Thirteen Heavens
Page 36
Rubén Arenal and Ernesto sitting upright at their table in the painted landscape, where everything looked real, tasting the moisture in the air, breathing the smell of vegetation, the odor of the earth, the stubs of their cigars having dropped off when they ducked their heads, but the tips still glowing, no dust or dirt kicked up on the road a stone’s throw away because there wasn’t a single passerby, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, smoking, their hands folded in front of them, the flames of the distant fire growing brighter, reflected on the irises of their eyes, Rubén Arenal inspecting Ernesto’s face, a closer look at his friend in the primitive nighttime, and Rocket, now the red M’s where it’s supposed to be, Ernesto reaching up to touch the Lycra letter on his forehead, then a sigh of relief, and Ernesto Cisneros, to make the picture complete, the bat must’ve painted it in passing, so instrumental is my connection to Mr. Personalidad, El Hombre de las Mil Máscaras, a puzzling partnership understood by few, not even myself, but since it happened, I always appraise it with ample appreciation because I don’t know who I’d be if it weren’t for him, not after committing murder, what I’ve got is another shot, perdone, my apologies for saying it! and Rocket, no one will see us cry for what you did on the empty soccer field in Iguala, the tears we’ve got left are reserved for your son, and the others, Ernesto looking down at his feet, a serpent, the symbol of lightning, the divine type of warlike might, circling his boot, gathering itself snugly around the ankle, no biting, no squeezing, a friendly serpent to keep them company during their stay in the painting without Xtabay, she was busy in the bar, a landscape without threats, not even the flaming sky approaching them was dangerous, it was just the color and light of an impenetrable night, not easy to understand but a result of the potion they’d been served by the owner of the cantina, who came from Ticul, belonging to the chiefdom of Tutul Xiú in pre-Hispanic times, a town nineteen miles east of Uxmal, Yucatán, and Rocket, what’re you looking at? and Ernesto Cisneros, a snake that’s a warrior, brother, and she’s come to join us, and Rocket, and you didn’t call her to come to you, didn’t do a thing, you’re more than a model of Mil Máscaras, snake charming’s thought of as the highest test of proficiency in magic, and magic brings victory in war, and Ernesto Cisneros, Huitzilopochtli’s mother is Cihuacoatl, Woman Serpent, one of the guises of Coatlicue, Robe of Serpents, and Our Great Mother, the most dreaded and powerful of all the goddesses, this potent potion’s more than magic, and this snake’s more evidence in our favor, Our Lady, the Serpent Woman, mythical mother of the human race, wound around the ankle of my boot, a favorable forecast into our future, La Epístola Universal de Santiago, James 4:15, En lugar de lo cual deberíais decir: Si el Señor quiere, viviremos y haremos esto o aquello, “Instead you ought to say, ‘If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that,’” because it isn’t up to us, you know it and I know it but the municipal police, the federal police, the ministerial police don’t know it, they think it’s up to them or it’s up to nobody, and whoever gets in their way gets stepped on stamped out erased from earth, no grasp of the will of God, Rubén Arenal watching the serpent make herself comfortable, gradually inflating her body using the warmth emanating from Ernesto’s leg to increase in size, the marriage of human and snake, two different organisms living in close physical and spiritual association, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal persuaded the painting on the wall of the cantina was a pleasant place to live, but knowing it was temporary, a blessing of the owner’s elixir, all at once, the music and conversations from the bar, still foggy with cigarette and cigar smoke, coming in loud and clear, in particular, a son jarocho from Veracruz, written by Arcadio Hidalgo, “El Fandanguito,” “The Little Party,” sung by Ixya Herrera, played by Conjunto Hueyapan with Moche Herrera on jarana jarocho, Xocoyotzin Herrera on requinto jarocho, and Fermín Herrera on arpa jarocho:
¿Señores, qué son es éste?
¿Señores, qué son es éste?
Señores El Fandanguito
Señores El Fandanguito
¿Señores, qué son es éste?
La primera vez que lo oigo
¡Válgame Dios! pero qué bonito
¿Señores, qué son es éste?
Señores El Fandanguito
Y este jarro, y este jarro me huele a vino
Vuelta le doy, que me desatino
Y este jarro, y este jarro me huele a coco
Vuelta le doy, que me vuelvo loco
Fandanguito marinero
De la costa pescador
De la costa pescador
Fandanguito marinero
De la costa pescador
Al cantarte soy primero
Pues me gusta tu sabor,
Y al bailarte sólo quiero,
Que me acompañe mi amor
Currutí
Currutí currutí currutá
Cantando se viene
Contando se va
¡Ay! currutí
Currutí currutí currutá
La madre abadesa
De la catedral
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
Vuela veloz como el viento
Vuela veloz como el viento
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
Vuela veloz como el viento
Con tu cantar exquisito
Alegras cualquier momento
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
Tú vienes de Sotavento
¡Ay! que me voy
Que me voy
Me voy prendecita
Lucero hermoso de mañanita
Que me voy
Que me voy
Me voy prenda amada
Lucero hermoso de madrugada
¿Señores, qué son es éste?
Señores El Fandanguito
Gentlemen, what son is this?
Gentlemen, what son is this?
Gentlemen, it is El Fandanguito
Gentlemen, it is El Fandanguito
Gentlemen, what son is this?
It is the first time that I hear it
Oh, my God! How beautiful!
Gentlemen, what son is this?
Gentlemen, it is El Fandanguito
And this jug, and this jug smells like wine
I spin it because I’m acting foolish
And this jug, and this jug smells like coconut
I spin it because I’m going crazy
Sea-going Fandanguito
Fisherman from the coast
Fisherman from the coast
Sea-going Fandanguito
Fisherman from the coast
I’m the first to sing your verses
Because I love your feeling
And when I dance to your rhythm
I want only to have my darling by my side
Currutí
Currutí, currutí, currutá
Singing she comes
Singing she goes
Oh, currutí
Currutí, currutí, currutá
The mother superior
Of the cathedral
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
Fly swiftly like the wind
Fly swiftly like the wind
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
Fly swiftly like the wind
With your exquisite singing
You bring joy to every moment
Fandanguito, Fandanguito
You come from Sotavento
Oh, I’m leaving,
I’m leaving,
I’m leaving, my little darling
Oh, beautiful bright morning star
Oh, I’m leaving,
I’m leaving
I’m leaving, my beloved
Beautiful bright star of the dawn
Gentlemen, what son is this?
Gentlemen, it is El Fandanguito
And before their eyes, the dance of the puhuy, or owl, the dance of the cux, or weasel, the dance of the iboy, or armadillo, the dance of the xtzul, or centipede, and the chitic, or walking-on-stilts dance, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto setting their eyes first on the customers dancing the cen
tipede dance, each wearing small masks, and bearing the tails of the macaw on the napes of their necks, then on those dancing the chitic, expertly dancing on very tall stilts, each customer working many miracles with the things and people at hand in the cantina, burning furniture as though they were really burning, that’s how it appeared to Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, and instantly the furniture was as it’d been before, not burned but whole, and the dancers cut themselves into small pieces, too, killing each other, and the first one they’d killed was stretched out on the cantina’s floor as though he were dead, but instantly he was brought back to life, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto hearing one customer saying to another: a piece of advice, ’mano, first, when you go to die, cry, and use any means necessary to shed a tear, even if it’s only one, because that’s the path the soul takes, and second, do everything you can to push your soul out of your body, because if you don’t, you’ll suffer the most severe and insufferable pain that’s given to man, and Rocket, words straight out of a story by Juan Rulfo, and Ernesto Cisneros, I heard them, and they mean everything, let’s remember them, and Rocket, in the words of Ana Gloria Álvarez Pedrajo, “Generally, I pray for the poor souls in purgatory. Their cries during the night are not bothersome to hear, but their exile is what saddens me,” and Ernesto Cisneros, so do we all, nosotros los creyentes, we the believers, dancers have the code in the movement of their bodies, birds in magnetizing the air with their beaks—more sorcery and less science! the visions provided by the elixir drawing Ernesto and Rubén Arenal closer to the scene beyond the canvas, leaning forward from their chairs toward the fascinating dances and magic taking place in the cantina, the elixir beginning to wear off, and with these displays of magic, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto, without being tired at all, more energized than enervated by their experience, putting their cigars in the large ashtray, a piece of sculpted clay hardened by heat resembling the pottery Rubén Arenal made in his studio, Rubén Arenal looking at it but without an impulse to inspect it closely, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, getting up from their chairs, climbing down out of the painting, leaving their table and two nearly extinguished smoldering cigars behind them on the canvas, righting themselves on the floor, first one foot then the other, their eyes sweeping the marvels of the dancing cantina, catching sight of Xtabay, who’d returned to the painting after seducing a customer who was no longer in the cantina, a large kapok behind her, and their table and chairs still standing in the jungle where they’d left them, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto moving through the impassioned customers beneath a layer of cigar and cigarette smoke, the two friends ambling rhythmically to the music, rolling their shoulders to the beat, making their way through the crowd toward the exit, the last scene of Howard Hawk’s To Have and Have Not, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Walter Brennan, but there were only two of them, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, heading for daylight, reaching for the handle of the wood paneled door, the elixir entirely worn off after they’d seen and felt what they were meant to see and feel, nothing forgotten, not ever, not today or tomorrow, memories fresh as the dawn awaiting them after another nudge in the right direction.
And Ignacio Pardiñas, since you tell me you enjoyed hearing a quote from Alberto Blanco, according to your story it was Pascuala Esparza, La Pascualita’s mother, who said the words to both of you—I’ll go with it, a theme, and for right now I won’t quote from the Bible, not until it’s necessary, here we go, my son, and you, Rubén Arenal, Rocket, a name reserved for your friends—who hasn’t said it!—a few lines from Alberto Blanco’s poem, “Mi tribu,” “My Tribe”:
La tierra es la misma
el cielo es otra.
El cielo es el mismo
la tierra es otro.
De lago en lago,
de bosque en bosque:
¿cuál es mi tribu?
—me pregunto—
¿cuál es mi lugar?
Earth is the same
sky another.
Sky is the same
earth another.
From lake to lake,
forest to forest:
which tribe is mine?
—I ask myself—
where’s my place?
And Ignacio Pardiñas, hoping that you’ll see its significance, my young men—one who’s like my son, the other like his brother—speaking loosely, of course, with cards on the table, completely open and honest, Rocket, you’re my second son, apparently but not actually valid, but good enough for me, so I’ll call you Segundo henceforth as of now from this day forward, and adding it up m’hijos, you’re my family, if you throw in Mariano and Rosalía, and Lupe, too, of course, Ignacio sitting straight in his armchair, holding his hardwood walking stick painted with a serpent and an eagle, the skin on his knuckles taut with the firm grip of a strong old man, Ernesto and Rubén Arenal sitting side by side on the sofa in the living room of Ignacio’s house on Barrancas del Cobre, music coming from the radio in the kitchen, an instrumental, and Ignacio Pardiñas, “Rosita,” a waltz by Beto Villa, saxophonist and father of the orquesta tejana style, born in Falfurrias, Texas in 1915, and as far as your Coyuco goes, our Coyuco, excuse my temporary lack of sophistication or good taste, it’s anger and frustration speaking out, you can’t replace a burst tire with a spare, there’s no substituting him, and none of the others, not now not ever.
Ernesto and Rubén Arenal, sitting quietly, listening to him, the three of them waiting for Ignacio’s friends, Mariano and his wife, Rosalía, who’d left their house and were heading on foot for Ignacio’s place on Barrancas del Cobre, according to Ignacio, who’d made the call, speaking to them on the telephone, inviting them along with the others, Guadalupe and Irma and Luz Elena, with a couple of words of warning in advance on Ernesto’s appearance, explaining that he’s exhibiting a face that wasn’t his own but a face they’d recognize right away, in one form or another, it was still his voice when you listened to him speaking, don’t be afraid don’t be afraid, we know him and we’ll always love him, Ignacio spelling out just enough but not too much on the telephone, you never know who’s listening and why give away the whole thing with a handful of words, you’ll have to see it to believe it, a miracle to one’s liking, that’s what Ernesto and Rubén Arenal heard him say, more or less, Rubén Arenal looking at his friend, a change taking place before his eyes, right now it was an Aztec-style mask, right side green, left side red, a jagged white M on the forehead, golden eagle applications, and gold Aztec-style antifaz, really a second, semitransparent skin with the power and skill of Mil Máscaras behind it, and Rocket, never underestimate the energy, strength and artistry of a face like that, but he was speaking to no one, speaking under his breath, while thinking how Ernesto had saved him from going over the edge of the roof, and Rocket, a little louder so they could hear him, think what you’ll do for Centro Comunitario Vistas del Cerro Grande, and Ignacio Pardiñas, it’ll be the right place for you, m’hijo, then tapped his walking stick on the floor three times, as if he were calling the court to attention, or a servant to his side, but nobody moved, Ernesto, motionless with his hands flat on his knees, eyes bright behind the mask, facing straight ahead, Ignacio and Rubén Arenal perspiring, no moisture showing on the Aztec mask, a water-resistant skin, Ignacio wiping his face with a handkerchief, looking at Ernesto, tapping three times on the floor with his wooden stick, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you’re dry as sand, m’hijo, in the words of Charles Godfrey Leland, humorist, folklorist, and journalist, Ignacio turning to Rubén Arenal, what do you make of it, my son doesn’t sweat, but we’re soaking wet, turn on the fan, Segundo, before we lose consciousness while we’re waiting, not enough oxygen to go around, Rubén Arenal crossing the room, switching on the fan standing on a small table with a single drawer, and Ignacio Pardiñas, open it, you’ll find a nice Bible lying where it’s supposed to be, Rubén Arenal opening the drawer, finding a clean copy of an old Bible looking up at him, and Ignacio Pardiñas, talking about breathing, m’hijos, there’s Génesis 2:7, Entonces Jehová Dios formó al hombre del
polvo de la tierra, y sopló en su nariz aliento de vida, y fue el hombre un ser viviente, “Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature,” you see it doesn’t take long to find a reference in our Bible to anything that’s on my mind, and Ernesto Cisneros, speaking at last, Salmo 104:29-30, Escondes tu rostro, se turban; / Les quitas el hálito, dejan de ser, / Y vuelven al polvo. / Envías tu Espíritu, son creados, / Y renuevas la faz de la tierra, “When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. When you send forth your Spirit, they are created, and you renew the face of the ground,” Ignacio tapping loudly three times on the floor with his cane, and Ignacio Pardiñas, just like my exchanges with Mariano and Rosalía, and there was a knock at the door, Rubén Arenal, standing up, volunteering to answer it, Ignacio nodding his head, and Ignacio Pardiñas, thank you thank you, Rubén Arenal opening the front door, Mariano and Rosalía standing in front of Rubén Arenal, standing so close to each other that it looked like one person sharing legs, arms, and hands, with two heads, Rubén Arenal rubbing his eyes, ignoring the desire to go for the calluses on the palm of his right hand, Rubén Arenal waving them in, kissing Rosalía on the cheek, shaking hands with Mariano, and the three of them headed for the living room.