Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  In a corner under a wall sconce where the smoke cleared because someone walked past it stood a jukebox with muted colored lights, the figure put a coin into it, selecting a song, and to the accompaniment of a joyful version of “Libertad y Olvido,” not by David Záizar, which was in a more campirano style, accompanied by guitar and harmonica, one of his trademarks, but performed by Los Pavos Reales, with vocals by Salvador and Eddie Torres-Gómez, and Carlos Miranda, in a conjunto or norteño style, accompanied by accordion, bajo sexto, tololoche, and in a faster tempo, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto sitting down, hearing the bitterness in the lyrics of a song whose meaning they transposed from romantic love to another kind of love, a universal love, and speaking with voices reminding them of their feelings for Coyuco, with love, compassion and honor for the forty-three normalistas who’d disappeared, and for the many citizens of Mexico never to be heard from again:

  A nadie le digas que yo fui tu amante,

  A nadie le digas que fui tu querer,

  No manches mi nombre con esas palabras

  Déjame tranquilo, déjame vivir.

  Una vez te quise yo nunca lo niego

  Y a ti te entregaba todo mi querer,

  Y hubo ocasiones que creí amarte

  Creí que en el mundo no habría otra mujer.

  Hoy no me arrepiento de haberte querido

  Guardo tus amores en mi corazón

  Pero para darnos libertad y olvido,

  A nadie le digas que yo fui tu amor.

  Do not tell anyone that I was your lover,

  Do not tell anyone that I was your love,

  Do not stain my name with those words,

  Leave me in peace, allow me to live.

  I loved you once and I never deny it,

  And I handed you all of my love,

  And there were times I believed that I loved you

  I thought that there would be no other woman on earth

  Today I do not regret having loved you

  I keep your affection in my heart

  So that we may give each other freedom and oblivion,

  Do not tell anyone that I was your love.

  It didn’t take much to bring their thoughts to Coyuco, a canción ranchera, a polka, a corrido, son jarocho, son huasteco, nor to turn to thoughts of any other of the disappeared, and in the cantina, cigarettes and cigars burning tobacco, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal removing the lid that covered their hearts, music always linking them to their emotions, their emotions to music, a fair deal, an automatic response for sensitive women and men, the owner coming to the table, noting nothing different about Ernesto’s face, as if he’d seen it all before, the changes life brought on everyone, holding a circular serving tray with two mixed drinks, placing them on the table, one for Ernesto, one for Rubén Arenal, and before lifting the glass, Rubén Arenal wondering what the owner had made for them, about to open his mouth to repeat part of the question he’d asked while walking down José María Morelos y Pavón before they got to the cantina, something like, Esto, mi experto en bebidas mixtas, what’re you up to, and what’re we drinking? but nothing came out of his mouth, Rubén Arenal watched as Ernesto lifted the glass to the antifaz around his lips and downed the contents in a single gulp, no time for questions, then, and Rocket, down the hatch, ’mano, whatever it is, and it burned going down, a gulp as complete as his friend’s that swallowed everything the owner had mixed in the glass, but it wasn’t bitter or unpleasant in any way, the two men sitting across from each other at the table under a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke that came from every direction and nowhere at the same time because they couldn’t make out the faces of the other clients in the cantina, who was smoking what, not with the light that came from the wall sconces and the two small lamps at each end of the bar, not from what seemed like the never-ending string of tiny warm lights strung where the ceiling met the walls that might’ve come from a permanent Christmas celebrated in the cantina for as long the owner had run it, a seasonal decoration becoming a local institution, the owner arriving after they put their empty glasses down, retrieving the glasses, putting them on a tray he balanced with one hand, a professional in every sense, wiping the surface of the table to eliminate any sign of the rings the two glasses might’ve left, then leaving a large circular ceramic ashtray and a box of matches between them, Rubén Arenal searching his pockets for cigarettes, finding a pack of Faros, offering Ernesto a smile at what looked like an unending supply of coffin nails, the beacon of the lighthouse on the pack lighting the tabletop and ashtray, Rubén Arenal tapping out a cigarette, offering the pack with the protruding cigarette to Ernesto, who pinched it between wrestler’s fingers, then Rubén Arenal put one between his own lips, lit them both off a single match which he tossed nonchalantly into the center of the ashtray the owner’d provided them.

  The first drink hit Rubén Arenal as he took the first drag off his cigarette, he wasn’t visibly trembling, but his thoughts were shaken up by the sudden change of perspective the owner’s cocktail triggered in a mind as vulnerable as his was after the attempt Pascuala Esparza and La Pascualita had made to toss him off the roof, a menace he now realized hadn’t been digested at the time, then the experience of being saved by Ernesto in the form of the Fantômas of the comics publisher Organización Editorial Novaro, an unexpected intervention, Rubén Arenal taking another drag off his cigarette, his face and the back of his hands burning with a wave of heat as the drink made its way through his bloodstream, causing a sensation like a rash but without the texture or inconvenience, more on the order of a profound warming of the soul, steady nerves, Rubén Arenal sitting in unfamiliar comfort, free from worry, filling his lungs with smoke, exhaling into the dense cloud above them, and Ernesto Cisneros, I guess you see what I mean, swell drinks that guy makes, aren’t they, and that isn’t a question, and Rocket, I’m in a state so serene I don’t want to leave it for anything in the world, and Ernesto Cisneros, look out, brother, he’s bringing us another, and you’ll never get drunk, I never do, it’s the magic of what’s in the potion that brings me back here every time, the owner setting two glasses down on the table, carrying the same tray, receding like the tide, leaving the two friends with full glasses, Rubén Arenal raising his glass, and Rocket, what’s in it? and Ernesto Cisneros, I never asked, and I never will, I don’t want to know, it’s the effect I’m after, a harmonious state of high-spiritedness without hurtful hallucinations, a vision or two, but nothing to throw us off the track, just what every customer in the place is after, Ruben Arenal and Ernesto, their eyes fully adjusted to the light, turning their heads to look at the customers seated at the tables and at the three men standing at the bar, Ernesto taking a drink, and Ernesto Cisneros, it isn’t sweet as nectar, but a pleasant taste, leaves seeds flowers, we’ll never know, oh, what dreams! what possibilities! and Rocket, I suppose you’re trying to tell me anything’s likely to happen now, well, I’m starting to believe you, Rubén Arenal finishing his second cocktail, a potion leading to an earnest and industrious effort, the drinks the owner made for them, for everyone in the cantina, a concoction not meant to encourage a woman or a man to forget their suffering and sadness, but to carry them all from uneasiness to tranquility and a desire to continue with their lives.

  And Ernesto Cisneros, what do you see when you look around you, here, in this bar? I’ll tell you what you see, you’re seeing a lot of people with problems, real not imagined, unwelcome or harmful and needing-to-be-dealt-with problems, death disappearance desecration, who, instead of giving up, lying down, come here to take advantage of what we’re drinking, following the voice of this elixir in order to put things right or settle the score, industrial-strength adjustments made to the unsettled inner being, and Rocket, do you hear what’s playing now? an instrumental version of Cuco Sánchez’s “Anoche Estuve Llorando,” “Last Night I Was Crying,” by Antonio Bribiesca, and Ernesto Cisneros, we’re listening to señor Bribiesca now, just like Coyuco and Irma used to listened to him together, among other musicians
, ’mano, so you’re in accordance with the truth, it isn’t the first time, and won’t be the last, and Rocket, I wonder if she’ll go on listening to him, and Ernesto Cisneros, don’t make me cry, but I’ll say this much: I hope that she does, and Rocket, the supernatural beings that live on the surface of the earth are identified with specific natural phenomena, and in this sense they’re represented in an anthropomorphic way, they aren’t only owners of natural phenomena, but in a certain sense they’re the phenomena themselves, as the kiyauhtiomeh are the rays, the mixtimeh are the cloud ones, the ehecameh are the wind ones, which can cause disease, disease-causing spirits that infest all four realms of the cosmos, and Ernesto Cisneros, for the Nahua, an ehecatl’s responsible not only for disease, but also for any misfortune, including drought, barrenness, and death, and they lurk about trails, houses, bathing areas, or any place that people might frequent, then at the most unsuspecting moment, they enter a victim’s body and cause it to fester until the person’s too sick to move, they’re particularly fond of attacking children, the aged, and anyone who’s been weakened in any way, and Rocket, emotionally, like us? and Ernesto Cisneros, don’t worry, there isn’t a gust in the place, but now you’re talking, and so’s the cocktail, a vision or two and we’re all set, and Rocket, so far all I see is Xtabay, and Ernesto Cisneros, give it until after the third glass, patience patience, Porque los bellos seres que transitan por el sopor añoso de la tierra, “For the beautiful things that journey through the ancient slumber of the earth,” and Rocket, but there’s more to it:—¡trasgos de sangre, libres, en la pantalla de su sueño impuro!—todos se dan a un frenesí de muerte, “—ghosts of flesh and blood straying on the screen of its impure dream—all surrender to a frenzy of death,” and Ernesto Cisneros, José Gorostiza’s words are a perfect fit, but we aren’t dead and in heaven yet, and when we do kick the bucket it doesn’t have to be because we’ve been tortured, murdered, and chopped into pieces in order to get to the other side, I prefer to travel in one piece, and Rocket, your faith’s grown in leaps and bounds since you’re wearing one of the many faces of Mil Máscaras, the expression on Rubén Arenal’s face was sincere, steadfast and staunch, showing the light of a strong belief in God, no more and no less, the words themselves were spoken with the intonation of complete trust or confidence in Ernesto, Guadalupe, and Coyuco, a missing person but present every moment in his heart, and any relatives Ernesto had whether he knew them or not, so boundless was his belief in friendship and family.

  Rubén Arenal reaching for the pack of Faros, another cigarette to unite them, and Rocket, what magic is this? our Faros have dwindled to two cigarettes, with no sign of breeding, and Ernesto Cisneros, in this bar cigarettes don’t last long and when they’re gone, it’s the cigars that count, remember the story of the twins Hunahpú and Xbalanqué, born of the maiden, Xquic, Little Blood or Blood of a Woman, and the spittle from the mouth of the skull of Hun- Hunahpú—sounds familiar doesn’t it? reminding us of the myth of the birth of Huitzilopochtli, our Aztec god of war—Hun-Hunahpú’s head hanging in the calabash tree that instantly bore fruit the moment it was put there by the Lords of Xibalba, Hun-Hunahpú and Vucub-Hunahpú, as two are often one, tricked by the Lords of Xibalba, and Rocket, I’ve read the story in the Popol Vuh, the sacred book of the Quiché Maya, and Ernesto Cisneros, then you remember the fate of the hero twins, how the Lords of Xibalba tried to get the better of them but didn’t succeed, not like Hun-Hunahpú and Vucub-Hunahpú, who went before them, entering the House of Gloom, Quequma-ha, in which there’s only darkness, the place where Hun-Hunahpú and Vucub-Hunahpú were defeated, the test with sticks of fat pine, called zaquitoc, and the lighted cigars, it was the undoing of Hun-Hunahpú and Vucub-Hunahpú, you know it if you’ve read it, brother, the Lords of Xibalba saying to them, “Each of you light your pine sticks and your cigars; come and bring them back at dawn, you must not burn them up, but you must return them whole,” Hun-Hunahpú and Vucub-Hunahpú returning without their pine sticks and cigars, burned to the last ash, and in this manner they were defeated, slaughtered right away, but before burying them, the Lords of Xibalba cut off the head of Hun-Hunahpú, burying the older brother together with the younger brother in the place of sacrifice of the ball game, Rubén Arenal with a worried expression on his face, and Ernesto Cisneros, but Hunahpú and Xbalanqué defeated the Lords of Xibalba, so we’ll smoke the cigars provided by the owner of this bar once we’ve finished our last Faros, that’s how it works here, we’re supposed to finish our cigars, smoke them to the very end, and Rocket, but ’mano—Ernesto interrupting him, and Ernesto Cisneros, no, don’t waste your time wondering, our cigars are simply for smoking, and these matches are our tiny pine sticks meant to be lit and blown out, and together with our third glass of the owner’s potion we’ll dream, and in our dream we’ll see our way clear, with a sincere and intense conviction, to do our work or duty well, there are no real, unwelcome or harmful problems that can’t be overcome, just look at Hunahpú and Xbalanqué, we’ll get the better of those who killed Coyuco, and the others, the wholehearted and tireless campaign begins in a place like this, a one-of-a-kind cantina, the owner and bartender coming to the table with his circular serving tray with two more mixed drinks, replacing the empty glasses with a couple of full ones, laying a pair of cigars on a cloth napkin between them on the table, the bartender backing up and turning around, without making a sound, there were plenty of conversations, a couple nodding their heads to the music of a son jarocho, “El Siquisirí,” an instrumental by Los Utrera, members of the Cobos and Utrera families forming a group of musicians and dancers from the flat, hot, humid lands of Los Tuxtlas, the son jarocho playing on the jukebox, a machine with limitless resources, a musical selection greater than the gigantic estate of Francisco Villa in Parral, Ernesto raising his glass, taking a sip, barely a swallow, wanting to savor the elixir, then setting his glass down, Rubén Arenal offering him a cigarette, Ernesto gently rolling it between his thumb and index finger before putting it in his mouth, Rubén Arenal planting one between his own lips, then using a single wooden match to light them both, leaning back in his chair, exhaling smoke, Ernesto leaning forward, looking Rubén Arenal in the eye, and Ernesto Cisneros, your eyes are already dilated, and Rocket, then it’s beginning? and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s begun, and long before this moment, the two friends, like brothers, sitting silently, smoking their Faros, taking a swallow now and then of the potion, keeping their eyes on the two cigars that lay on the napkin on the tabletop waiting for them.

  They weren’t alone in the cantina, the place was full to overflowing, or they were the only customers, that’s how it seemed to Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, blind and seeing, the smoke gathered like low-hanging clouds above them, the burning gaze of Xtabay, a demon seductress, coming from the wall opposite their table, cut through the haze to reach them, and as beautiful as Xtabay was, a true temptation, her spellbinding stare savagely penetrated their skulls, splitting them open so the sky beyond the ceiling might read their thoughts, the empty glasses of the third dose of the potion lit by the glowing ends of their cigars, whether they were inhaling them or not, the tips shone bright red, day or night, night or day, and a white and delicate flower, xtabentun, or ololiuqui in Nahuatl, from the snake-plant, or coaxihuitl, lay on the napkin where their cigars had been, resting on a hand-stitched piece of cloth now stained with nectar from a flower picked fresh off the vine, a reflection of the legend of Xtabay, wandering the long-forgotten roads of Mayab, standing beneath the arms of a ceiba tree, waiting to seduce men and travelers, Ernesto reading Rubén Arenal’s thoughts, and Ernesto Cisneros, she’s a danger to them all, a danger to us, ’mano, her eyes are drilling into our heads, reminding me that we’re in the same world but at a different time with modern dangers that owe nothing to ancient perils, we haven’t made a lot of progress, our reality’s a lot uglier and more threatening than the beauty of legends, don’t ignore the past, we won’t get anywhere if we don’t learn from history, and Rocket, do
n’t look now but Xtabay’s off the canvas and heading our way, and Ernesto Cisneros, ignore her, she’s magnificent, but look the other way, no eye contact, or she’ll grab you, fuck you, and gobble you up—we aren’t here to disappear, traveling from mouth to stomach by way of her gullet, it’s encouraging visions we’re after, the two friends drawing long and hard on their cigars, the ash at the end of each cigar growing into a fat grainy gray bottle cap, the cantina quiet and loud, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, hearing and deaf, ignoring Xtabay, the evil spirit in the form of a beautiful woman floating past them, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto detecting a slight trembling in the earth, all at once, their table rising off the floor along with the chairs they were sitting on, two chairs and one table tilting up and moving closer to the wall where the large painting, now without Xtabay, covered most of the wall, and what was left on the canvas was the image of a beautifully rendered kapok set in a lush jungle landscape at night vibrating with delightful colors, rich, dark and ardent now that the evil spirit wasn’t there, a large bat with a kind-hearted smile instead of a crazy expression on its face, flying through the distant fire-lit sky above their heads, as if they were closer to Mérida than Chihuahua, the bat circling the nearby river and tall tropical trees of the artist’s imagination, then passing over them on its way out over the water, circling circling, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, still smoking cigars, still seated at their table that was now part of the painting on the wall, with everything turned right side up from their perspective on the canvas, no longer looking backward at the receding floor, seeing the cantina in front of them through a kind of picture window that was the frame of the painting, without hearing the music from the jukebox or the customers’ conversations, recognizing the cigarette and cigar smoke they’d left behind, identifying Xtabay at one of the tables, seated with a solitary man, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal observing the movements in the bar from the safety of the landscape surrounding them, an almost silent swish of the bat’s wings worrying the warm still air, Rubén Arenal taking the cigar from between his lips, wiping moisture from his forehead with a handkerchief, Ernesto’s mask damp with the humidity of the painting’s night, a full-face white pro-grade Lycra mask, a second, semitransparent skin, with black antifaz and an application in the form of a bat, but no red M, and Rocket, you’ve invented your own mask, señor Rodríguez might’ve worn the same one, it’s a suitable selection, brother, the attribute of an old hand at this early stage of transformation, and with a splendid specimen flying over our heads, look out! here he comes, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto, with the cigars between their lips, ducked their heads at the same time as the bat swooped low and then out over the slow-moving river whose current carried no debris, no bodies, but a scattering of leaves, a broken branch, a flower, nothing more.