by Mark Fishman
And Pascuala Esparza, coming soon on this face, and my daughter’s, too, isn’t that right, niña, my child? a happy and triumphant beam, a grin from ear to ear, and that makes four of them, ears I mean, count ’em, señor Arenal, we’ve each got two, nicely formed nicely sculpted, ears to pierce ears to clean ears to listen with, but I’m talking about satisfaction, the gratification of possession, and in this case, it’s really something special, not a luxury car, not a yacht, but crockery, ceramics, earthenware, stoneware, pottery made from your skillful hands, payment in full on delivery, name a price, it’s yours, you’ll get exactly what you ask for, señor Arenal, “then good luck, and remember the sky’s the limit,” words straight from the Syracuse Herald, September 1911, the first time the words were put in print, the Syracuse Herald, a broadsheet covering Syracuse, Onondaga, New York, 1904–1939, but you’ll come to our place, not tonight, but tomorrow at twilight, between daylight and darkness, or after the sun’s set, night, with its electric light, bring everything with you that you can carry, getting away once and for all from that hot wind that cuts through clothes, you’ve felt it, we’ve all felt it, that’s Chihuahua, in El Estado Grande, when you get to our place, you might hear the struggle of the river, even if there isn’t a river, you’ll hear it, and you’ll remember it forever like the echo of a distant hello, wondering if you’re hallucinating, but you aren’t, trust me, it’s there, we all hear the river, a path to follow, running ahead, behind, or beside us to show us the way, upstream or down, a squiggly blue line on a map, thick or thin, it doesn’t matter, it’s a river, señor Arenal, maybe walking sideways, moving like a crab, and you’ve got to follow it because it’ll lead you to us, you’ll head straight to our front door, with all the beauty you can carry on your back, or on a small donkey used as a pack animal, a car, a truck, or a cart, it doesn’t matter, a vehicle is any means of transport as far as we’re concerned, you’re our maestro, bright spark, enchanter, brainiac—nothing like the Mexican horror movie, El barón del terror, 1961—and we’ll be expecting you, No ya el desasosiego / pero sí el deseo / la esperanza / de encontrarte a la vuelta de la esquina, “No longer the restlessness / but the desire / the hope / to encounter you turning the corner,” that’s part of a poem by Claribel Alegría, isn’t that right, niña, my child? La Pascualita knitting her eyebrows in a frown of concentration, and Little Pascuala, almost a whisper, it’s time to go, ahora es el momento para ir, and her pale hand reaching out to Rubén Arenal, his hand grasping hers, a poised Little Pascuala, a graceful and elegant bearing, and La Pascualita, a few words, Y si me duermo y sueño que estoy muerta / y en realidad he muerto / y no lo sé, “And if I fall asleep and dream that I am dead / and in fact have died / and don’t know it,” I know her poems, too, amá, Claribel Alegría, and Rocket saying to himself, that’s the first real sentence I’ve heard her say, his skin with the hairs erect, and a trembling in his muscles, charged particles, dynamically as a current, passing through him with the sound of her voice, Pascuala Esparza and La Pascualita putting their drinks down on the table, and Pascuala Esparza, you’ll walk us to the door, readily accompany us to the wonders-will-never-cease world inspiring delight and a measure of the heebie-jeebies to anybody who’s got a head on their shoulders, señor Arenal, what I mean is when this staggering phenomenal extraordinary world isn’t scaring the hell out of us, making our hair curl—you’ve noticed our hair’s as straight as a stretch of two-lane blacktop—a world that’s a crocodile’s mouth, wide open, not a yawn, but waiting for a snack, this world, our world, the living or the dead, it’s true, in my blissful euphoria I’d forgotten about it—outwardly it looks like ecstasy or rapture, but upon closer examination, take a good look, it isn’t exaggerated and out of proportion, Rubén Arenal leading them to the door of his studio, opening it, letting them get in front of him, then opening the outer door, the three of them standing on the sidewalk, La Pascualita pulling the veil down in front of her eyes, Pascuala Esparza gripping an edge of her black and deep-blue shawl with knotted fringe, the wind had blown the yellowish air away, but there was plenty of sunlight to light their way, a glowing globe of reddish-yellow light like a ripe orange throwing three shadows, a sphere about to fall off the edge of the earth, and Pascuala Esparza, so until the next time, goodbye, ¡adiós! señor Arenal, words that strike right between the eyes, and a friendly wave, the two women turning their backs on him, Rubén Arenal, forlorn, a wretched blue knot in his stomach the shape of La Pascualita’s fist, watching them walk away, but Pascuala Esparza’s daughter, Little Pascuala, turning her head to look back at him, a momentous moment, a young woman’s gaze fixed in time, hanging in the air between them, Rubén Arenal and La Pascualita, while her mother, looking straight ahead, moved like she was floating on the surface of the sidewalk even though her feet were touching the ground, La Pascualita’s feet faltering, she was half turned around, the upper half, not tangling her legs, but not looking where she was going either, Rubén Arenal clearly saw her dark brown, almost black eyes behind the patterned veil, the picture of her face just before she turned away, rounded the corner and disappeared was printed on the retinas lining the back of his eyes as he unlocked the street entrance, locked the door behind him, stood for a moment to adjust to the darkness, he hadn’t switched on the electric bulb hanging from the ceiling, then unlocked the door to his ground-floor apartment, a simple home, and his pottery studio.
Two women, then three
Luz Elena inviting Guadalupe to her house, inviting Ernesto’s wife, Coyuco’s mother, Guadalupe, meaning “valley of the wolf,” always punctual, arriving on time, on the dot, a weekend day, Saturday, or Sunday, Luz Elena waiting for her, and Luz Elena, to herself, there she is, not too soon and not too late, Luz Elena unlocking the gate, a warm smile under the circumstances, not ear to ear, but dimples forming in the cheeks, Guadalupe kissing her, then a hug, Luz Elena holding the gate open, letting her walk past the gate, locking it, Luz Elena following right behind her, Guadalupe taking long strides to the entrance of the house, buoyed up uplifted spurred on by the show of Luz Elena’s love, and a feeling in common of worry, nervousness, and unease for Coyuco, they all feared the worst, not wanting to say it, one big unhappy family, Guadalupe, Ernesto, Irma, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ignacio, Mariano, Rosalía, each hour a prayer, Psalm 31:9, “Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief; my soul and my body also,” Guadalupe waiting for Luz Elena to open the front door, then following her into the house, one trailing after the other, and Guadalupe Muñoz, where are the kids? knowing they were there somewhere, at least Cirilo, he was too young to go out alone, and Luz Elena, with respect to where people are, Lupe, what we know is that we don’t know where your son is!—I’ve been smelling smoke coming all the way from the Cocula garbage dump in a city in another state ever since Coyuco disappeared, with respect to Iguala in Guerrero, if you’ll forgive me, ’mana—but Cirilo, he’s in the living room, and the other two are playing in their room, or they’re outside, I can’t keep track of them, they’re always up to something outdoors, it’s good for the health and brings color to their cheeks, keeps them in the pink, they look so nice, a pair of sisters in tip-top shape, and their brother, too, have you looked closely at the color of their skin? Guadalupe shaking her head no, and Guadalupe Muñoz, not lately, m’hija, the two women standing in the kitchen in front of the refrigerator, and Luz Elena, park yourself there on a comfortable chair, indicating one of the kitchen chairs at the kitchen table, and Luz Elena, a suggested scheme or plan of action, with respect for tired legs and an emotional state of mind, we’ve got to start somewhere so why not sitting on a chair, Luz Elena asking Guadalupe to join her for a fresh agua de Jamaica, a little hibiscus flower drink, with a little ginger or cinnamon, her recipe, not too sweet, pouring a couple of glasses of agua de Jamaica, offering Guadalupe a tall glass filled to the lip, not frothing to the brim, it was homemade hibiscus flower juice in a glass nothing like the empty jam jars she used as glasses for
Avelina, Perla, Cirilo to drink from, washing out what was left after they’d finished the guava jam, and Luz Elena, with respect to age and who’s got more or less than one or the other, the jam jars are more for Cirilo, the other two are too old for anything but a grown-up’s drinking glass, Cirilo still runs his little fingers over the diamond-shaped ribbed glass on the outside of the jar, saying mine mine mine, and how many times he’s said it I don’t know, like the scene in Los Olvidados, Marta, Pedro’s mother, played by Estela Inda, bringing her son a large piece of raw meat, there’s lightning, thunder, Marta advancing towards him, holding out the piece of meat to her son, played by Alfonso Mejía, and Pedro, reaching out to take it, the wind blowing harder and harder, but a hand emerging from under the bed, Jaibo’s hand, it’s Roberto Cobo as Jaibo, and Jaibo grabbing hold of the meat, taking it away from Pedro, and Pedro shouting, give me the meat, it’s mine! that’s what I think of when I talk about Cirilo and his jam jars, and Guadalupe Muñoz, possession is nine points of the law, a logical rule of force, thank you m’hija, taking the glass from Luz Elena’s hand, and Luz Elena, agua de Jamaica, it’ll lower your blood pressure, which I’ll wager the hundred pesos I’ve got in my pocket is skyrocketing with all the worry and sadness you’re suffering, with respect to the awful truth, an inhuman turn of events, that’s what I told my brother, municipal police, the ministerial police and federal police, even the army, madmen are a curse—men can be a pain in the neck—and that’s what they are if they’ve done what I figure they did to forty-three student teachers, and Coyuco, the smoke I’ve been smelling with my nose in the air, a suspension of particles of only God knows what coming all the way from Cocula, maybe we are all travelers passing between different times, we’re here, then we aren’t, and it goes so fast you don’t see it happening, unless you keep your eyes peeled, count the days, months and years, but what they’ve done to Coyuco, we don’t know but we can guess, no excuse, a crime, it’s perverted, twisted, and a fucked-up situation for everyone in formerly foremost Mexico, which makes me think of El Güero, ’mana, as dark and untrustworthy as a black mamba in eastern Africa, a venomous serpent, a dishonest weakling, a fucked-up guy, I can’t forgive him for not wanting to support his own kids, Y mientras se confunde / la tierra con el cielo, / unos sueñan con Dios / y otros con el dinero, / pero eso mi amor, / es lo que se ve en la calle, “At some point on the horizon / sky can be confused with earth / some people dream of God / while others dream of wealth / but of course my love this is what you see out on the street,” that’s Carlos Varela, and Jackson Browne—so frontwards or backwards, however you swing, El Güero’s a contemptible coward, but don’t tell me, I know, there’s no comparison, reducing your suffering to an observation so lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring, perdóname, no era mi intención hacerte daño, forgive me, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you, for you and Ernesto, it’s another story, as sad as stories can be, but I can’t get him out of my head, El Güero, my needle’s stuck, not even a shaman can set me free, and talking about a person regarded as having access to the world of good and evil spirits, and influence, too, there’s Rocket’s pottery, shamanic spiritual journeys on earthenware vessels painted with various colors, geometric motifs, human, animal, or plant designs, and looking a lot like the pottery of the Medio period of the Casas Grandes culture—but in his own way, and with his skilled pair of hands—a culture from right here in northern Mexico, including southern New Mexico and Arizona, and west Texas, the various Medio polychrome types, you can beak them down into two basic painting styles, Babicora and Ramos, but the finest polychromes from Casas Grandes are Ramos Polychromes, I know about it just like Ernesto knows about it, because Rocket’s my brother, and a brother confides in his sister, ’mana, but as far as El Güero’s concerned, I’ve tried everything, you know as well as I do I’m stuck like a cockle burr to a sheep’s coat, El Güero’s long gone, and I’ll never see him again, okay, I’m a little misty-eyed, close to tears, or just plain angry, and it could be the song I’m hearing right now, a duet by Carmen and Laura Hernández, born in Kingsville, Texas, listen, it’s just two minutes, forty-three seconds, “Qué cobarde,” “What A Coward,” accompanied by Paulino Bernal and Conjunto Bernal, a ranchera, and a woman’s disillusioned love:
Qué cobarde,
me enseñaste a querer,
y luego, y luego me dejaste.
Pero, qué cobarde,
cuando más enamorada
me encontraba sin piedad me abandonaste.
Qué cobarde,
marchitaste la ilusión
de todos mis quereres.
Ya que no hay amor, verdad,
yo maldigo con razón
el ingrato corazón
de los infieles.
What a coward,
you taught me how to love,
and then, and then you left me.
What a coward!
When I was most in love,
you abandoned me without pity.
What a coward,
you withered the illusion
of all my love.
Now there is no love, no truth,
so I damn, with good reason,
the ungrateful heart
of the unfaithful.
Guadalupe hearing the song, somebody playing a record, the radio, or nothing at all, a timely tune coming out of the blue, Carmen and Laura’s voices breaking anyone’s heart, and in this song, a ranchera by Nico Jiménez, hope ground to dust, but an easy danceable beat, and Guadalupe Muñoz, you’re right, m’hija—you know that I call you my daughter because I’ve got enough affection in me to give plenty to you, and I’m older than you—you’re stuck there like a curious seal, in the words of Michael Drayton, 1563–1631, but enough with the similes, they’re splintering my spirit, what I’m thinking about is why I haven’t heard from Ernesto, not in twenty-four hours, good news bad news, there’s a difference that can kill, he was swept along by the wind, lost in low dense layers of clouds blocking out the stars, I’ll never know what’s going on if I don’t have his words to listen to, a reassuring voice, and a few facts, and Luz Elena, or worse, with respect to danger, and the police—municipal, ministerial, or federal—it doesn’t matter which one, or all three, if he’s sticking his nose into what they’ve done with forty-three normalistas, and Coyuco—knuckles rapping at the window interrupted her, a hand reaching through the bars, it must’ve been a slender hand, a child, but it was Irma, named after Irma Serrano, La Tigresa, Luz Elena pulling aside the curtain, face to face with a smiling face, a little pain painted into it, too, Irma running her hands through her hair with a gesture of studied indifference perfected in the intimacy of her bathroom mirror, she wasn’t old enough to get rid of the habit, younger than Coyuco, Luz Elena waving at her to head for the front door, turning to Guadalupe, and Luz Elena, I must’ve left the gate open, it’s Irma, and Guadalupe Muñoz, you invited her, m’hija? or is it a kind of spontaneous apparition? Luz Elena giggling from the joke, covering her mouth with her hand, she had most of her teeth, and a dental bridge, nothing to be ashamed of, but that’s how she was, and Luz Elena, I invited her, Lupe, and I’ll just let her in, relax and finish your drink, Irma standing impatiently at the kitchen window looking in, Luz Elena turning to see her still standing there, and Luz Elena, no voice, mouthing the words, well, go around to the front, ’mana, what’re you waiting for?
Guadalupe, Irma, and Luz Elena sitting at the kitchen table, each with a glass of fresh agua de Jamaica within reach, and Irma Payno, I’ve got to have a smoke, Luz Elena getting up, bringing an ashtray to the table, Irma lighting a cigar, an Aromas de San Andrés or a Capa Flor by Puros Santa Clara, or a Te-Amo Clásico, from the Turrent family, in the San Andrés Valley in the southeast of the state of Veracruz, Irma, a volunteer for a few words, pinched by instruction, and Irma Payno, the volcanoes give the soil in the valley of San Andrés Tuxtla plenty of potassium, and the maduro tobacco’s sweet and spicy, Irma and a fleeting look of contentment on her f
ace as she leaned back in her chair, exhaling a pearl-gray cloud rising toward the kitchen ceiling, and Guadalupe Muñoz, you’re sweet and spicy yourself, niña mía, and I get a kick out of the smell of your cigar, it makes me want to have a smoke myself, and a few tears, too, because I’m sure Coyuco loves the smell of it, our Coyuco, my Coyuco, Guadalupe waving her hand like a fan to gather a noseful of tobacco smoke, and Irma Payno, even if he’s good and dead? her own tears falling on the wrapper of her cigar, and Guadalupe Muñoz, no, don’t believe it, you’ll see, as soon as Ernesto’s brought him home and you feel the warmth of him right next to you, the wind that blows a little before dawn on the day before you’ll see him will carry away your worst fears, and Irma Payno, speaking of wind, my mouth gets dry just listening to you, it’s the place that loses its moisture when my heart’s dried up for good, she took another pull on the cigar, a cloud of smoke hiding her eyes, red from the tears she’d cried for days, and Irma Payno, and take a look at my skin, like fish scales, my whole body’s parched withered longing for a drink, and not just hibiscus juice, Irma resting the cigar in the ashtray, rubbing her hands together, and Luz Elena, with respect for the thirty-one states of our Mexico, La Patria es primero—I’ve heard Ernesto say it—a healing treat from the southeast and west of the Yucatán Peninsula, there’s nothing like a little aloe from the Estado Libre y Soberano of Campeche to help your hands, and a little almond oil, it’s a long time I haven’t seen such a sad look as the look I see on your face right now, dry skin or no dry skin, and Guadalupe Muñoz, I saw that same look when I washed my face this morning, raised my head from the sink, and looked at myself in the mirror, Irma wiping the tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief Luz Elena gave her, lightly brushing away the teardrops on the cigar wrapper with an index finger, Irma raising the cigar, a 5x40 Capa Flor, raising it to her lips, a dry smoker except for her tears, she sat staring at the ceiling, taking a drag now and then—spicy Nicaraguan tobacco blended with sweet San Andrés leaves bound in San Andrés Marrón leaf rolled in a cinnamon-brown Colorado wrapper grown in Ecuador—her shoulders shaking with quiet convulsive sobs, Luz Elena reaching out to take her hand, a comforting contact, skin on skin, Guadalupe did the same thing, reaching for Irma’s free hand, while the Capa Flor, clenched between her teeth, stood straight out of her mouth like a thermometer.
