by Mark Fishman
Now what? what’re you going to do about yourself, I’m fed up with not knowing, but remember the poor man without patience, a minute gone by and you’re already forgetting a useful proverb, yes, I’m getting a late start—true as the gospel, in the words of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, dramatists during the reign of James I of England—but a start just the same, and with my face, masks changing at a rate of I-don’t-know-how-many an hour, it won’t be easy, but wrestlers in my country are held in high esteem, admired and revered, and without being aware of it, I’ve changed more than my face, and thanks to Aarón, a surprise witness, a guide, no meddler, a spontaneous referee, and a compassionate linesman—definitely not a judge—we all know protests aren’t going to do any good, it’s been tried, we line up, we make signs with fat indelible markers, marching marching, but what good does it do? the follow-up’s always a cover-up from beginning to end, that’s the way it works, protect yourself from the powerful impossible professors of whitewash camouflage disguise, but I’ve got a decent hand despite murdering three cops, and losing my son, our son, our Coyuco, not finding him in Iguala, and I’ll bet the same amount of pesos Rocket is used to betting that when they use the Lidar system, which stands for Light Detection and Ranging, and they will use it, at a cost of around 600,000 pesos, and a satellite navigation-powered image processing system called GrafNav, they won’t find a fucking thing, no trace, Coyuco, dead and ten to one not even buried, and the other forty-three normalistas, like I said before, gone gone gone, it’s Coyuco’s life, our son, Lupita’s and mine, but in order to get myself going, I’ll need a few friendly down-to-earth tips suggestions pointers, solid advice, Ernesto tasting the almost fresh morning air, looking at the street, a few pedestrians, then up at the sky again, and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s morning one hundred percent, I don’t consider it morning until the entire sky is lit, and now it’s not very bright but full of light, a swift silence landing on the street like a settling bird, Ernesto, eyes tilting down, scanning the road ahead of him, catching sight of a man coming from a side street, cutting across the intersection without traffic, the man didn’t turn his head left or right, intent on moving forward, there wasn’t a car to look out for, dead calm, a calm that settled on Ernesto, too, recognizing the man wearing a smile, his untidy long hair falling onto his rounded cheeks, languid, sad eyes, and Ernesto Cisneros, a little tired after a long drive, but that’s for later, for now I’ll give my dearest friend, my brother, a hug, Ernesto spreading his arms wide in wait for Rubén Arenal, Rubén Arenal walking in his direction, long strides, with open arms to greet his dearest friend, his brother, not rubbing any calluses, a habit put off for later, until a later time, not now, maybe never again, a man and potter at arm’s length with tension disquiet fear, out of touch for the moment, Rubén Arenal identifying his friend’s features behind one of the many masks of Mil Máscaras, Ernesto taking a few steps forward, a red, green and gold Aztec eagle warrior mask on his face, and a white letter M in center of the forehead, and Rocket, to himself, Guerrero Águila, that’s him, after all he’s been through, and Lupe, too, because somewhere someone’s digging a hole to make a Hawaiian-style large pit pig roast for human beings, scooping the ashes and gathering the bones, filling plastic bags with them and dumping the contents in the river, the frightening reality that’s the world, this world we live in, “Let us not stain the river with our blood,” and the two men, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto, bearing the scars of the life they led that couldn’t be anyone else’s, fell into each others arms.
Coyuco’s dream or One last time
Nothing will be out-and-out boring again, not that it really was, not for me, there was always plenty to do, or not do, and many who did just that, nothing, were at peace with themselves, no matter what other people said, and those who couldn’t do anything but work, didn’t have a choice, would keep on with what they knew how to do until they retired or dropped dead, beggars, taxi drivers, car salesmen, cowboys, mechanics, electricians and plumbers, hair dressers, bookkeepers, lawyers, waitresses, actresses, bakers, opticians, assembly line workers, gymnasts, refrigerator repairmen, adobe bricklayers, retired military, or those still in service, it’s our right to do something or nothing if we could afford to do it, but from my perspective, here, on a heap of rotting student teachers—not quite rotting but beginning to smell—you can call us normalistas, students that left the Raúl Isidro Burgos Normal Rural School of Ayotzinapa, a Escuela Normal, a teacher-training college, at around five-thirty or six in the afternoon, I can’t remember what time exactly, on September 26, 2014, with the idea of getting our hands on as many buses as we could find in Iguala, not Chilpo, because Chilpancingo was too dangerous, and now, here we are, after a longish or short period as students learning how to teach, most of us new, others a couple of years down the road of education, with politics, a desire to help, a solid indignation at injustice, a position point of view policy, an approach to this world, and with no harm to others, you can call us what you like, rebellious, intelligent, practical, but today we’re a heap of dead student teachers, mangled, cut, torn to shreds, beaten to a pulp, shot, strangled, here we are and we aren’t here for long, they’ve got plans for us, you can’t leave what’s left of forty-three bodies, and mine, just lying around for some journalist or honest policeman to find, I can’t say what their plans are but the worst of it is over for us, lying here in pieces like stacked wood, more than a cord, it’s as if I’m a bird flying over my own body looking down at the remains of forty-three lives, and my own, we didn’t get far, I hope our deaths will mean something, but that depends on what you do with how you feel about what happened, parents brothers sisters wives girlfriends, it’s like we’ve committed a sin, punished, dead, and in horrible ways, tortured and killed, what kind of sin could it be that’s punished like they’ve punished us? no, I don’t believe it, sins are punished by God, or forgiven, we didn’t commit an immoral act considered to be a transgression against divine law, and what’s coming next isn’t for anyone to see, gruesome vile unspeakable, you’d better shut your eyes, I have to look, my eyes’re open for eternity, I see what nobody else can see, except for the others lying here with me, they’re dead but they aren’t blind, I wonder if we’ll be able see when there’s nothing in the sockets of our eyes, eyes melted by the intense heat of flames, or in a tub of acid to dissolve everything that’s left of us, even the bones, if that’s what’s in store for us then it’s a sin added to the one they committed already by killing us, que Dios tenga misericordia de nuestras almas, May God have mercy on our souls, you can see that I haven’t lost my faith, now and then a moment of sadness, not a rush of mental strain, exhaustion or difficulty breathing, if you aren’t alive no one can force you to breathe no matter how many times they jump up and down on your chest, a few words from James 1:6, and I’ll lower my voice, a whisper, Pero pida con fe, no dudando nada; porque el que duda es semejante a la onda del mar, que es arrastrada por el viento y echada de una parte a otra, “But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind,” yes, Santiago 1:6, and all that because I’ve asked Him for wisdom, not for me, it’s too late, and in His generosity He’s given me plenty, when I was alive, but for my father and mother, and Irma, their friends and families, and the friends and families of my fellow students, that they may live with what’s happened to me, to their sons, without too much bitterness or a fatal desire for revenge because there’re other ways to fight, and since I’m no longer of this life, it’s up to them to find their way, I can’t help no matter how much I’d like to, what’s done is done and can’t be undone, says the corpse to the wind, but you don’t have my ashes to scatter on the river or blow across the fields, it’s so quiet now, why isn’t there music here when there’s been music everywhere else, it’s playing and I can’t hear it with ears that aren’t operating normally or properly, out of order, Porque como el cuerpo sin espíritu está muerto, así también la fe sin obras es
tá muerta, “For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead,” Santiago 2:26, yes, a fatal desire for revenge would be a life-threatening thing for my family, a thing I couldn’t live with—I know, I know, I’m dead already, so what’s there to worry about—but I can’t think of my mother and father, and poor Irma, even if she was named by her parents after a singer and actress from Comitán de Domínguez in Chiapas, I can’t think of them going through hell because of me, not when I was alive, and not now, but who can control the behavior of others, and when you have no voice, you can’t comfort anyone, God knows I’d like to comfort them, children get old enough and they can be a mother or a father to their parents, take them by the arm, separately or together, sitting down face to face, a conversation, soothing words comforting words, removing their doubts or fears, with Irma it’s a different story, she’s a woman and I’m the man who loves her, a comfort of equals—there’s nothing wrong with a world where you can get love with or without a few hairs—and besides, she’s got her own mother and father, and since all of us are lying here, let the others be witnesses, hear ye, hear ye! Irma and I, hand in hand, visiting the colonial aqueduct, begun in 1751 to replace an earlier one built in 1706, that brought water from Río Chuviscar in the west to the town of San Felipe el Real de Chihuahua—Chihuahua before it was called Chihuahua in 1824—what I know about life could fill a thimble, so here we are, Irma and I, deciding to stretch our legs after a cold drink at Cafetería Lerdo, Avenida Melchor Ocampo, slowly reaching Paseo Simón Bolívar, our snail-paced steps, what’s the hurry when you’re in love! rounding the corner, a sharp one, passing Calle 12a, Calle 10a, then Octava, looking left looking right, who knows where we entered the park, maybe Calle Sexta, we’re stretching our legs, but enough is enough, sitting together on a bench under a tree in the Parque Lerdo, the central part of the city, not far from Quinta Luz, the Museo de la Revolución, a ten-minute walk heading southeast from the park, but we’re staying where we are, sitting on a bench in the shade not saying a word, feeling the things we aren’t saying, things that warm us from the inside out while staring at a palm tree, a beautiful sky, a few people taking a stroll, others on park benches, too, reading El Heraldo or El Diario, or reading a book, but we don’t see them, they’re invisible like I’ll be in a couple of hours, and it isn’t dark yet, our eyes, Irma’s and mine, they’re open wide on a dazzling afternoon sun not losing its color, reddish-orange light staining the skin on the back of our hands, fingers entwined, the sun throwing its light at an angle of less than forty-five degrees, don’t ask me how I can measure it, I just know, skimming the tops of roofs and trees, not falling off the edge of the city, not yet, but in no time it’ll be dark, nightmarish night when there aren’t any stars, no moon either, our blood soaking into the ground, because that’s how I see it from here, lying on a heap of disfigured bodies, but in my dream with Irma, that kind of night never shows up, a caressing darkness floating on a gentle breeze, stillness and peace, a dream that begins and ends here, on this pile of human refuse, people thrown away, rejected as worthless, our flesh beginning to nourish the earth, “I don’t know how much time’s gone by, aside from this awareness of my motionless body I feel nothing,” my empty sockets searching for what I’ll never see, but what a lucky day! my dream’s in my head, there’s no having to look for it, it’s here, tap tap tap with a forefinger I don’t have, “the voices come and go, like the images I evoke,” while my goal, as long as I can prolong this moment, is “to remember in order to survive,” not my body, that’s for sure, too late too late, but for all the details of the life I’ve had until now, who knows what the next chapter will be, life after death, the hereafter, eternity, motherfucking nothing? there’s only so much my brain, a human brain, can grasp, where is my dream? that’s what I need, I’ve got to get back to it, I’d search my pockets but I don’t have hands that move or pockets to turn inside out, my clothes aren’t where they’re supposed to be, maybe I don’t have hands or fingers, I can’t see them or feel them, but I know I won’t find a dream in my pocket, it’s safe and sound, sheltered in my heart, deep as sleep, remember, we’re on the bench in Lerdo Park, Irma and I, accompaniments to a setting sun that’s taking its time, and we’re grateful for it, nothing settles the spirit like a burning amber streak of light warming the back of your hand, we both swear to it, using the same words coming out of our mouths at the same time, but we can’t go on sitting here forever, Irma says, and me, I just tell her to be patient, it’s the sun we’re waiting for, when it’s stumbled over the edge of the earth and disappeared we can move on, but what I want to tell her is that one day she’ll begin to search in herself for the other who’s disappeared, has died, and is lost forever, an upside-down story of Narcissus, a search of the possible double, the possible other, meaning me, a premonition? a hunch? a suspicion that my days are numbered? who can say, but that’s what’s on my mind, not the sun setting and the shadows falling over the park, and she doesn’t let go of my hand when we stand up, moving together, one person, indivisible, but without liberty and justice, part of a pledge en el Norte, a country more interested in the possession of the soul than that of the body, as my father says, a pledge that isn’t my own, not now not ever, but the same words are found in the oath to our flag, our Juramento a la Bandera:
