blood through narrow roads under my skin, I can promise myself, and anyone listening, that my goal’s the opposite of theirs, especially Tezcatlipoca’s—feigning miracles, “gathering disciples and wicked people to molest those honest men and to banish them from the land,” Fray Diego Durán wrote it, I read it, and what I want is the opposite, not punishing honest men, because now I’ve got the right blend, a real complement, together with Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent, a god who demanded no sacrifice but fruit and flowers, and in the Codex Vindobonensis, a history of Quetzalcoatl, and the creation of the world, Quetzalcoatl as a god and later a divine king, human, and the possessor of greater wisdom than other men, representing a set of ideas and symbols revealing the profound and intricate philosophic world of the peoples living on the Central Plateau, and in the very first myth, Quetzalcoatl, the spirit of the waters flowing along the winding bends of rivers, Ernesto knowing his own history, making an urgent request of the spirit of Quetzalcoatl to dominate and turn the terrible Tezcatlipoca, and Ernesto Cisneros, we’ve got to work together, make him listen, and his lieutenant, too, Ixtlilton, Little Black One, Ernesto looking away from the plate glass window and moving down the street, a twin-powered Ernesto, wanting to help himself, and honest men, women, and children, sorrowful and grief-stricken, wanting to help Guadalupe, Irma, abandoned dogs and cats, starving turtles in their terrariums, birds left to their last grain, unwatered plants with shriveling leaves, all because their owners, disappeared or dead, couldn’t attend to them, too many miserable living things to count, it was impossible to live with a untroubled heart, their wretched roots—human, plant, animal—buried deep in the earth’s flesh, he wasn’t dreaming, it was a fact, and Ernesto Cisneros, you’re awake now, but what profound induced sleep’s kept you ignorant for so long?
Ernesto watching the passersby, head to the left head to the right straight ahead, no one seemed to notice his transformation, it was Ernesto’s unchanged face, Ernesto Cisneros, husband of Guadalupe, father of Coyuco, that passersby could see when they looked at him, nobody running away, not a shout or pointed finger singling him out, he was just another man in not too much of a hurry, making his way in the fading warm sunlight of late afternoon, a few last rays and shadows stretched out on Iguala’s east-west streets like long lying dogs in summer, and Ernesto Cisneros, these events don’t have to be, there’s a glaring question of right or wrong, so bright it blinds anyone who asks it, burning our eyes catching in our throats breaking the backs tearing out the hearts, sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Ernesto walking against the traffic down Calle Guillermo Prieto, arriving at the corner of Eutimio Pinzón and Guillermo Prieto, taking a left, again against the traffic, and Ernesto Cisneros, I hope it’s not a sign, and continuing until he reached Netzahualcóyotl, a right turn, Ernesto wondering where he was going, and Ernesto Cisneros, I’m not ready for Central Estrella Roja, not yet, but heading in the general direction of the bus station just the same, Ernesto walking at a leisurely pace all the way to Manuel Ávila Camacho, a left, and a right on Calle Juan R. Escudero to the Hotel Obregón, not far from Periférico Sur, and Ernesto Cisneros, I’ll take a room for the night, maybe two, but the bright blue and white, an orange spiral staircase to the first floor, a modern design that’s enough to make my eyes water, not tears of joy, at least it isn’t run-down, Ignacio had given him the name of a different hotel in Iguala, El Andariego, Carretera Iguala Lots 29-30 in the industrial section, just beyond Calle Periférico Norte, in another part of town, not anywhere near Central de Autobuses, Estrella Roja, and Ernesto Cisneros, so it’s here that I’ll stay, even if it’s killing my eyes, I’m too tired to go back the other way, Ernesto paying in advance for two nights, climbing the orange-painted stairs, washing his face in the sink in his room, then leaving the hotel for Central Estrella Roja, a six-minute walk, Avenue General Álvaro Obregón to Nabor Ojeda, named after Nabor Ojeda Caballero, agrarista, soldier, revolutionary and politician, Ernesto taking a right turn, and a block later a left on Hermenegildo Galeana to Calle de Salazar and straight to the bus station, stopping at Taquería Nayra or Taquería Martha, plenty of choices for a bite to eat and something to drink, a watermelon-flavored Jarritos, Ernesto standing with the bottle in his hand, a straw sticking out of the mouth of it, staring at the front of the Central Estrella Roja, a long sip through the straw and a big swallow of Jarritos cooling his throat, a taco in his belly, the sunset in the sky, and Ernesto Cisneros, time to get back to the car, Rubén Arenal’s Ford pickup, because the night’s got eyes, I’ll have to get my things out from under the seat, in the shadows, how far is it to Calle Ignacio Manuel Altamirano and Calle Hermenegildo Galeana from here? or Calle Melchor Ocampo? I never remember where I park, and Lupita’s the opposite, a real compass in her head, North South East West, a finger pointing over there, that’s Guadalupe, my Lupita, and our Coyuco’s the same, now don’t start thinking about it or tears’ll get in the way, remember Big Joe Turner, Joseph Vernon Turner Jr., Kansas City, “Turn off the waterworks, baby, they don’t move me no more, / When I leave this time, I ain’t comin’ back no more,” I’ve got the blues myself, and it’s the same for the others, parents of forty-three victi
ms, or as many victims you can count on all the fingers of all the hands, and what I keep asking myself, what I don’t understand, is why their leaders, the student leaders, keep putting them in danger, risk their lives, from the perspective of revolutionary ideology, the forty-three students and Coyuco are victims offered up by their leaders in a utilitarian sacrifice, and there’s a long history of it, look up the words of Kain Guek Eav, Comrade Duch, a monster in his own right, warden of S-21 prison under the Khmer Rouge, denying the cruelty of his actions and those of his subordinates, and the Nazis’ categorical imperative, big words coming from my agonizing heart, ¡Dios mío! what crimes! … the world’s whirling away from us, heading straight for teotalli iitic, under the holy plain, another term for Hell, but resurrecting forces are at work in Tamoanchan, “place of our origin,” the paradise of Omeyocan, the thirteenth sky, presided over by Ometeotl, Lord of Duality, in Omeyocan, dwelling of the supreme beginning, life emanating from here with its two faces, its two opposing forces, and where our bones are ground by Quetzalcoatl, with the help of Cihuacoatl, with a headdress of eagle feathers in the Florentine Codex, or the Woman Serpent, together, using the remains of human beings from previous ages, and putting the ground bones in a precious clay pan, or a jade bowl—the bones were broken on their way from the underworld, humans of the Fifth Sun, our sun, we’re many different sizes, some people are tall, others short—Quetzalcoatl, giving us life with his own blood by piercing his penis—¡ay!—in self-sacrifice, “upon them Quetzalcoatl bled his member,” Leyenda de los Soles, a new population appearing thanks to what he’d done, creating the first human beings of the Fifth Sun, in macehualtin, “the deserved ones by the penitence,” and later, the common people, according to the Florentine Codex, like you and me, like most of us, mis amigos, Ernesto leaving the bottle of soda on the countertop, Taquería Nayra or Taquería Martha, heading for the Ford Lobo, a right on Hermenegildo Galeana, two blocks, another right at the corner, leaning to catch his breath against the rounded iron bars painted yellow and red on the sidewalk opposite the serving window and counter of Pollo Feliz, the façade painted brick red, a glance at the sunset sky, and Ernesto Cisneros, death and life are no more than two sides of the same reality, you know it and I know it, and the potters of Tlatilco, in the Valley of Mexico, know it, too, making figurines with double faces, one half alive, the other skull-like, they’re duality masks, I don’t need more proof than that, so I’ll buy it ten times over, Ometeotl, “our mother, our father,” as a symbol of his intangible quality, as the heart of wisdom and of the only truth on earth, and Quetzalcoatl put a face on him, identifying him as Ometecuhtli-Omecihuatl, Lord and Lady of Duality, who live above the highest of the heavens in Omeyocan, but it’s time to come back down to earth, maybe life’s just a bunch of made-up facts, Ernesto, gathering his thoughts, his taste buds tickled by the smells coming from a take-out chicken stand on Calle Joaquín Baranda, taking two dozen steps past Pollo Feliz, No Hay Otro Mejor—EXPRESS Sólo para llevar—heading straight to where he’d parked Rubén “Rocket” Arenal’s pickup.
