Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, an unexpected earful that entirely made sense to them, considering the plans they’d formed, not written plans, no notes, no scribbling down with pen or pencil on paper, but a worked-out idea of what they’re intending to do, spontaneously put together, between two men with one brain each, Ernesto would go to work for a community center, Rubén Arenal would head off in pursuit of La Pascualita, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal both hearing the voices of forty-three dead students and a pair of functioning ghosts, a mother and daughter, forty-five voices speaking as one voice, wisdom in numbers, and the gist of what they’d said penetrated with ease thanks to the receptive pair of friends with two sets of perfectly functioning ears, essential ingredients under many circumstances, more convinced than ever they’d made the right choice, and Ernesto Cisneros, I’m off to Niños Alegres, or Nombre de Dios, then El Saucito, after that Todo por Chihuahua, or Mi Familia es Todo, Los Pinos, Tierra y Libertad, División del Norte, Quédate Amigo, San Jorge, and the social center on Calle Zubirán, east of Barrio de Londres, each in the order I choose, I’ll follow a natural or intuitive way, searching until I find a fan of Mil Máscaras, or a centro comunitario that’ll agree to let me work for them, every man has to do this, find his place in the world, I’ll tell them, and they’ll take me on the payroll, but I’d do it for free, Lupita will understand, encourage my decision with eagerness, she knows what’s important, she suffers like me, but with her own, natural born face, and if I earn a single centavo I’ll turn around and put it into pockets that’re empty, and Rocket, I see my future in your optimism, ’mano, your voice and commitment reflect my own, do we sound foolish light-headed not-at-all serious? maybe we do, but with tragedy there aren’t a lot of options, we’re drowning in our own sorrow, of course, excessive, self-absorbed unhappiness over our own troubles, naturally, but the fight hasn’t gone out of us, either, logical or not, and since when is systematic pig-ignorant murder part of a procedure we human beings are supposed to understand much less condone or accept, no, nothing’s changed, but we’re going to keep on living, those motherfucking mother fuckers who killed Coyuco and forty-three others, it’s not the first time it won’t be the last—it wasn’t long ago I said the same thing while having a little conversation between me and myself, but what’s it matter, the whole world repeats itself, from beginning to end and back again—yes, we go on living more by an instinctive reflex, or at least that’s how it seems, than by premeditated, carefully elaborated plans of action, just remember, Esto, as a culture hero, Mil Máscaras, you’re a compact illustration of the limitations of individual heroism in making political change, but as far as our daily life is concerned, in this our somewhat insignificant city, you’re on, you’ve accepted the challenge or bet, and Ernesto Cisneros, ¡adiós! it’s really something that we’re defeated and victorious at the same time, as far as the forty-three normalistas are concerned, and Coyuco, one son one brother one husband’s the same as all sons brothers husbands—that’s our victory, Ernesto waving goodbye, Rubén Arenal following him to the door, into the foyer, unlocking the street door, watching Ernesto as he stepped into daylight.

  Rubén Arenal, as drunk as he could get on the black juice of the night, rambling, but not for pleasure, in the city streets far from the countryside, not for pleasure because he was searching, and his eyes burned from concentrating on every shadow he saw moving in the faintly lit streets, no pleasure until he found La Pascualita, or her mother, Pascuala Esparza, or both of them together, Rubén Arenal bending at the waist, bracing himself with his hands on his knees, breathing in Chihuahua’s swirling gusts of wind that blew his hair in front of his face, in this neighborhood, where he’d seen them walking, Little Pascuala dressed in black, walking next to her mother, also dressed in black, a rebozo draped over her shoulders, her mother’s shoulders not La Pascualita’s, a black and deep-blue shawl with knotted fringe from Pátzcuaro in Michoacán, and Rocket, to himself, if it makes you sick to do this you can stop, you can get something to eat, or return home to lie down without your shoes on, but you know you aren’t sick, there’s nothing wrong with you but a case of suspense, a little anticipation, and a strand of fear that you won’t find her that’s tightening around your throat, that’s why it’s best to breathe as much of this night air as you can, no matter how drunk it makes you, and if you can’t find them here you can head for their house, in the direction of Mápula, and the Hacienda of Mápula, a house that looks a lot like that damned photograph of a house in the mountains outside Reno, take your truck, Ernesto brought it back, it’s parked on the street, you can’t miss it, it’s yours, isn’t it? you do know what it looks like don’t you? but let’s drop the sarcasm, you’re a lucky guy, not Ernesto, he’s paid a price you can’t imagine, you might find Pascuala Esparza and her daughter in the neighborhood if you relaunch the long-suffering act and—Rubén Arenal interrupting himself, two figures arm in arm passing beneath a streetlamp throwing long shadows at the intersection and disappearing from view on Calle Segunda.

  Rubén Arenal standing up straight on Calle José María Morelos in the central zone, his heart pounding, not just beating, the two figures disappearing on Calle 10a, Rubén Arenal following discreetly behind them now, Calle 10a turning into a narrow Calle Décima, Rubén Arenal passing the Centros de Integración Juvenil, “Para vivir sin drogas,” diagonally opposite the Cardiovascular Institute on Calle Ojinaga, the silhouettes of the two women elegantly dressed in black flitting in the night like a pair of bats, Rubén Arenal concentrating on them, almost stumbling on a cracked and broken cement curb in front of a metal fence, the streetlight above him was unlit then started flickering, it felt like somebody had put a hex on him, his concentration wavering, a boiling brain with warped perceptions, Rubén Arenal trying to focus his eyes on the blue eyeshaped Dr. Scholl’s sign across the street, and Rocket, now that I’ve got them in sight, I can’t afford to lose them, they’ve already crossed the street, better get a move on, mi amigo, no time for daydreaming, not even at night, Rubén Arenal making his way cautiously across the wide Calle Juan Aldama, safely reaching the other side, the yellowish electric Restaurant Gerónimo sign on his left, continuing on Calle Décima, then turning right on Calle Guadalupe Victoria, walking past Hotel San Juan, whose entrance lights glowed like throat lozenges, beckoning to him, a little wave of a pair of gloveless silky hands, or a baby’s hands, so smooth so pink-and-white, like they’d never touched anything, or the still well-padded hands of a sexually precocious young girl, come here come here, but Rubén Arenal, tearing himself away, more enthralled than not, and plainly under a spell, squinting in the night, with every muscle in his face, to find Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala who were nowhere in sight, he was positive they were heading for No. 801, La Popular, “La Casa de Pascualita,” right in the neighborhood, and Rocket, if I was strong enough and sure I wouldn’t hit anyone I could throw a stone to the entrance of the shop from here, that’s how close it is, and on foot it’s only a minute away, but still there was no sign of them, Rubén Arenal moving with caution, almost lost in the dark, not wanting to miss even a speck of dirt whirling in the windy pools of blackness before his eyes in case it led him to Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, and Rocket, what’s happened to the streetlights? they aren’t lit here, and they haven’t been lit since I started after them, Rubén Arenal, stopping to turn his head 180° and back again while standing before the entrance to a parking lot, across the street from a lingerie store, finally catching a glimpse of Little Pascuala and her mother in the reflection of a shop window thanks to a pair of headlights, Rubén Arenal hurrying in the direction of the two women, trying to get to them before they disappeared, but as he reached La Popular, a high-pitched sound, coming from a subtle point, remote and internal, accompanied by glittering bits of light like the ones that fly off a hand-held firework emitting sparks, stopped him in his tracks, Rubén Arenal seeing nothing but sparks, hearing the high-frequency sound that was worse than a ringing in his ears, sitting d
own on the sidewalk, leaning against a protruding stone worn smooth and set in a wall painted deep blue, or lighter, it wasn’t easy to tell because there still wasn’t a streetlamp lit nearby, no light from flickering votive candles, not a ray coming from the shop windows of La Popular, they weren’t changing La Pascualita’s outfits behind curtains put up in the shop window, it was night and long after the store was shut, but Rubén Arenal smelling the scent of flowers mingled with recently extinguished fireworks, trying to figure out the date, a way to fix himself in time and place, it wasn’t March 25th, 1930, the date of birth of his ardent attachment, his love for Little Pascuala, impassioned sincere, and he couldn’t see his fingers in order to count, but the piercing noise was dying out, fading afterimages or the last reddish remnants of brilliant sparks of light played before his eyes, and Rocket, I’m under a spell that’s come from these two women with their gift of infinite transformation, workers of wonders, performers of miracles, sorcery, what else could it be, either they don’t want me to meet them again or they don’t know that it’s me and not some stranger who’s searching for Little Pascuala because I’m in love with her, I’m not a threat, but maybe they don’t know it, it’s genuine love, unless they’ve tricked me with their magic, I can’t think of that now, I’ve got to catch up with them first, my eyes will tell me what’s up the minute they’re laid on La Pascualita and Pascuala Esparza, I’m like that, you can’t fool me if I get a chance to see into your eyes, so I’m telling myself to keep my peepers peeled for those two women, fugitive shadows of the night, Rubén Arenal getting up from the sidewalk, leaning against the blue wall to keep his balance, the searing pitch had sliced through his inner ear, the streetlights started to flicker, offering a little light in order to help him get his bearings, not find his way out of the spell, and to locate Little Pascuala and her mother, who were hidden in a doorway in the shadows cast from dancing lights thrown down at the sidewalk, an entrance in a red-brick building standing across the street, the lightless Café Reforma part of the same structure, nothing lit in Calle Guadalupe Victoria but the two streetlamps, the streetlamps going dark the minute he spotted them, not far away, but by the time he got to the entrance they weren’t there anymore, Rubén Arenal, hearing a singsong voice calling his name, stepping back into the empty street, lifting his eyes to the roof of the red-brick building, and Pascuala Esparza, señor Arenal, if you don’t mind I won’t call you Rocket, reserved only for your friends, I know, but here we are, my daughter and I, come up come up, you can hear me, my voice makes up for the silence of my child, she’s quiet, isn’t she, silent as the foot of time, from “A Summer Evening’s Meditation,” by Anna Laetitia Aikin, a late contribution to the cosmic voyage genre of poetry, popular during the first half of the eighteenth century, don’t be surprised at the things I know, so hear ye hear ye, what I mean is why don’t you join us, there’s room up here, just the three of us, and if you want, I can leave and it’ll be just the two of you, seeing as though you’re in love with my daughter, señor Arenal, what I mean is I don’t believe in the world, there’s another world where life is different, you’ll be our guest, Rubén Arenal seeing a pair of beckoning waving ageless slender hands as if they were lit by a lamp projecting a narrow, intense beam of light, imploring hands with palms turned up toward the sky, black and filled with stars, then disappearing hands, retracted like cat’s claws, and a solitary reappearing hand, no magic just shadows, Rubén Arenal taking a couple of steps backward, watching a weighted object fall from the roof, Pascuala Esparza dropping a key wrapped in a handkerchief that landed with a thump on the street at his feet, Rubén Arenal unfolding the handkerchief, finding the smooth key not cut to fit any lock, the shape of a key that looked like it wouldn’t open anything, Rubén Arenal cautiously approaching the red-brick building, putting the key in the lock, the key fit the door, turning the key which opened the door, Pascuala Esparza’s voice, faint and distant, accompanying him, but he didn’t hear the words, Rubén Arenal entered the building, heading straight for the staircase that led to the roof.

  It was a long climb but only a few flights of stairs, Rubén Arenal walking slowly, watching his step in a lightless stairwell, and Pascuala Esparza, just a few more steps, señor Arenal, and you’ll be among friends, more than that if you consider La Pascualita’s affection, what I mean is you’ll find us waiting for you at the top, her voice echoing in the stairwell, Rubén Arenal tilting his head back to look up but seeing nothing, his footsteps didn’t make a sound, he felt his heart beating in his throat, and Rocket, down boy, go back where you belong, Rubén Arenal and his habit of rubbing the calluses on the palm of his right hand with his right thumb, and Rocket, a journey that’s testing my nerves, one more flight, I’m almost there if I can find my way, suddenly a spark leaped out, falling into the deepest darkness, then all at once Rubén Arenal’s clothes absorbing light of short wavelength and emitting light of longer wavelength, radiation leading the way, Rubén Arenal seeing his boots, the landing, the staircase and handrail, the stairwell shone transfigured, and Pascuala Esparza, whispering in his ear, exact correct accurate, señor Arenal, here you are where your clothes shine with such illumination while theirs are left in darkness, Rubén Arenal, at that moment feeling flattered, and Rocket, to himself, the light’s chosen me from among the unknown occupants of the building, and I feel privileged, Rubén Arenal silently rejoicing to the point that he was sure the fantastic event was a good omen, forgetting what he was doing, where he was heading, who he was going to see, then a slight pressure on his skin, following the whisper, an icy breath on his face, an accidental contact, or it was intentional, the insistence of the pressure transporting him from a state of being elated at how he looked in his clothes to one of lust, but it wasn’t Little Pascuala, it was her mother, the glow from his shirt showing him the features of Pascuala Esparza’s face, her black clothes and a black and deep-blue rebozo hiding the rest of her, or there was only her face and no body, it was hard to tell, but it was a jolt, the shock throwing him into a swoon, Pascuala Esparza taking hold of his arm, holding him upright, and Pascuala Esparza, come here, my daughter, you must help me help him, you’re a witness to our enchanter’s, maestro’s, wicked-wizard-of-stoneware-clay’s condition, faint but again generating more than enough electricity to light our eyes and heart, now literally, Pascuala Esparza standing even closer to him, Rubén Arenal smelling something like a blend of the ocean and dead flowers, her face next to his, and Pascuala Esparza, and in the same way your work set us alight, ignited us really, and I’m not exaggerating, so we ask you once again to join us on the roof, Rubén Arenal embarrassed at the erection caused by the touch of Little Pascuala’s mother, but accepting it was a case of like mother like daughter, and right now the daughter took his other arm, she didn’t say a word, but used her strength with the aid of her mother to bring him to the balustrade, Rubén Arenal looking down the stairwell at where he’d entered the red-brick building, his head clearing, his clothes no longer glowing, all was right with the world in this building, and Rocket, it’s all right, I can walk, gently getting himself free of their grasp, Pascuala Esparza, still as youthful as her daughter, a beautiful swaying of hands, her finger pointing the way, and he walked ahead of them with a firm adherence to his own goal and purpose right out the open door onto the roof.

  From where he stood he could see more stars than he imagined were in the sky when he was standing on the street below, a roof’s-eye view, the city he lived in seemed far away even if it was at his feet, Rubén Arenal looking over the edge of the roof, down down, the streetlights were back on, burning with a steady flow of electricity, not like when he was following Pascuala Esparza and her daughter and the lights either flickered or went out altogether, a Chihuahuan wind caressed his face, throwing specks of dirt in his eyes which he ignored, Rubén Arenal feeling a lightness he’d never felt before, not in his head, but a weightless body whose soul was without gravity, floating out into the sky above his head, not joining the stars b
ut approaching them, and Rocket, if I’d known that I’d feel like this I wouldn’t have waited a minute before climbing those stairs, and Pascuala Esparza, didn’t I tell you? what I mean is that we were waiting for you, and here we are, all together, we’re here to offer you this special event, a real treat, which comes from standing with my daughter and me under the night sky, not Huitzilopochtli, representing the blue sky, or the sky of the day, because what we’re standing under now is Mixcoatl, “the cloud serpent,” the Milky Way, god of Cuauhtitlán, or in its permanent duplication, a divine transfiguration, Camaxtle, god of the Huexotzinca and Tlaxcalteca, Camaxtle Mixcoatl, that’s how it was, depending on when and where, and there’s Tlahuizcalpanteuctli, the Lord of the Dawn, or morning star, we’re standing under him, too—it’s early so he’s still asleep—these are our stars! high high above us, conceived of as gods, and thought to be divided into two large groups, Centzon Mimixcoa, “the unnumbered ones from the North,” four hundred northern stars, and Centzon Huitznahuac, “the unnumbered ones from the South,” four hundred southern stars, both living in Ilhuicatl-Tetlaliloc, the second celestial stratum of the vertical universe, but we aren’t here to give you an astronomy lesson or a history lesson, it’s our past, my daughter’s and mine, and yours, too, but not our present, and Rocket, turning to face them, you ought to talk to my sister, and instead of laughing there was silence, La Pascualita reaching her arm around his waist, Pascuala Esparza turning away, a little privacy in public, all the stars in Ilhuicatl-Tetaliloc watching them kiss, but no one saw the length of her tongue, long slender forked like a serpent’s tongue with its complex receptor system, split so it knew which way to move based on the preponderance of chemical particles on one side of its forked tongue in relation to a lesser degree of particles on the other, and together they made a whole story, 3-D glasses for the tongue passing through a small notch in her lip, the rostral groove, which explained why her mouth wasn’t open when she kissed him, the tips of the tongue fitting neatly into two tubes in her version of the Jacobson’s organ, Rubén Arenal with a tickling sensation, but entirely mesmerized, in her grip and it wasn’t just her arm pulling him against her, Little Pascuala, once she got her tongue out of the inner recesses of his mouth, relying on her vomeronasal system to give her information coming straight from Rubén Arenal’s brain, registering everything his heart felt, the receptors on her tongue having gathered miniscule chemical particles, perceived as scent, then retracting into its sheath, sending the chemical information to her own brain in order to process and analyze it, Little Pascuala, knowing for sure that Rubén Arenal loved her and would keep on loving her no matter what, sending her tongue back into his mouth, this time seeking out the flavor of desire, a confident Y-shaped organ, La Pascualita giving Rubén Arenal a feeling of happy satisfaction and enjoyment, straight out of the book, Pascuala Esparza didn’t have to see what her daughter was doing to know what she was up to, and Pascuala Esparza, to herself, my daughter’s grown up, one of us, a first-degree ghost, what I mean is I’m proud of her, this dance is a dance we can all dance to, and in the words of Percy Bysshe Shelley, it’s a “dance like white plumes upon a hearse,” only señor Arenal doesn’t know it yet, what I mean is it’s not a question, ladies and gentlemen, friends, of a foolish little number that fills the repertory of a musical group like Los Cócteles Latinos, the Latin Cocktails, or referring to musical groups a lot closer to home, the Sin Almas, the Without Souls, or Las Sensaciones Fantasmales, the Ghostly Sensations, what I mean is it’s not a question of dancing to some little chocolate-candy tune to persuade the palate of an average hombre who doesn’t know the meaning of the rhythm and the beat, our natural treat he’ll know and appreciate, for señor Arenal, it’ll be a dance that’s pungent peppery penetrating provocative, what I mean is, what we’re going to give señor Arenal is the tremendous ecstasy of being the first on his block to join us in the next life, there but not there, a party that doesn’t stop, you live and you live, and you continue to live even when you’re pushing up daisies, that’s our motto, but enough of me, there’s plenty of live action to witness, no joke intended just facts.