Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Little Pascuala leading him away from the table to the living room, his belly full of burritos and his lips still wet from the head of a Noche Buena that’d left a mustache he didn’t wipe from beneath his nose, Pascuala Esparza nowhere in sight, the hand-woven Saltillo rugs, from the state of Coahuila, or Teotitlán del Valle, laid out before them on the living room floor, a presentation in the best light and on fine hand-woven materials, Little Pascuala turning to face him, using the back of her index finger to wipe the foam from his upper lip, licking it from her own fingertip, then making an elegant and discreet long curving movement with her hand to indicate the range of pottery he brought for them, a set of different objects of the same general virtuosic type, and La Pascualita, the value of people and things truly depends on their setting, your pottery’s magically magnificent, delightful in such a way as to seem removed from everyday life, and here we are, you and I, in another world, and not only thanks to the works you’ve brought to our modest home, Rubén Arenal appreciating himself, Little Pascuala raising him from artisan to artist, putting them on a more equal social footing, his head swelling without changing shape, just on the inside, but a greatly gratified and gracious Rubén Arenal standing still, a smile on his face, divine grace, like he’d been praying to a new Virgin in the church who could work miracles, and then La Pascualita, taking him by the hand, a wide welcoming hallway ahead of them, he hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d been looking less and feeling more since they’d arrived in the living room, on the right-hand side halfway down the passage a door, and the door opened without anyone touching it, swinging on silent hinges, Rubén Arenal stumbling, his own left foot catching on the sill or threshold where there was nothing in his path on which to trip, momentarily losing his balance, trying to get in his own way, a subliminal screw-up, but letting Little Pascuala lead him into the room, and Rocket, look after me, Virgencita, look after both of us, and the normalistas, too, past and present, he hadn’t lost touch with the allaround inner feeling or voice acting as guide to the rightness of his behavior, a blanket of principles values morals joining him as he wrapped his arms around Little Pascuala, Rubén Arenal looking at his surroundings, it wasn’t a bedroom, there wasn’t any furniture but a mattress on the floor and several paper lamps in a Japanese style, andon, popular in the Edo period, elaborate ariake-andon, or bedside lamps, or bonbori, with its hexagonal profile, standing on a pole in two corners on one side of the room, like in the Room of Storks in the Nishi Hongan-ji, Western Temple of the Original Vow in Kyoto, northwest of Kyoto Station, his lips numb, not cold, but tingling when they came in contact with La Pascualita’s lips, his head was heavy, his nose and mouth breathing in silvery smoke from censers swinging invisibly nearby, the tattoo of a maguey wide awake on his stomach, and Rocket, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, pray for us, pray for us, Little Pascuala’s arms wrapped around him, her hands clasped behind his neck, drawing his face toward hers, and La Pascualita, whispering, Nuestra Señora del Sagrado Corazón, you’re right to pray, señor Arenal, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart is ageless, just like my mother and I, we’re eternal, we never grow old, in the words of Wordsworth, we’re “continuous as the stars that shine,” a handy little phrase for the sky at night, above us now, but you’re of this earth, the present, today and this night, our virtuoso, enchanter, authority, and genius, Little Pascuala wearing nothing, not a veil, not dressed in an example of the Campeche style or a dress typical of Chiapas, La Pascualita and the skin she wore when she was born, a thin layer of tissue forming the natural outer covering of her body, yesterday and today and forever, Rubén Arenal’s talented hands not getting enough of the feel of her skin, collecting evidence of what was impossible to measure, an hour passed, or it was four, Rubén Arenal lying on top of her now, straightening up and looking down at her neck shoulders hips, his back arched like a curved piece of wood whose ends were joined by a taut string, Little Pascuala stretched out facedown beneath him, arms extended above her head, reaching reaching, her buttocks temptingly twitching, enticing him, and Rocket, I’ve been under the influence of a powerful attraction for who knows how long, La Pascualita rocking her hips, moving them from right to left left to right like she was waging her tail, but nothing like it protruded from the opening at the end of the alimentary canal, Rubén Arenal’s pulsating penis waiting patiently, Little Pascuala slowly sliding backward on her belly, edging toward him, not a jaguar that’s putting the fear of God into him, and contact, a shiver shared between them, contact again, penetration as he settled himself between her buttocks, her opulent opening opening for him, giving way easily, a yawn on a small scale, a consensual quivering, La Pascualita and Rubén Arenal feeling a pair of eyes fixed on them, pinned on the two entwined bodies bound intricately together, not uncommon but always nice to look at, each protecting the other, serpents and their eggs, Rubén Arenal and La Pascualita twisted together under a watchful gaze, eyes they couldn’t see but felt, not burning a hole in them but warming up the place more than the heat was already turned up, a lot of sweat, damp skin and no friction, Rubén Arenal sliding into her deeper and deeper, insinuating himself, on her invitation, disappearing between the half-moons, and Rocket, you can’t resist them, not only thanks to the subtle light from two ariake-andon, or the bonbori, standing on a pole in two corners on one side of the room, throwing shadows on the two round fleshy parts before my eyes that form the lower rear area of Little Pascuala’s body, Rubén Arenal traveling through her intestines, waving at the womb, past her hips to her stomach, a glance at the liver, moving into her chest, a good evening nod along the corridor of her throat, trachea and esophagus, and far out into the heart of places where no one goes, until he thought if she turned around to look at him he’d see his penis piloting out of her mouth.

  The screen-fold Codex Borgia’s one of the most beautiful and elegant pre-Columbian painted manuscripts, with its detailed depiction of highland Mesoamerican gods and the ritual and the practice of seeking knowledge of the future or the unknown by supernatural means associated with them, an ancient manuscript probably painted somewhere in central or southern Puebla, the area around Tepeaca and Cuauhtinchan, or the Tehuacán Valley, in our southeastern Mexico, just decades before the arrival of the Spanish—and you can add the nearby areas of Mixteca Alta in Oaxaca, too, who can say? it’s what the experts think—and in the manuscript, it’s the long supernatural journey that interests me most, we’re travelers who pass between different times, beginning with the five enclosures that serve to make supernatural statements, the story starting on Plate 29—in that book maybe not in others—the first of several enclosures formed by the body of a goddess of death, because that’s where I am, rising out of the dark foamy substance emerging from the large blue vessel on the large black disk, take a closer look, I’m one of the animate creatures characterized as winds, you can tell by the features of Quetzalcoatl, there, right there, on my face, can you see it? and in addition to the many winds, there’re two skeletal figures, one a god of death, the other a depiction of Tlazolteotl as the earth below the blue vessel, in my case three skeletons because I left three dead bodies behind me, and the fact is, there’s nothing as titanic as the shameful disgraceful dishonorable unforgivable behavior of a man who throws away what he believes in, just like that—I’d snap my fingers but you wouldn’t hear it—and now I’ve got to live with it, I’m exactly like the enemy, those motherfuckers, but I’m not wearing the same clothes, not now, I had to change back into my own, get rid of the uniform that was a real job of stitching, needle and thread, and I ditched the hat, holster and Glock, too, but when I killed them, that’s when I was dressed like they were dressed, one killer looks just like another, it wasn’t so long ago, but you don’t need me to remind you—what’s well known is that everything isn’t known to everyone—I was one of them as far as they could tell, the three officers of the municipal police, and right now, as I’m dressed today, same day different clothes, no uniform, I burned it, and dumped the rest, but I’ve got t
o live with it because that’s what happened, three dead men because I lost my temper, a kind of hell, that’s where I’m going if I’m not already there, I can feel it, maybe that’s why I’m sweating, everybody says it’s hot down there, a hell with plenty of room for me, here’s the lamp, there’s the armchair, nicely furnished, no books, my only luxury a photograph by Agustín Casasola, I can’t decide which one, there’re so many great pictures, but probably a prisoner, a young man with his hat in his hand—I’m not flattering myself, not at my age—arrested by a couple of policemen, a man on the beat in uniform, and an officer holding a revolver, surrounded by a bevy of bystanders in the background, a photograph from around 1930, fitting appropriate suitable, isn’t it? my place in hell, not stepping out of my experience, I’ll never get far away from what I’ve done, here’s my wrist, you can take my pulse, you’ll see I’m almost there, a resident of the beyond, the region of the dead, but walking on two legs, upright and miserable, not in good shape and it’s only been a couple of hours, maybe more, since I killed them, but what can I do, it’s done, Ernesto looking at himself in the mirror of the bathroom in Hotel Obregón, not far from Periférico Sur, the bright blue and white façade, an orange spiral staircase to the first floor, a modern design that made his eyes water, not tears of joy, and Ernesto Cisneros, but the tears falling right now, that’s because I killed three men, suerte y mortaja del cielo bajan, life and death come down from Heaven, but I gave death a helping hand, Ernesto, no longer looking at himself in the mirror, head bowed, looking at his boots, Ernesto raising his head, revealing an almost diabolical expression, without blinking, but seeing nothing, or he didn’t see himself when he faced the mirror, only a bright blur the color of horror, which he couldn’t describe even if he wanted to, a radiant color generating hellish heat, not nice to look at, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock, not only to a time before Coyuco disappeared, and the other normalistas, too, but to a minute, an instant before he spread his arms like wings, reached around officer No. 2’s waist, drawing him closer, belly to belly, holding him there in a kind of embrace, but no affection, only hatred, unholstering officer No. 2’s .38 Special, and firing a round, then another, into his guts, turning on his heel, firing a shot between the eyes of policeman No. 1, then firing a couple of bullets into officer No. 3’s chest and neck, and Ernesto Cisneros, okay, turning it back more than a minute, seeing as I might’ve thought more about what I wanted to do here in Iguala to find my son, and the uniform, even if I made it myself, time and skillful hands, the uniform had an influence on my body, and lesson number one: if you look like a member of the Policía Municipal, you’re going to act like one, but don’t forget, if you don’t use your head you aren’t using thought or rational judgment, I came here to find out what happened to Coyuco, and now without thinking, I’ve given the nightmare of the century to myself, my wife, Lupita, and anyone like me who’s started off to do something they think is right driven by a force that sounds a lot like there’s no choice anyway don’t waste time you’ve got something to do and if you don’t do it you’ll lose what’s left of your mind so get going step on it get cracking get a move on it’s your duty obligation and a moral imperative, yes, that’s a nightmare you can’t shake off like water, entrusted as we are with the timely task of burrowing a tunnel into the painful mournful miserable sad, no matter what’s at the end of it, we’ll know no rest and won’t know any until we’ve righted the wrong that’s been done, remember, “a man sent on a pious mission shall meet with no evil,” we’ve got our hopes and dreams, the parents, aunts, uncles, wives, girlfriends, brothers and sisters of the normalistas who’ve vanished, gone up in smoke, swallowed by the mouth of Mictlan, a reverse journey into a mother’s womb, traveling there with the help of the Techichi, a small, mute red dog of the Toltec people, reaching Chicunauhmictlan, the ninth hell, where the lords of night rule over the affairs of men, and the souls of the dead stay for eternity, but the student teachers were thrown there, not led, no volunteers, murdered—stand back, watch out! I shouldn’t let my thoughts come out in words—yes, we’ve got our hopes and dreams, Adiós O Madre, maybe I’ve lost my faith in the Virgin, maybe I haven’t, but does the Virgen del Sagrado Corazón love a murderer, it isn’t like I’ve just ruined a recipe for chiles en nogada, created in 1821 by nuns in Puebla, I feel things growing out of my twice-damaged heart, but they aren’t natural things, I don’t know what they are, they’ll do tests in a lab, my hollow muscular organ pumping blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation, two atria and two ventricles, a tiny ash tree, two jacarandas, and a pepper tree growing there right now, I can feel the pull on the outside of my heart, and the Mother Mountains of the West are the Sierra Madre Occidental of Mexico, you can read it in a book, their mountain tops gather in the clouds, their slopes send water rushing over cliffs and down deep and wide canyons, and to the east the water finds it’s way to the fertile farms of Hidalgo del Parral and Ciudad Chihuahua before continuing an ocean-bound voyage by way of Río Bravo, and in the Sierra Tarahumara, the land of the Rarámuri, a small part of that great mountain wall of northwestern Mexico, I’ve been there many times, this or that side of the Continental Divide, it doesn’t matter where I stand, I know them like I know my right hand and my left, Ah, pero yo era más viejo entonces, / soy más joven ahora, “Ah, but I was so much older then / I’m younger than that now,” look at them, one at a time, inspect them closely, these hands, I’ll hold them in the light, take a good look at them, smooth skin, a few age spots, and this one, the right hand, the same hand that gripped the Glock, and an index finger that squeezed the trigger of a .38 Special, I saw a lot of pines in El Cañón del Cobre, evergreen coniferous trees that have clusters of long needle-shaped leaves, it’s the needles that’re piercing my heart, not an ash tree, a couple of jacarandas, or a pepper tree, and there’s that little matter of the jaguar, it’s put the fear of God into me, a terrible thing, slender and silent, thin enough to creep through the veins in my arms and legs, tickling my subclavian vein, a continuation of the axillary vein, or on the other side, an itch in my cephalic vein, communicating with the basilic vein via the median cubital vein, and I don’t mean talking, a jaguar stalking God knows what but heading for my brain, give me a minute while I use my right hand to rub the muscles of my upper arm, the cephalic vein’s visible through the skin, it’s as close as I can get to the jaguar that’s in there, scratch scratch scratch, I’ve got to watch out, there’s more than fear of a large, heavily built cat that’s got a yellowish-brown coat with black spots, the cannulation of a vein as close to the radial nerve as the cephalic vein can lead to nerve damage, that’s dangerous, maybe it’s better he’s already in there and not out here trying get in, but I’d still like to know what he’s doing with the sharp claws he’s got, inside or out, there’s going to be trouble, hey! can you hear me? I’m asking you a question, not you, I wouldn’t shout at you, I’m talking to the jaguar under my skin, and he’s maintaining radio silence, mi diablito—not a dolly, hand truck, or electrical wiring to steal power from your neighbors—my little devil, even if the jaguar isn’t a child, he’s got to be pretty small, and if he’s in the subclavian vein, a paired large vein, the jaguar’s less than normal or usual size, because the diameter of that vein’s approximately the size of our smallest finger, and the cephalic vein’s diameter is a lot smaller, it doesn’t matter, I’m crazy, what does it matter? fiery souls are more open to rage, they aren’t born equal, they’re like the four elements of nature—fire, water, air, and earth, and you’re going to ask me, what’s all that? and I say, it’s Seneca, and Cortázar, and what I’m feeling now, such very depressed feelings, what the ancestors of a Javanese might’ve called nelangsa—feeling completely alone, still living among others but no longer the same, the heat of the sun’s borne by all, but the heat in our heart’s borne alone, so the only way to get relief is communion with the hearts of those of a similar fate, similar values, similar ties, with the same
burdens, and you can count forty-three families, that’s the total, not including ours, that’s how I look at it, plenty of tears, and more if you figure what it means, because it isn’t just the forty-three, it’s every death and disappearance from the beginning of time, nobody’s got enough fingers to count up the names we know and the names we don’t, you’ve heard it before, excuse the excusable repetition, but there’s no harm in saying it again, there’s no distinction between the others, not for Lupita and not for me, but there’s our Coyuco, Lupita’s and mine, our son, and every time I say his name, I figure he might be alive and stay that way a little longer, long enough for me to find him, my illusion my dream, but there are other dreams, straight out of the exile of Nezahualcoyotl, in the origins of the Tepaneca War, “The Coyohua was fetched, and he came before Tezozomoctli, and when he had arrived in his presence, he said to him, ‘Come here, Coyohua,’ then he said, ‘listen Coyohua, here is why you have been called, who is this truly bad one that I have dreamed about? an eagle is standing on top of me, a jaguar is standing on top of me, a wolf is standing on top of me, a rattlesnake is lying on top of me, my dream terrifies me,’” and that’s how life is, at least today, for Lupita and for me, the thing is, we can’t fall asleep, we dream horrors, our special nightmares, and now, and now … but Ernesto couldn’t finish his sentence because there weren’t any words left for him to say, he ran his fingertips over his face as if he were searching for cobwebs.