Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  If you turn around now, a cautious turn, a cautious look, you’ll see them changing her clothes, mi amigo, but you’ve got to have X-ray eyes like Ray Milland in the International Picture by Roger Corman, because twice a week La Pascualita’s outfits are changed behind curtains put up in the shop window, always using the more classic bridal styles that the store’s owner, Mario González, and his staff consider more appropriate and dignified, so the curtains are up in the shop window to preserve the dummy’s modesty, women are like that despite what men want to see and what they might show them, the ones they’re interested in, of course, and that isn’t just anybody, mi amigo, that’s right, only if they’re interested, and that’s called seduction, a big word for a lasting effect, I’m talking about erections, mi amigo, yours and mine, well, yours because of my age, now where was I? telling a tale, a fable myth parable or allegory, take your pick, and Little Pascuala’s still spawning supernatural spectral tales, maybe it was last year, I can’t tell you exactly, my memory’s not what it used to be, but let’s say within the last couple of years, or more recently, it’s the story that counts, a woman was having a violent argument with her boyfriend right here in front of La Popular, macho macho macho, that’s what we are and that’s how we’re going to be, mi opinión, my generation, too, because whether or not you can see it I’m more than seventy years old, mi amigo, maybe you’re different but it’s in my blood, stale as it is, not a tasty drop for a vampire to drink, which makes me think of Julio Cortázar, then straight to Curzio Malaparte—something I’ve read is something I remember—“everyone knows how egoistic the dead are, there’s no one but them in the world,” and you might as well put La Pascualita in the same boat, rowing, here we are and we’re still talking about her, that’s something special, so when the woman who’s having a fight with her boyfriend turned her back on him, what else was she supposed to do, insults, and who knows what, the boyfriend, a slow burn, you follow me, don’t you? a scene out of the movies, the woman walking away, taking her time, and music playing, but it wasn’t Les Baxter, he didn’t write the music like he did for Roger Corman in X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes, that’s asking too much, if we could only hear a soundtrack without those goddamn things stuck in our ears, no wires dangling tickling getting in the way, just a living soundtrack playing when we want it to, not for everyone to hear, a personalized private accompaniment to life, and a loving multitude twirling to the beat of a music that nobody else hears and others don’t even know is playing, citizens inhabitants aficionados swaying back and forth in enormous waves that can only be seen from a distance, appreciated from far away, a bird’s-eye view with a wink and a smile, if you follow me, but I’m dreaming out loud, let’s get back to the woman, a topical topic, since it happened right here, not more than a few feet from where we’re standing, in front of La Popular, a popular port of call, mi amigo—you’re my friend even if I don’t know you—but the woman didn’t get far, barely stretching her legs, you’ll see what I mean in a minute, plain as day, the boyfriend, more than irritated, you could say he was hot under the collar even if he wasn’t wearing a shirt, okay, a T-shirt, but seeing red, pissed off, and reaching into the waistband of his trousers, pulling a pistol from beneath his jacket—dressed to the nines, and wanting to create a striking impression—the boyfriend, no hesitation, shot his girlfriend in the back, nobody remembering if it was a revolver or an automatic, it all happened so fast, that’s what the eye witnesses had to say, and there were plenty of them, La Popular’s a popular place that people make a special trip to visit, and maybe the street was busy, maybe not, but a few pedestrians, enough to make a difference, and when she fell, striking her head on the pavement, or the sidewalk itself if she hadn’t reached the crosswalk, a second pool of blood forming quickly, spilling out without mercy, one for the wound in her back, one for the blow to her head, it didn’t look good and every passerby near enough or who’d heard the shot fired from across the street, people gathered around her as she twisted her body around in order to look up at Little Pascuala in the window of La Popular, they hadn’t drawn the curtains, she was dressed in her finest as she was dressed in her finest every day, the wounded woman throwing a pleading look at La Pascualita, a lifelike figure behind glass, and out of the woman’s mouth, a weak but distinct cry of hope and no shadow of a doubt, you can call it faith, mi amigo, and the woman shouted with all her strength, save me, Pascualita, save me! and she survived—the final phrase or sentence of my tale fable myth parable or allegory, take your pick, providing no humor but a crucial element—the enchanted enchantress, Little Pascuala, I’m not the only one to think of it as something otherworldly spiritual mystic, straightaway the locals remembering what they’d seen and heard a long time ago, they were my age, probably older, I can’t always be sure of the date of my birth, I might be older than I think I am, you know how it is, mi amigo, “the passing years are like a mist sweeping up from the sea of time so that my memories acquire new aspects,” from A Writer’s Notebook by W. Somerset Maugham, the passersby at the time of the shooting, a collective memory of the moment La Pascualita made her first appearance in the shop window, March 25th, 1930, dressed in a spring-season gown, who could forget it, nobody who’d been there or stopped by for a visit, giving the window display the once-over before going to the cantina for a beer or to the casino, the passersby now eyewitnesses to a sort of miracle nodding their heads at the communal recollection of Pascuala Esparza’s daughter, she didn’t have a name, or if she did we didn’t seem to remember it, what’s the difference, La Pascualita’s good enough, and she looks a lot like her mother, that’s what everyone said, and Pascuala Esparza, getting abusive phone calls from angry citizens accusing her of embalming her daughter, the phone ringing off the hook, that’s the saying, isn’t it, Pascuala Esparza, a formal denial through a public notary—I heard it myself, or I read it in El Correo de Parral, or Voz del Norte, I don’t remember, I’ve got a habitually forgetful disposition, it’s a lapse of memory, abstraction, I can’t explain it, but in the words of George Payne Rainsford James, “memory’s like moonlight, the reflection of brighter rays from an object no longer seen”—Pascuala Esparza issued a statement denying rumors the mannequin was the preserved body of her daughter, that’s the way it went, but it was too late, nobody believed her, you can’t blame them, take a good look at her hands! but for Pascuala Esparza, the questions were answered and there was nothing more to say or do, in the words of a Nahua poet, “the fleeting pomps of the world are like the green willow trees, which, aspiring to permanence, are consumed by a fire, fall before the axe, are upturned by the wind, or are scarred and saddened by age,” but our curiosity, mi amigo, yours and mine, makes speculation a responsibility, a shop worker, her name’s Burciaga, told me that every time she goes near Pascualita her hands break out in a sweat, because La Pascualita’s hands are very realistic, and she’s got varicose veins on her legs, so she believes Pascualita’s a real person—maybe Burciaga’s affected by the same condition, swelling and tortuous lengthening of veins—I guess that’s why we’re here, you and I, maybe a couple of others, but not as often as we are, it’s a weekly requirement for keeping our heads above water, a glance or a stare at La Pasqualita, that’s what it takes, if you don’t mind that I speak for you, mi amigo, essential to our well-being, comfort, and I’ve got to say it, our health, am I right? but what really matters for a man aggressively proud of his masculinity, erection or no erection, and I’m only speaking for myself, you’re a lot younger than I am, mi amigo, is that she looks good for all the years that she’s been here, and then a long silence, Rubén Arenal saying nothing, the old man savoring the impact of his tale, looking at him with a hint of pride as the bearer of this news, a kind of dispatch without the paper, a correspondent’s report sent in from a faraway place that was the old man’s memory, as if what he had to say was something new for Rubén Arenal’s ears, most of the locals had heard it a hundred times, the stories were for out-of-towners, but the old man had
an audience, speaking at last to a fellow member of the club, an association dedicated to a particular interest, and Rocket, thanks for reminding me, saying the words with a smile, bowing gracefully and taking a few steps back, turning on his heel and heading for his ground-floor apartment, a simple home, and his pottery studio, where he’d put together everything he thought Pascuala Esparza wanted to buy, as much as he could put in a truck, packed carefully, wrapped carefully, carefully handled, and at last Rubén Arenal nearing the street entrance that led to the foyer and his front door, remembering Pascuala Esparza’s words, “with all the beauty you can carry on your back, or on a small donkey used as a pack animal, maybe a car, truck, or cart, it doesn’t matter,” Ernesto somewhere in Iguala with his Ford pickup, so Rubén Arenal borrowing a two-wheel drive manual transmission Suzuki Carry Truck with right-hand steering from a neighbor who’d brought it down from Texas and hauled fruit and vegetables with it and it didn’t have anything bigger than a 660cc engine to carry the load or do the work for him, not a Hyundai H100, it would’ve been a lot easier to find than the Suzuki, but for Rubén Arenal the Japanese minitruck was exactly what he wanted for the job.

  The bed of the truck was almost overloaded with his pottery, bundled up and protected by rags and crumpled newspapers, a couple of hand-woven Saltillo rugs from the state of Coahuila, or from Teotitlán del Valle, tied with string, and wedged between larger pieces of pottery, Rubén Arenal wanting to present his work in the best light and on fine hand-woven materials in a pattern of colors and a traditional style, justifying their decision to buy so many of his works, everything covered by a waterproof tarp, Rubén Arenal behind the wheel, and on the seat next to him, on the left because it was right-handed steering from Japan, a bottle of homemade pulque, full to the brim and brimming full but with a top sealed by wax, a traveling companion from Luz Elena, who was not only a virtuoso of voluptuous hibiscus flower juice, the sun had fallen past the horizon, there was a faint dying glow of reddish-orange light that slipped away the minute he pulled the minitruck out of town, heading for where they told him to go, not following directions, but an instinct for the route he’d have to take, an instinct introduced by the prior presence of Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, Little Pascuala, and Rocket, not so little, a young woman as beautiful as an oropéndola, in the words of John Keats, and me, too, that’s a golden oriole, listen to it sing, I’m listening now, but if I wait long enough, what do I hear? maybe Our Lady, Our Great Mother, Cihuacoatl, the Serpent Woman, mythical mother of the human race, bringing nothing but misery toil death, the lower part of her face a crude bare jawbone, her mouth stretched wide, hungry for victims, Cihuacoatl, that’s the woman, with long and stringy hair, two knives forming a kind of diadem on her forehead, clothed and painted in chalky white, hearing her voice now, and asking myself, why why why, why now? when La Pascualita’s waiting for me, and I’m waiting for her, and a special kind of love, no cunning maneuvers, no cat and mouse, fine and refined, a love that’s protected in its shell and hasn’t been broken yet, nothing spilled, no yoke or white, a pure oval object, a jewel of incalculable worth laid by a Sierra Madre swift, a bird living in the barrancas, or steep-sided valleys, mountain slopes, waterfalls, and then there’s the money I’ll earn that’s a reward for the pottery I make, an amalgam of the traditional and the modern, my debt to Mata Ortiz, an ejido, not far from the ruins of Casas Grandes, and the city Nuevo Casas Grandes, near Paquimé, but what I’m thinking while I’m driving is what happened to Coyuco and the others, nobody knows where they are or whether they’re alive or dead, and it’s a real-life factual nonfictional delivery direct from the hands of Cihuacoatl, the most feared and effective of all the goddesses, yes, the legendary rain’s started coming down for real, a downpour soaking us through to our souls, going that deep because of the municipal police from Iguala and three units from Cocula, the ministerial police and federal police, the army, the 27th Battalion, working side by side, hand in hand, our night-walking evil spirits, shouting and screaming, not changed into a serpent, or a beautiful young woman, that’d be too shrewd, a sign of mastery talent genius artistry, not likely even in a dream, their methods are more direct, a modern clumsy version of what Cihuacoatl’s capable of, they’ve got power and the right to give orders make decisions enforce obedience, with official permission, and a lot of bullets, Rubén Arenal, sick to his stomach, shuddering with his hands gripping the steering wheel, tight and tighter, chalky white knuckles, feeling as if Cihuacoatl was riding in the passenger seat beside him, popped right out of the bottle of homemade pulque, wearing the face of an ugly municipal policeman from Iguala, and Rocket, shake it off, ’mano, you’ve got a place to go and two people to see, even if you don’t really know where you’re going, the streets taking him more or less south out of Chihuahua, or it was the Suzuki with a mind of its own, on Calle Apicultura past the Díaz building supply store in the Colonia Zootecnia, driving toward the mental hospital off Calle Apicultura, the night falling heavily on the winding and twisting and slithering moonlit road without streetlights, the Suzuki moving on the back of a snake through a landscape of mesquite, silver-leaved guayule shrubs, and ocotillo with its red flowers, and Rocket, I might as well be a resident at Salud Mental, and not know it, Rubén Arenal driving toward Mápula, a location in the middle of nowhere, on a plain between the mountain ranges of Santo Domingo and Yerbabuena, cattle territory in the 1880s, it’s possible the road he was traveling on didn’t exist, as far as he knew there was nothing out there, the old train station, where Don Abraham González, serving Francisco Madero as Secretary of the Interior, arrested by General Antonio Rábago on the orders of Huerta, was murdered with his hands and feet tied to the rails, run over by an engine, La Decena Trágica, and the Hacienda of Mápula, two and a half miles from the station to the west, and nothing where he was right now, the Suzuki’s engine and cargo keeping him at less than forty miles an hour, the bumpy road didn’t make things any easier, he’d borrowed the vehicle after all, and Rocket, caution caution, and respect for a favor, a generous neighbor is a true friend, but Rubén Arenal, distracted by what he could see and what wasn’t there before his night-soaked eyes, the headlights’ beam bouncing on the potholed road ahead of him, rough rutted, nonexistent, nothing like Mápula, and then snowflakes fluttering down on the windshield of the Suzuki like dried leaves in autumn, Rubén Arenal catching a glimpse of a house surrounded by a low stone wall, set back from the road on the rise of a hill, its roof turning white with snow, he’d seen a photo once of a house just like it in the mountains outside Reno, Nevada, in the high desert at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, and his intuition speaking without a voice, this is it, you can slow down, there’s a welcoming driveway ahead of you if you keep your eyes peeled for it, Rubén Arenal turning into the drive, climbing the narrowing access road, hesitating at the private driveway, he stared at a house he’d never seen before, a whole house, not run down or weather beaten, and a corrugated roof covering a place to park a car, a stack of cut wood, more than a cord, at least two, and a tall single street lamp that wasn’t on the street but just behind the low wall with what looked like a faintly glowing bulb in the globe throwing almost no light on the house, but it was a gas lamp with a finial, rain shield, a gas lamp spreading a tiny bit of warmth like only a flame could do on a day like this, warm and bright when he left the city, and daylight, too, but here it was like a place out of time, almost night, snowfall, and with the window open, not cold but fresh mountain air, Rubén Arenal inhaling deeply, smelling the smells and hearing the sound of a generous river he couldn’t see, a prewinter unfrozen strong and fast-moving stream of water catching snowflakes like feathers from a night sky, it was out there somewhere even if he couldn’t see it, Rubén Arenal pulling into the drive and parking under the corrugated roof, turning off the windshield wipers he’d turned on in the sudden snowfall, hearing Pascuala Esparza’s words, “you might hear the struggle of the river, even if there isn’t a river, maybe wondering if you’re hallucina
ting, but you aren’t, trust me, it’s there, 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, and you’ve got to follow it because it’ll lead you to us,” Rubén Arenal switched off the Suzuki’s engine, stood outside the minitruck, looking up at the sky, his face tickled by snowflakes melting on his skin.