Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  There wasn’t anyone answering the door after he’d knocked on it, no doorbell or buzzer to call to the unreachable depths of a house that was a lot bigger than it looked from the side of the road, Rubén Arenal rubbing his hands together, even if he wasn’t cold, in anticipation of seeing Little Pascuala again more than the hope for a sale, and the river’s gurgling sounds, rushing water, bubbling as it struck rocks that got in its way, a river heading rapidly down from the mountain top, turning this way and that, the sounds calling him away from the wooden porch, descending the stairs, dragging his feet in order to feel them on the surface of the earth, not because he was tired or anxious, a simple need to feel he was part of what the house was standing on, what everyone on earth was standing on, this surface or that, enemy or friend, it didn’t matter, where else were human beings supposed to go, Rubén Arenal walking around the house, following the voice of the river he couldn’t see, no lights showing at the back of the house either, but he knew without knowing it that it was where he was supposed to meet Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, grateful he’d thought to cover his carefully wrapped pottery with a tarp against a high desert climate that included snow, where the snow came from he didn’t know, it gave the surrounding landscape a comforting quality he felt in his own blood, a kind of drugged pleasure, not woozy or numbed but fully conscious of movements and thoughts, gliding along the thin layer of slowly increasing snowfall, and Rocket, a motivating song, just a verse, He llegado aquí, / soy Yoyontzin. / Sólo flores deseo, / ha venido a estar deshojando flores / sobre la tierra. / Allá corto / la flor preciosa, / corto la flor de la amistad: / junto contigo, con tu persona; / ¡oh príncipe! / Yo Nezahualcoyotl, el señor Yoyontzin, “I’m coming, I, Yoyontzin, craving flowers, hatching flowers here on earth, hatching cacao flowers, hatching comrade flowers. / And they’re your flesh, / O prince, / O Lord Nezahualcoyotl, O Yoyontzin,” and Rocket, in a lower voice, the flowers are warriors, that’s the symbol, and in the rest of the song, a dance, a poem—I’ve got more pages in my head, it’s full full full—Nezahualcoyotl arrives from the other world bringing his flowers-warriors to the dance floor-battlefield, according to John Bierhorst, in the first stanza of song II in Romances de los Señores de la Nueva España, and the words of the Aztec cancionero giving him courage, the night was dark, the snow was falling, it wasn’t cold, and there was no one in sight, and Rocket, the same Nezahualcoyotl on the hundred-peso note, King of Texcoco, poet, scholar, architect, he’s called tlamatini, “he who knows something,” “he who meditates and tells about the enigmas of man on earth, the beyond, and the gods,” a voice to listen to, a voice to follow, so I, the maker of pottery, student of Mata Ortiz, an ejido not far from the ruins of Casas Grandes, a song of my own is what’s missing, I’ll have to write one sing one play one one day, but I’m here now to see La Pascualita, she’ll be a sumptuous stimulant to my song, and then there’s the business of selling my pottery, a gift from Xochiquetzal, patroness of craftsmen, protector of painters and artisans, with golden earplugs and a golden ornament in her nose hanging over her mouth, her head crowned with a garland of red leather woven like a braid, round green feather ornaments looking like horns emerging from its side, a divinity wearing a blue tunic decorated with woven flowers made of feathers with plaques of gold all over them, in the words of Fray Diego Durán, and creating the objects I make with my a wedging table fettling knives fluting tools wires paddles ribs and scrappers, a potter’s wheel, an electric kiln, or using the coil method, scraping pots with a hacksaw blade to shape them, an inverted flowerpot sagger covered in cottonwood bark, my debt to Mata Ortiz, a gift from Xochiquetzal, it adds up to an honor and my duty, and I’ll follow this path that’s a river, real or imagined, drawn on earth where it’s snowing, until I achieve both targets, Little Pascuala and a memorable transaction on a red-letter day, “for each of the directions of the universe, there’s a particular tree; and in the center, another,” Ángel María Garibay Kintana, priest, linguist, historian and scholar of the culture of the Nahua peoples of the central Mexican highlands, I don’t always know what it means but it means a lot to me just hearing myself say it, not just the words, it’s the range scope depth, since what I’m thinking about now makes me blue, and worse, a jab from a needle of heartbroken melancholy, the disappearance of the student teachers, it’s ruined everything because I can’t go on smiling or talking bullshit when I know a thing like that’s happened, leaving me nothing to hold on to, Entonces el rey respondió y dijo: Dad a aquella el hijo vivo, y no lo matéis; ella es su madre, “Then the king answered and said, ‘Give the living child to the first woman, and by no means put him to death; she is his mother,’” 1 Reyes 3:27, that’s the way it was in the Bible, and that’s the way it should be, justice, the one up above will call for an accounting of all that we’ve done in our lives when he comes down, or we go up, but now it’s time for La Pascualita and her mother, and selling them more than a fewof what I spend all my time and energy making—how generous they are!—and the unswerving arrow Rubén Arenal, standing at last on the bank next to a flowing river coursing where there was nothing like it on any map, not snow-covered or icy, not resembling an ocean of dry sand with hardscrabble desert plants, a river in the state of Chihuahua, an area of more than ninety-five thousand square miles, where there wasn’t a river, and Rocket, now you see it now you don’t, Rubén Arenal sniffing the air like Ernesto always did, breathing in its freezing freshness, hearing it seeing it, and if he reached down to dip his hand in it, cold cold cold, he knew he’d remember this river forever.

  Rubén Arenal spotting a pair of shadows out there in the snowy landscape, Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, each standing beneath a wide umbrella deflecting snowflakes from their faces but gathering the water vapor frozen into ice crystals and falling in light white flakes on the surface of the circular canopies of black skin stretched above their heads, watching the river’s current as it flowed from its faraway source in the mountains, two women, slender and elegant shapes in the whitening terrain beside a halffrozen river bubbling as it rolled hurriedly past them, like spun silk, uninhibited, powerful, and taking small bites out of the river’s icy edge, Rubén Arenal lifting one foot after the other from the earth moist from freshly fallen snow, still it wasn’t cold, the flakes fell in bunches like flowers thrown out of the sky, a pair of celestial hands up there he couldn’t see, but forming a visor out of the palms of his hands, peering at the grayish-black above him, locating nothing that could give him an indication of what kind of sky it was, who was up there, which season it was, not even the time of day, as if where he’d arrived wasn’t listed in any time zone except the time zone belonging to Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, only they’d know how to read a clock and set it right in the house where they lived, and as for a compass, finding North South East West, Rubén Arenal didn’t bother thinking about it, things appeared the way they were, it wasn’t worth coming to any conclusion but the one he’d reached in Chihuahua, and Rocket, to himself, I’m here to see La Pascualita, and to sell as many pieces of pottery as I can to mother and daughter, Rubén Arenal cupping his hands on either side of his mouth to help his words carry in a shout to where Pascuala Esparza and her daughter stood gazing at the river, calling out to them, and Rocket, here I am! trying to make his voice heard over the hastening river which, from where they were standing, must’ve been more like a sustained rumble than a full-on roar of a speeding current, the river wasn’t very wide, but enough sound to keep their attention along with the silvery reflection of moonlight on the water’s surface, the two women turning their heads, protected from the elements by two umbrellas, La Pascualita raising a slight hand, not waving, it looked like she was beckoning with four of her fingers, Pascuala Esparza turning away from his direction, leaving it to her daughter, a gift not resignation, Rubén Arenal continuing toward them as the snowfall rose undeniably on the ground, the soles of his boots slipping, losing his balance, one leg extended far in front of him, but standing upright, an a
crobat, pulling a muscle in his thigh, the groin, using one of his hands on the near leg to bring himself into a normal standing position, and Rocket, shouting, it’s okay, an artful chance thanks to the snow, meant to show you that I’ve got more than a single creative skill, “Bend and stretch, reach for the stars / There goes Jupiter, here comes Mars,” a little something from el Norte, a television show, 1953, originally from Baltimore, franchised and syndicated, not the city but Romper Room, Rubén Arenal getting close enough to see the smile on La Pascualita’s face, no veil no wide-brimmed hat, but her mother, Pascuala Esparza, standing with her back to him, not unfriendly but preoccupied beneath an umbrella’s shadow, his boots crunching in the frozen snow, with or without a cold wind, it was winter, night was near, Rubén Arenal face to face with La Pascualita, feeling the edge of Pascuala Esparza’s umbrella tickling his neck, and Rocket, I hope when I turn she doesn’t poke out my eye, but it’s nice to have her close by when I’m standing in front of her daughter, nearest and dearest, a family, Rubén Arenal, searching for words to say to Little Pascuala, ruminated over nothing like the nature of existence but more on the order of how he’d get himself into bed with La Pascualita and what her mother would say about it if she had the right to say anything at all, because Little Pascuala wasn’t a child, he wasn’t a child, and the world wasn’t ever going to be like it used to be, he wanted the sale, financing for Ernesto and Guadalupe in their search for Coyuco, as much as he wanted to spend his life with La Pascualita, Rubén Arenal rushing ahead of himself, but a dose of timidity, and an attractive clumsiness, awkward in his movements when he was nervous, Pascuala Esparza at last turning around from her contemplation of the coursing river with its ragged icy edges, the twirl of the umbrella sending a shiver down his spine as it brushed against the back of his neck, now the three of them were in a little circle, and Pascuala Esparza, looking at her daughter, we’ve seen what we have to see, haven’t we, niña, my child? and it isn’t cold, the snowflakes are like tissues, soft and smooth, but our señor Arenal, our maestro, not a novice, he’s got exalted examples of his work to sell us, and it’s time time time for the sublime, pottery of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe, La Pascualita taking Rubén Arenal by the elbow, drawing him under the canopy of her umbrella, encouraging him forward on the slippery snow while tucking her hand into the crook of the left arm he’d bent just for her, Pascuala Esparza following closely behind, conscious of the danger of the tips of her umbrella’s folding metal frame, no stabbing no gouging, revered Rubén Arenal entered the back of the house through a door almost blocked by a heap of snow blown by a sudden gust of wind that preceded them.

  The swerve that gets you out of the hole, a dog sniffing your shoes, Pascuala Esparza putting her damp folded umbrella in the umbrella stand alongside La Pascualita’s umbrella shaken free of moisture before stepping over the heap of snow, not through it, and over the threshold into the house, and Pascuala Esparza, like I was saying, it’s the swerve that gets you out of the hole or around the dog sniffing your shoes, we just missed stepping straight in running straight into that pile of snow gathered all of a sudden at our door, ruining our shoes, my shoes and yours, our delicate shoes that might’ve cost us six months earnings if we had a job, but we don’t, money isn’t anything for us, in this time and out of it, isn’t that so, niña, my child? and Little Pascuala, and don’t forget our estimable guest—the two women looking down at Rubén Arenal’s boots, damp where the soles met the uppers, a little water-stained but in good shape, wiping them dry on the indoor floor mat, a product by WeatherTech, or a simple rug—and Pascuala Esparza, a daughter whose lips move, a daughter whose voice’s heard above the din, I’ll hand over transfer relay my right of speech to my daughter, there wasn’t a loud, unpleasant, and prolonged noise when they entered, the house was quiet, peaceful, a little humid, but there was the weather to account for that, and Rocket, to himself, a bit too chilly if you ask me, but the chill’s only here or there, in one corner or another, in front of a door that’s shut, not everywhere, hotspots that’re cold, grinning at his little joke, Little Pascuala and her mother, off with their identical long dark red cotton coats, hung up to dry but not near a fire, there wasn’t a chimney where the three of them were standing, maybe in the next room, but Rubén Arenal didn’t see one, peering down a passageway through an open door into a room for general and informal everyday use, and Little Pascuala, your smile is welcome, refreshing agreeable promising, my praiseworthy person, Rubén Arenal noticing right away she’d substituted the word our with the word my, and Rocket, you can call me Rocket, my closest friends do, when they don’t call me Rubén, señor Arenal’s more formal, but Rubén’s a name I like, always liked, a gift from my father and mother, “behold, a son,” the name given the oldest son of Jacob and Leah, that’s the Old Testament, but here, under this roof and in these circumstances, call me Rocket, because all roads are long and improbable, and I suspect even our dreams won’t be revealing, that’s how it is, here and now, ahora y aquí, and Pascuala Esparza, wisdom can hardly be termed a virtue, for it’s made up of intellectual qualities one man has and another not, Rubén Arenal looking at them as though for the first time, Little Pascuala and her mother, each elegantly dressed in traditional clothes, La Pascualita wearing a chincuete, from the Nahuatl, tzincueitl, a pleated knee-length skirt of satin and lace worn by Mazahua women in the state of Mexico, the Mazahua, tetjo ñaa jñatjo, “those who speak their own language,” “the owners of deer,” and beneath the chincuete, an underskirt with an embroidered edge showing, a quechquemitl, meaning “tip of the neck” in Nahuatl, a kind of shawl, and a woven sash worn around her waist, the center of energy, an energy relating to Mother Earth, a sash decorated with plenty of birds, Rubén Arenal not seeing the solitary bird with a thorn in its leg, a sign of spiritual pain, not seeing anything but her beauty, his eyes examining Pascuala Esparza’s long skirt with ribbons, a long blouse embroidered at the bottom and around the neck, a belt strapped on the back, a dark blue rebozo with narrow pale stripes and orange knotted fringes, rapacejos, and a reddish apron, traditional dress not from the state of Mexico, but Michoacán, Rubén Arenal and a coincidence, both women wore clothes from places where the Mazahua people live, San Felipe del Progresso and San José del Rincón in the state of Mexico, near Toluca, and in parts of Michoacán, even Querétaro, and Guadalajara in Jalisco, according to migration, economics, and the passage of time, Rubén Arenal, a quick investigation of their faces, a peek, the once-over without staring, their features weren’t easy for him to identify, faces describing the history of much-loved Mexico, and Rocket, I’m straight out of a casta painting, too, an illustration of a stratified social system trying to impose an objectionable odious order based on ethnic inequality in the Spanish possessions, los españoles, the Spanish colonial state and the Church, etiquetas, the flaws of time, stains of loss, inaccurate or restrictive, morisco con española, chino con india, mestizo con españolo, castizo con española, español con mulata, español con negra, indio con mestiza, in all our faces—what does it matter now? it might to some, but not others, not me not now—but Little Pascuala and her mother, milk-white skin almost colorless, deathly pale, and una enfermedad del fantasma, una enfermedad de fantasmas, a ghost disease, a disease of ghosts, but they look healthy enough, La Pascualita, a beauty without a veil, they’re part of me, I’m part of them, a tie, a link, Rubén Arenal averting his gaze, he’d seen all he had to see, and what he saw he appreciated very much, the beginning of friendship, too, Rubén Arenal following the two women down the passageway into the living room, standing at one of the windows, looking out at the snow falling on the earth, and a vague outline that was the river’s edge, winding bending, and Rocket, to himself, “it’s not a question of poverty, a man’s word is enough, we are all poor, when a man gives his word to another at a great distance … the one who gave his word must keep it,” Mohammed Mrabet wrote it in a letter, and I believe in these words, that’s what I
’m doing, keeping my word knowing they’ll keep theirs, turning to Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, and Rocket, I’ve got everything in the minitruck, pottery protected like precious stones under the corrugated roof, and Pascuala Esparza, you’d better go out the front door, it’s closer to your vehicle in these times of inclement weather, our luminous luminary, and a real-life royal Rubén Arenal, what I mean is that we respect you so much, like a persistent rain, the slow surprise of respect swollen with pride, your work, and who you are, what I mean is it goes without saying, but I’ve said it, out it comes from between my lips, a fountain, we know everything about you, don’t we, niña, my child? Rubén Arenal blushing, her heartfelt words touching him, there wasn’t any derision in her voice, no charade, it’s how they treated him, and Rocket, without moving his lips, I’m better placed here than anywhere in the world, at least for today, and like the Arabic proverb, “The world is like a cucumber—today it’s in your hand, tomorrow up your arse,” and La Pascualita, a song to accompany you on your journey to and from the minitruck, “Viviré Para Ti,” “I’ll Live For You,” by Agustín Lara, sung by Antonio Badú, born in Real del Monte, Hidalgo:

  Viviré para ti,

  nada más para ti,

  para ti viviré

  mientras pueda vivir.

  Viviré para ti solamente

  nada más para ti, ¡para ti!

  ¡Y seré para ti únicamente

  aunque tú nunca seas para mí!

  Yo quisiera esconder mis angustias,

  en tu boca color carmesí,

  y secando tus lágrimas mustias,

  viviré nada más para ti.

  I will live for you,

  nothing more for you,

  for you I will live