Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Rubén Arenal, before cutting across the intersection, recognizing Ernesto as he himself came out of a side street, Ernesto’s way of standing with more weight on the right leg than the left, approaching Ernesto’s outstretched arms, admiring the red, green and gold Aztec eagle warrior mask on Ernesto’s face, a white letter M in center of the forehead, and Rocket, I’ll give him a taste of his own style, Mil Máscaras-style, a monkey flip, one of Mil Máscaras’ signature moves, but I better lay off, he’s been through a lot, I can tell just by looking at him, and I love him like a brother, Luz Elena loves him, too, she’s told me a hundred times, Xihuitl, my comet, listen, Ernesto’s like a brother to both of us, Rubén Arenal falling into Ernesto’s arms, an embrace, and Rocket, to himself, in Conrad’s words, like a ship, we’re as tight as a bottle, no water seeping in, nothing coming out, our friendship’s sound, in good condition, for keeps no matter what’s happened, and Ernesto’s mask was changing, not right before his eyes, Rubén Arenal couldn’t see it because they were still in each other’s arms, no macho hang-up, Mexican Spanish from the 1920s, from the Latin, masculus, masculine or vigorous, and the eagle warrior mask now a two-toned blue mask with flying doves on each side, a jaggy red M on the forehead, Rubén Arenal stepping back, giving Ernesto the once-over, stepping forward, gripping Ernesto’s shoulders, which appeared somehow more massive than Rubén Arenal remembered them, and Rocket, you don’t even have to tell me, ’mano, I know it’s something big, and I’ve got news for you, too, but first, where’d you park my truck? Rubén Arenal concentrating only on Ernesto, seeing only his changing face, and not the truck parked a few steps away from the entrance, the yellowish air turning slightly green with the exhaust of a passing pickup, Ernesto covering the opening in the mask for his mouth, impurity impurity, turning his head, making a sign with a jerk of his head that said, there’s the truck, brother, don’t worry, Rubén Arenal, a smile, then heading for the entrance of his apartment, opening the front door, the foyer lit by an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling, the door closing behind them, opening the door to his ground-floor apartment, letting Ernesto in first, and Rocket, I’m thirsty as a dry road, in the words of Cyril Harcourt, Rubén Arenal heading straight to the refrigerator, a note stuck to the refrigerator door, Luz Elena’s handwriting, Rubén Arenal reading, with respect to the thirst you might have when you get home, Xihuitl, my comet, my brother, I’ve made you something to drink, a fresh agua de Jamaica, and there are leftovers, too, what I made for Avelina, Perla and Cirilo, we couldn’t finish it all, and we don’t eat more than our share, with respect, of course, to your foreseeable appetite and not wanting to waste a bite, a mouthful, a single crumb, Rubén Arenal, a broad smile, it was just what he needed and it’d be his sister’s love in each mouthful of food and swallow of homemade hibiscus flower juice, showing what he found in the refrigerator to Ernesto, Ernesto shaking his head no for the food, but nodding yes for a drink, then sitting on one of the two wooden chairs, wicker seats, at the table in the kitchen area, part of Rubén Arenal’s medium-sized studio, Ernesto’s elbows resting on the rough wooden surface, a shiny gold lamé mask with red vinyl or leather antifaz, and the golden arms of a red sun with a gold letter M in the center of it, in the middle of his forehead, a mask covering his entire head, Rubén Arenal shaking his head left to right right to left, and Rocket, it’s hard to keep track of your face, ’mano, your mask keeps changing, and Ernesto Cisneros, his first words, that’s the way it’s been and that’s the way it’s going to be, I’ve returned to the world where time slips away as a different man than the one who left here in your Ford pickup, my face keeps revising itself, an update but essentially the same, and it’s the least important of the changes I’ve gone through as it’s a kind of reshaping on the outside, but the improvements within are of an entirely different nature, and the worst of it is that despite my inconsistent appearance, a chameleonic mask that doesn’t settle for a single outward show, things couldn’t have changed more for the better, no matter my crimes, and there’s a short list I’m really not proud of because when you add them up it amounts to murder, Rubén Arenal stopping in the middle of unwrapping what Luz Elena had so nicely wrapped in aluminum foil, narrowing his eyes, and Rocket, murder? and Ernesto Cisneros, I’m afraid it’s true, not my intention, not what I set out to do when I borrowed your truck, and Rocket, your face, the mask it’s wearing that won’t come off, it’s the face of a good man, not a murderer, and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s the good I’ve been imbued with after the bad thing I’ve done, a fine wrestler’s endlessly changing features, and a change of heart, I suffer from the loss of my child, mine and Lupita’s, our Coyuco, a voice for the voiceless and a fact, but I learned my lesson, revenge isn’t the way out, no matter how angry I am, and Rocket, you don’t have to tell me a thing, I know it without having to hear it because I know you, ’mano, and I know the Fates, the weird sisters, and I’ve had an experience along those lines, not three and not sisters but a mother and daughter, buyers, too, supporters of my pottery, the Fates are white-robed incarnations of destiny, according to an average source of popular information, or the other way around, but mine weren’t dressed in white, and their clothes, both mother and daughter, changed on their bodies like your mask changes on your face, when I first saw them they were dressed in black, and the mother wore a rebozo draped over her shoulders, I’ve even lost the need and desire to rub the calluses on the palm of my hand, at least for right now, a result? who can say, Esto, and a big sale went with the experience which included falling in love, and not down a couple of stairs but the whole flight, maybe two, three flights, that’s how far I fell for a woman who looks a lot like Little Pascuala, but where I landed I can’t say, it’s a mystery, the two women disappeared, mother and daughter, and the bills they paid me aren’t currency anymore, I told myself I won’t try to trade in the money of the past for the legal tender of the present, maybe the end is in them, the bills and coins themselves, cash of no value, or it’s the beginning, our future together, the young woman and I, a couple bound by threads stronger than yarn and in a single rich color, royal purple lake, like Old Holland-brand oil paint, or royal red, a symbol of our passion, and what I call progress is the energy I’ll come up with for another search, the Reconquest of Desire, I’ll look for them again, and always, here in our city, and I’ll take on the puzzling drive to their house where there’s snow where there shouldn’t be snow, and a partly frozen river, the altitude doesn’t justify such cold, they cooked for me, I ate like a king, maybe Axayacatl, the sixth tlatoani, el que habla, of Tenochtitlan, and my love for La Pascualita’s double was reciprocated, their house is a lot like the one you showed me in a photo, remember? a house in the high desert at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, the mountains outside of Reno, Nevada, and Ernesto Cisneros, I haven’t lost my memory, it’s better than ever, and Rocket, I can afford to believe or not to believe in my experience—a dead ringer for La Pascualita, ah, the darkness of chance!—my dinner, our lovemaking, and my financial gain that amounts to nothing, anyway, a voice told me I wasn’t there for profit, at least not to sell my pottery but to trade it for something, I don’t know what, but on my way home—I borrowed a two-wheel drive Suzuki Carry Truck from a neighbor who’d brought it down from Texas—my memories of what happened that night stopped being real as they lost their substance and became ethereal atmospheres, San Lucas 12:23, Luke 12:23, La vida es más que la comida, y el cuerpo que el vestido, “For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing,” now it feels like I’m reeling on my own two feet, longing for the quiet of the starry nights and the scent of the wildflowers, or more realistically, the smell of damp clay, its smoothness in the palms of my hands, what’s the use of longing? waiting for the evening to enter the city and darken it slowly, it gets dark sooner or later without having to wait for it, yearning hungry thirsty, waiting feels like that, and Ernesto Cisneros, I wanted revenge without knowing it after I figured out that I’d never find Coyuco, and look where it got me,
my false face more real than my own and a tarnished heart, a cross like the one He carried on the way to Calvary burned into the center of it, that day my hope ended, and Rocket, you’re ahead of me, Esto, as far as no hope goes, in advance by more than days, maybe I’ll get there, where you are, or I won’t, because I’ve got to go on looking for her, get up the nerve, and when I find her I’ll know if she’s really here, part of the kingdom of the living, and her mother, too, because when I woke up that house was an outer form without substance, the hull of an empty ship, a phantom house where nothing resembled what I remembered seeing the night before, or it was two nights, I can’t tell, and there was no sign of life except my own and a roomful of birds, and Ernesto Cisneros, you’ll find her, I’m sure of it, and when you find her you’ll have to decide if you want her, even if she isn’t of this kingdom of the living, you’ll have to make a choice and live with it, one way or the other, because you drank the water from the spring that’s sweet and clean when you were in a house like the one I showed you in a photo long ago, and when you woke up she wasn’t there, neither was her mother, anyone can leave a house, and come back later, it’s not a big mystery, but you drank from the spring so you’ll have to make a choice, and Rocket, I’m willing to make a decision, she’s just like La Pascualita, and you know how I feel about her, in a store window or on the street, and Ernesto Cisneros, I don’t think she’s from our world, not the place where we live today, but there is life after death, brother, and when you find her, it’ll be up to you, and Rocket, you’re right, I’ve been thinking the same thing, ’mano, but where did that old money come from, Rubén Arenal emptying a pouch with the coins and paper money on the table in front of him, and Rocket, why’d they leave it for me, they could’ve come back to the house, wherever they had to go, it wasn’t money that I really wanted, and I would’ve waited for them, they only had to leave a note, but they didn’t, they made sure I found the envelope in a house that looked like nobody’d lived in it for years, no fingerprints, just birds, our world’s a strange place, and if they’re from the underworld of the dead, then that’s a strange place, too, and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s where you’ll have to be careful, brother, she might be a hummingbird, not a woman, whether she looks like Little Pascuala or not, or La Cihuacóatl, snake woman, La Llorona, La Planchada, the ghost of a nurse in a well-ironed uniform, Eulalia, or La Lechuza, “the witch owl,” who bewitched her son-in-law, yerno, you remember the story, or the Wise Woman of Córdoba, “flying through the air above rooftops with bright sparks coming out of her eyes,” or she’s ’Mana Zorra, Sister Fox, in another form, or a teixcuepani, a deceiver, “who transforms someone’s eyes,” or una de los espíritus chocarreros, a kind of poltergeist, maybe she’s Santa Muerte, La Hermana Blanca, an intermediary between God and earth, or a member of mometzcopinque, “a malevolent sect of female sorceresses who can remove their legs or enchant by taking apart or disarticulating the bones of their foot,” more than a dozen possibilities, plenty of options, brother, take your pick, and Rocket, your wisdom goes with your face, the masks you’re wearing, Esto, and it’s a white spider web mask you’re wearing now with a big black spider on the front, and an M just above your nose, you can’t see it but I like it, and a tough looker isn’t necessarily a tough fighter, but in your case, mi hermano, life’s trials and tribulations have made you a strong man, if it wasn’t true then you wouldn’t have received the gift of a thousand masks, and Ernesto Cisneros, now I’m as tough as my namesake, brother, but what about atonement for knocking a cop out with a Glock, or killing three members of the Policía Municipal, and Rocket, you know why they call the cops Smurfs now instead of Night Owls, ’mano, because they’re blue and motherless, and Ernesto Cisneros, killing’s no joke, and Rocket, I’m not making a joke, only a point, they’re motherless motherfuckers, so they’ve never been born, sin pecado original, no es posible para cualquiera, pero la Virgen, without original sin it just isn’t possible, not for anybody, nobody but the Mother of all Mexico, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, and Ernesto Cisneros, that’s an excuse I can’t make, dead is dead and I killed them, wounding another, and Rocket, I can’t judge you, Esto, you have enough with your own conscience, where do we come from? the same time the same place, heading in the same direction, so how in this life or the next could I possibly judge you, no trial no verdict, an opinion, that’s what I can offer you, no hay pedo—excuse the slang—okay, ready steady: it wasn’t the best thing you could’ve done, but in a hot-blooded hard-to-control instant anything can happen and it did, you’re the proof, and the witness, and what they did to Coyuco isn’t your fault, here I go again, because of this because of that, justification reason mitigating circumstances, damas y caballeros del jurado, in mitigation he said his client had been deeply depressed, and rightly pissed off, and like I said when we were nine, you’re intelligent, Esto, advanced for your age—we’re the same age, you and I, but I feel like I’m your older brother—the limit of your endurance, your capacity for suffering has been established, and it goes far beyond the wrestling ring whether you’re Mr. Personalidad, La Saeta Azul, El Manotas, El Galeno del Mal, El Guapo, El Profesor, El Látigo Lagunero, or anybody else, and Ernesto Cisneros, hope is the luxury of the reborn, the only thing that’s keeping me from being an old man returning home a failure is the mask on my face and the soul that it’s sharing with me, and Rocket, you aren’t drinking, come on, it’ll do you good, and Ernesto Cisneros, I need a straw, this mask makes it hard to drink without spilling all over myself, there’s antifaz, as you can see, around the openings for my eyes, nose and mouth, an additional layer to my skin that isn’t the usual thin layer of tissue forming the natural outer covering of my face, the skin’s taut, touch it, and it feels like pro-grade Lycra, Rubén Arenal getting up from the table, reaching into a cabinet where he found an open package of straws, putting the straw in the glass of Ernesto’s hibiscus flower drink, Ernesto taking the glass in his hand, raising it just until the tip of the straw passed between the antifaz around his lips, a forced smile of stretched Lycra, drinking avidly, the straw acting like the primary tubing of an IV, then putting down the glass, what’s left of a feigned smile becoming a grimace, the mask of that joyous, inward cry that now entered the confused dimension of a sorrow coming forth from the deep well of his memory, and Ernesto Cisneros, my son my son, Ernesto raising the glass once more, the straw between his lips, in a hurry to quench his thirst and extinguish the embers of his thoughts, Rubén Arenal reading his thoughts, and Rocket, I offer you a song to go with your melancholy, ’mano, just listen, and drink my sister’s homemade hibiscus liquid refreshment, it’s “La Misma,” “The Same,” sung by Vicente Fernández, written by Isidro Coronel, who was born at the hacienda Techague, in the municipality of Atoyac—from the Nahuatl, Atoyac, meaning “place of the river,” Lugar del Río—in the southern region of the state of Jalisco, in 1935, a song only two minutes, fifty-seven seconds long, a heavy-hearted but beautiful song: