Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  La Pascualita, having finished testing and tasting with her tongue, acquiring the knowledge, learning by heart to recite Rubén Arenal’s deepest desires, probing his soul, and satisfied with what she’d learned from her receptors, lively as they were in her lamented mouth, but her full lips as full of life as her lover wanted them to be, another turn of magic, a sincere self-congratulatory grin on Rubén Arenal’s face, still under the spell, always under the spell when they were together, and a surplus of the spell in his heart even when he wasn’t in their company, La Pascualita’s and her mother’s, how else do you explain that he’s been haunted distracted preoccupied ever since he met them, and Little Pascuala, a little dab’ll do ya, Brylcreem 1950s, and Pascuala Esparza, a little residue of sorcery will do the trick, an indirect or passing reference, isn’t that right, niña, my child? and Rocket, you’re inside my head and right in front of my body, you think I need Brylcreem? my hair’s untidy, but it’s heading straight toward my shoulders with a smooth, shiny appearance, as you can see, Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala nodding their heads, and Rocket, but you can’t see it growing unless you can see into the future, Rubén Arenal brushing back his long hair with his hand, and Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala, a single voice at the same time, don’t talk to us about the future, señor Arenal, you’re our virtuoso of today and right now, a bright spark, our brainiac and boy wonder—so many hundreds of years younger than us—we’ll never cease to praise you, Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala lifting their eyes to the starry sky, and La Pascualita and her mother, together, ladies and gentlemen, friends, all together, we sing the praises of Rubén Arenal, and to praise your fascinating fingers forming shapes out of clay, praiseworthy person that you are, we humbly thank you for the pottery you produced from your skillful hands, works echoing with the sounds of Paquimé, a ruin northwest of Chihuahua, echoing from the ruins of Casas Grandes, no, it’s not a penny, or small-change talent, it isn’t an ounce or lightweight skill, but genius artistry brilliance, and so we thank you, again, Rubén Arenal grinning from ear to ear, their compliments running like the blood in his veins, his bewitched being filled to the brim, polite expressions of praise taking his mind off the quick move Pascuala Esparza was making, in a flash she gave him a little push, a shove in the right direction, meaning they wanted him to join them through death, and not a pretty one, making a huge splat on the sidewalk below, and the rest would work itself out, the afterlife putting his pieces back together again, making marriageable material out of him just so La Pascualita could spend the rest of her long life, hundreds, thousands of years, with Rubén Arenal in another bodily form, more spirit than corporeal, but at the instant he felt himself moving to the side, tipping over and close to the edge at an unnatural angle that left him nothing but a fall, compared to standing up straight and solid on the roof, Ernesto came out of nowhere, swooping in like an eagle, or Fantômas, La Amenaza Elegante, not the Fantômas of Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain, the Emperor of Crime, but the Fantômas of the Mexican comics publisher Organización Editorial Novaro, a justice avenger, a hero wearing a white skintight mask, or a variety of disguises, his true face never shown to his nemeses, a thief committing spectacular robberies just for the thrill of it, equipped with advanced technology created by Professor Semo, and pursued by Inspector Gerard, Fantômas, a millionaire owning several corporations under assumed identities, with hidden headquarters outside Paris, assisted by several secret agents, including twelve tantalizingly dressed “Zodiac Girls,” known only by their code names, the signs of the zodiac, but our Ernesto, a solo effort for tonight, wearing a lavender lamé mask with white leather markings and antifaz, a black cape with a lot of gold fringe and a wide gold collar, and just like Mil Máscaras before the match against Misawa Mitsuhara as Tiger Mask in 1986, Ernesto removed the lavender mask, throwing it to the public—in this case it flew past Little Pascuala’s face and brushed against Pascuala Esparza’s nose—landing out in the middle of the roof, a gesture revealing his gold lamé and shiny black latex mask tied with laces, and a purple letter M on the forehead, his real face, Ernesto, quick as a stab, reaching out to catch Rubén Arenal as he was about to go over the edge into the void before hitting the street below, the bold and daring feat taking everyone’s breath away, now mother and daughter sucking in air, Rubén Arenal exhaling between pursed lips, held in the arms of his best friend, named after the football midfielder, and Rocket to himself, so it was so it was, and so it is right now, a miracle, if only he could’ve saved his own son, too, but sometimes through sacrifice and suffering we’re forced to learn more than we expect to learn, and then we begin to live a more charitable life.

  Pascuala Esparza and her daughter were speechless, despite being spirits and not of this earth they didn’t see it coming, nor did they expect anyone to save Rubén Arenal from his fate which, as far as they were concerned, was to join them in life after death, the two women, mother and daughter, each wearing black, backing away from La Amenaza Elegante in the guise of Mil Máscaras, Ernesto still holding tightly on to his friend, and Ernesto Cisneros, I bestow upon you now the modification of a few famous words:

  “Mil Máscaras.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said: Mil Máscaras.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing … Everything!”

  “But what is it?”

  “Nobody … And yet, yes, it is somebody!”

  “And what does the somebody do?”

  “Saves the world from terror!”

  And Rocket, you’ve changed the name but I know the source, they won’t be disappointed, ’mano, not those two Frenchmen, alive or dead, and they’re long gone, it’s in the spirit of things, if you’ll excuse the joke exploiting the different possible meanings of the word, I’ve been saved from falling, awakened from a form of induced sleep, Rubén Arenal looking straight at the two women, then turning his head, giving Ernesto a grin, and Rocket, but not an induced love, that’s my responsibility, it’s coming directly from the corner of Avenida Melchor Ocampo and Calle Guadalupe Victoria, the corner right below us, exactly where La Popular stands, it’s my love for Little Pascuala that’s brought us here, putting me in danger and forcing your hand to save me, Ernesto letting go of Rubén Arenal, who took a few steps towards the center of the roof and the two women standing in front of the door to the stairwell, a menacing look on his face, and Ernesto Cisneros, I’ve completed my first act of something resembling virtue in the process of my reform, having recently committed the crime of murder, not one but three, don’t get yourself into the same boat, brother! Rubén Arenal continuing toward Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, hearing the words, heeding the words, the muscles in his face relaxed, Rubén Arenal standing an arm’s length from La Pascualita and her mother, and Rocket, looking from one to the other, forgiveness forgiveness, you wanted a husband, Little Pascuala, and you wanted your daughter to be happy, Pascuala Esparza, and happiness has its role in this world and the next, I forgive you, and Pascuala Esparza, you’ve read us like you know us, señor Arenal, and that’s because we let you come too close, out of appreciation for your talent, no doubt, what I mean is we could’ve got hold of you with a simple series of words said as a magic spell or charm, what I’m saying is straight out of the book, and honest, too, because we owe you that much, don’t we, niña, my child? but love is love, whether in this life or the next, between us we’re a bridge, señor Arenal, what I mean is all we have to do is reach out and take each other’s extended hands to create a coupling, you’ve been more than willing and we didn’t do much to twist your arm, did we, niña, my child? and our interest in your pottery is as genuine as the sun is warm and bright—although to be truly honest we prefer the night—splendid handsome proud pottery made from your skillful hands, señor Arenal, and we paid cash in rare bills and coins, to our credit, and giving you credit where credit is due, payment in full, justified by your virtuosity and big-heartedness, so I offer you a little myster
y story, as magnificent as your work, by Alberto Blanco, born in Mexico City, another maestro, almost your contemporary, “La estatua y el globero,” “The Statue and the Balloon Man,” with a translation by Edgardo Moctezuma for those who prefer to hear it in English:

  Voy caminando de noche por el Paseo de la Reforma. A lo lejos veo venir a un globero, solo, en el magnífico escenario. Las luces de neón le dan un aire helado a la vista. Al aproximarnos veo que se le suelta un globo de color rojo. Escapa y queda atrapado entre las altas ramas de los árboles, justo encima de la estatua de un general. Éste sostiene en la mano derecha un sable que brilla. Comienza a extender el brazo lentamente, lentamente, hasta que logra pinchar el globo. En vez de estallar, el globo se quiebra como si fuera de vidrio. El globero recoge los pedacitos luminosos. Me muestra un puñado: me veo reflejado con un rostro distinto en cada uno de ellos.

  I am walking at night in the Paseo de la Reforma Avenue. From afar I see a balloon man approaching, alone, in the magnificent scenery. The neon lights give a frozen air to the sight. As we draw closer I see that a red balloon slips away from him. It escapes and ends up trapped in the high branches of the trees just above the statue of a general. He holds in his right hand a saber that glitters. He slowly begins to extend his arm, very slowly, until he succeeds in puncturing the balloon. Instead of exploding, the balloon shatters as if made of glass. The balloon man picks up the luminous little pieces. He shows me a handful: I see myself reflected with a different countenance in every one of them.

  And Pascuala Esparza, there you have it, señor Arenal, and you can interpret these beautiful words in whatever way you wish, and once we’re gone you can share your thoughts with your friend, I’ll give you a clue, maybe we’re los pedacitos luminosos, the luminous little pieces, maybe we aren’t, we don’t want to give anything away, do we, niña, my child? it’s not a question, not for us, we won’t reveal what’s behind the mystery, the night opens up before you, like when you were children, for us that was long, long ago, but for you and your friend, not more than sixty years, maybe less, who’s counting? you don’t look your age, either of you, so we bid you farewell with an expression of regret, Pascuala Esparza and Little Pascuala backing out the door, no more words, floating backward into the darkness of the stairwell, the emptiness breathing out a puff of smoke, an unworldly belch, a noisy emission of gas through the mouth of heaven, Rubén Arenal turned to face Ernesto, who shrugged his shoulders.

  The two friends, standing a short distance from each other, not far away because the roof wasn’t that big, but far enough for facial expressions to be lost in shadows cast by fanned-out street lights and trickling starlight, and Ernesto Cisneros, in Iguala de la Independencia, I met a man who’s named after the wrestler whose mask I’m wearing, Aarón, but not Rodríguez—no last name and a first name that always changes—and he told me that in order to perform the tasks I’ll carry out to put right what I’ve done, I must have faith in my transformation, and that the M on my forehead is my Emeth, or Truth, and Rocket, straight out of The Golem, we’ve read the same books and know the same things, and in your case, Esto, he’s right, you’re wearing the letter like it’s branded on your face, and Ernesto Cisneros, so it is, brother, and only God knows how long I’ll wear it, but I’ve come to terms with it and what it comes with as far as my duty’s concerned, Ernesto folding his arms across his chest, expecting a reply, but seeing Rubén Arenal looking down at his feet, and from where he was standing, Ernesto could tell there was a gloomy expression on his friend’s face, and Ernesto Cisneros, your Little Pascualita and her mother, they are who they are, brother, not of this world, and you’ve got to believe it, our Coyuco, Lupita’s and mine, he’s where he is, burned to ashes that’re scattered on a river, and that’s the truth, we believe it, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, so I know how you feel, a loss is a loss, I’ll carry the sorrow for the rest of my days, only I’ll do what I can to right the wrong I’ve done, and Lupita will weep on my shoulder until she’s dry of tears, maybe she’ll work with me at the community center, Vistas del Cerro Grande gave me a job, did I tell you? and I won’t have to convince her, no know-how or cunning, and she won’t have to commit a crime she’ll regret, a volunteer all the way, what do we have left, memories of our son, and his things that’re still in the house, touch them hold them in your hands smell them, no scent of the dead but a pleasant, sweet smell of Coyuco when he was alive, breathing the same air we breathe today, right now, brother, in this night, Rubén Arenal, a smile breaking on his face, blinking his eyes free from staring out into infinity, not within, motioning Ernesto to join him, the two men sitting down on the rooftop, looking up at the constellations revolving above their heads, not that their eyes could see them rotating, the groups of stars forming recognizable patterns were still, remaining where they were, where they always were and always would be, from one day to the next, one night to another, it was the earth that traveled in the sky, none of it mattered, there was only one truth they bothered to understand, and with it, nothing else mattered, it wasn’t the kind of truth that went with facts, but something bigger they couldn’t define like an armful of mist and clouds—hold on hold on it’s slipping away—that’s what they decided between them, sitting side by side, without words, but with memories, how simple it was understanding things that got lost and things that remain, complete with tears and gut-wrenching sadness, and Rocket, I’d kill for a changuirongo, an ounce and a half of Patrón Tequila, hecho totalmente de agave azul, silver’s good enough for me, ginger beer, lots of crushed ice, or a drink prescribed by José Manuel Di Bella, born in Mexicali, with lemons, plenty of crushed ice, mineral water, Coca-Cola and Enrique Partida’s reposado, “… tequila, little brother. The ‘Neutronic’ we called it from then on. Devastation, ghostbody. Later, at dawn the hearty menudo with Consuelo. Sometimes several sleepless mornings”—tripe stew after the Neutrónico, that’s the ticket, we only need the ingredients, Esto, and a Consuelo who’ll make us menudo, but here we are on a rooftop near La Popular, I lost love that’d only just started and we don’t even know if you can eat a tripe stew with that face of yours, and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s an additional layer that isn’t my skin, there’s trim around my eyes, nose and mouth, nothing more, and in Aarón’s words, it’s “a wrestler’s mask that’s no longer a mask,” yes, brother, all in all I’ve had my good dances, right up ’til they took our son, Lupita’s and mine, our Coyuco, and if we had a bottle of Patrón’s silver or Partida’s reposado, with a mix or without, and a tripe stew thrown into the bargain, I’d join you and you couldn’t stop me until I was drunk and ready to bust with all the tequila and menudo I’d put in my belly, mask or no mask, and Rocket, from where we’re sitting, all we can do is count the stars, Ernesto inched over to Rubén Arenal until he was right up against him, Rubén Arenal raised his arm and dropped it over Ernesto’s shoulders, broader than he remembered them, shoulders carrying the weight of all he’d been through, the Chihuahuan wind blew through their hair, flowing locks falling in front of their eyes, which they brushed away with a flick of their hands, not a single star reached down out of one of the constellations to comfort them, they consoled each other, love lost and death weren’t far apart, separately and together they watched the sky, the wind didn’t chill them, the night was warm, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, impatient with the night that offered them no relief, standing up at the same time, each using the other to lean against until they got firmly on their feet, Rubén Arenal using his index finger to follow the lines of the purple letter M on Ernesto’s gold lamé and shiny black latex mask, and Ernesto Cisneros, what about that drink? and Rocket, right this way, ’mano, indicating the door he’d gone through ahead of Pascuala Esparza and her daughter, leaving the lavender lamé presentation mask with white leather markings and antifaz where it’d landed, Rubén Arenal leading the way down the dark stairwell holding on to the handrail, hearing Ernesto’s footsteps behind him, and Rocket, without turning his head, not flying down the stairs,
Esto? you came out of nowhere like a red-shouldered hawk, or showing off Mil Máscaras’ Tope Suicida, I didn’t see you coming, I guess nobody did, but you really pulled my nuts out of the fire, ’mano, I was already hearing “Rescue Me,” by Fontella Bass, and Rubén Arenal heard Ernesto laughing for the first time since he’d returned from Iguala, the two friends standing on the sidewalk, a gust of wind carrying the smell of pork rinds and gasoline, and Rocket, let’s go this way, I don’t have the courage to walk past the windows of La Popular, not now, and never again, Ernesto shrugging his shoulders, a new habit he could afford with his new face and build, wearing both confidence and doubt, only the echo of Coyuco’s disappearance and death brought a razor to his throat leaving a grimace outlined by antifaz.