by Mark Fishman
And Mariano Alcalá, don’t get up, señor Pardiñas, El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, nuestro Pardiñas, el fuerte viento, Ignacio standing anyway, leaning on his stick, giving Mariano a hug, resting against him for a second, then kissing Rosalía, a single kiss, and settling back in his armchair, Rosalía heading straight for the kitchen with a large plastic bag in her hand, and Mariano Alcalá, something cool to drink, she’ll whip it up in a couple of minutes, brought the ingredients herself, Mariano getting comfortable in an armchair facing Ignacio, Rosalía already in the kitchen with what it took to make fresh agua de guayaba, including a couple of limes, altogether plenty of vitamin C, high in fiber, searching Ignacio’s cabinets for sugar, a half-gallon pitcher, checking for ice in the freezer, getting down to slicing the guavas in half to blend, seven of them, putting them in the blender jar, adding sugar, not a lot, less than half a cup, squeezing in the juice from one lime, filling the blender jar with water, switching the machine on for a minute, pouring the contents into the pitcher, adding a couple of cups of water, stirring it with a wooden spoon, Rosalía tasting a drop from the spoon, not adding any more sugar, and Rosalía Calderón, Mariano! mi Jícama Gigante, my large but tender turnip, I need your help in the kitchen, a window of opportunity for a refreshing drink, and Mariano Alcalá, excuse me, getting up from the armchair facing Ignacio, heading for the kitchen, once there, standing beside his wife, Rosalía pointing to the cabinet with the drinking glasses, Mariano taking them down, and Mariano Alcalá, how many? and Rosalía Calderón, there’re five now, and we’re expecting three more, and then there’s one for the ghost of Coyuco, if he shows up, Mariano bowing his head, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, Rosalía turning to face him, taking him by his shoulders, and Rosalía Calderón, be strong, we’ve got to be strong, and Mariano Alcalá, and if all forty-three of them come to visit? plus Coyuco’s ghost? and Rosalía Calderón, we don’t have enough glasses, Ignacio doesn’t, I’d have to go home and get all the glasses we’ve got and still there won’t be enough.
Another knock at the door, Rubén Arenal didn’t hesitate to get up from the sofa to open Ignacio’s door to whoever he’d invited, knowing it was Guadalupe, Irma, and his sister, Luz Elena, and Ignacio Pardiñas, in a calm and respectful way, thank you, Segundo, gripping his wooden stick to help himself get out of the chair, the serpent and eagle giving him a lift, encouraging him, Rubén Arenal opening Ignacio’s door, and Rocket, welcome welcome, a kiss is in order for each of you, and more, Rubén Arenal embracing Guadalupe, Irma, and an extra squeeze for Luz Elena, folded against him, and Luz Elena, with respect to your grip in this world, Xihuitl, my comet, it’s tighter than ever, Luz Elena walking alongside her brother, following Guadalupe and Irma into the living room, Ignacio standing in front of his chair, arms sticking out at his sides, the cane hanging straight down from a closed fist, Ernesto walking hesitantly toward Guadalupe, a look of surprise on her face that vanished in a second, a whistle like a sigh from Irma’s lips, Luz Elena moving ahead of her brother, coming up behind Guadalupe, who was kissing and caressing Ernesto’s face with her hands, Luz Elena waiting her turn to give Ernesto a hug, Ernesto with the face of another, and it was in this atmosphere that his transformation was greeted by those who knew him well, welcoming it at once, each in turn taking a moment to hold him close to their breast and biologically warm heart, not a single what-the-fuck! no what-happened-to-you-my-God-what-a-shock, and then turning to Ignacio, still standing with outspread arms, Guadalupe, Luz Elena, Irma taking turns kissing him on the cheek, then helping him back into the comfort of worn cushions in the armchair, Rosalía and Mariano coming out of the kitchen with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice-cold agua de guayaba, and the greetings and embraces extended from the lips and arms of Guadalupe, Luz Elena, Irma to Rosalía and Mariano.
Eight glasses of agua de guayaba, guayaba juice and water, some full, some half empty, standing on the low table in front of the sofa, one untouched glass alone in the center, Rubén Arenal sitting crosslegged on the floor, the others sitting in chairs, including four from the kitchen, with one chair unoccupied, Guadalupe and Ernesto on the sofa, and Ernesto Cisneros, here, take my place, brother, please, waving his hand at Rubén Arenal, indicating the spot on the sofa next to his wife, and Ignacio Pardiñas, it isn’t the time to be polite, m’hijo, we’ve all got birds inside our heads, tener pájaros en la cabeza, we’ve been thrown off course, to one degree or another, and the time will come when we’ll find our way again, it looks like sooner than later, what do you say, Segundo? and Rocket, I could’ve been sitting in that chair, but let’s leave it for a guest, I’d rather stay where I am, as close to the earth as possible under the circumstances, grounded, and Luz Elena, with respect to where we belong, our location, my brother’s right, we ought to be sitting naked on the bare earth just to get a little closer to the source, our skin a kind of connector, keeping two parts of an electric circuit in contact and our lives going strong, but we’re here in your living room, Ignacio, and it’s here we’ll stay, Guadalupe taking Ernesto’s hand in hers, and Guadalupe Muñoz, absence of our loved ones is enough, with its anxiety of doubt that leads to anger, because anger’s our vital engine, a driving force, our greater-than-ever electricity, look what magic it’s performed, my Ernesto’s a version of Mil Máscaras, angry but ready to work for justice, no matter how much levity we’ve tossed around in our story—that’s the treatment of a serious matter with humor or in a manner lacking due respect—how fond we are of humor and foolishness, whoever’s listening, whether in this world or the next, don’t be fooled, things aren’t always how they appear, our hearts are broken and we’re going to do something about it, we’re ready to fight, and the fighting’s begun, Irma and Luz Elena nodding their heads, and Irma Payno, hold on hold on! who’re you speaking to ’mana? we’re all here and we know what’s happened, and Guadalupe Muñoz, the occupants of the world outside, that’s who, the listeners, m’hija, because almost everybody’s got eyes and ears and some of them are going to watch and listen in an attentive manner, they aren’t all ignorant scaredy-cats trembling with their eyes shut locked up in their houses easily frightened by authority, sirens, and gunfire, not willing to risk their lives, and Ignacio Pardiñas, Lupe’s got it right, you might think it isn’t fair, the way we’ve told our story, you might even think it’s vulgar, and not too serious, but there’s magic where there’s death, especially the unexplained, things guiding us that we don’t know and won’t ever figure out, you might call it supernatural, but it’s as real as the glasses of agua de guayaba on the table in front of us, where are we in our lives when those who ought to be living here with us aren’t living here anymore and are nowhere to be found? the skewed vision you’ve encountered is out of respect for the missing and the dead, whose voices, like our own, are full of fury and confusion, two mirrors facing each other, and Irma Payno, we’ve organized our first protest march, a small demonstration, and it’s the start, and Rosalía Calderón, of course you have, it’s what we expected, and we’ll be there, all of us, the next time you’re on the streets, which better be tomorrow and every day after that until we get some answers, and Mariano Alcalá, a few words from Eduardo Ruíz Sosa, born in 1983 in Culiacán, Sinaloa, “the chief weapon of all regimes (both political and criminal) is that eternal combination of absence and ignorance: not knowing where the disappeared have gone is both weapon and wound; there can be no shrine to their memory until their bodies turn up (perhaps because we deny that they really are dead and grant them a kind of suspended life that would cease were we to erect a monument to them), and then the very thing that drives us on to look for them instills in us a terrible anxiety that leads us to believe they will come back of their own accord, that we must wait for them, that we cannot leave the house because they forgot to take their keys when they left,” and Irma Payno, I think I’m going to be sick, Luz Elena reaching for Irma’s nearly full glass of guayaba juice and water, and Luz Elena, here, ’mana, take a drink, Irma taking a few gulps,
catching her breath, and Irma Payno, I’ve got to have a smoke, Guadalupe and Luz Elena turning their heads, nodding to each other, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you’re welcome, go right ahead, m’hija, a smoke’ll be good for most of us, Irma ran her hands through her hair, reached for her bag, opened it, and removed an Aromas de San Andrés Robusto by Puros Santa Clara from a turquoise leather holder.
Rubén Arenal offering Ernesto a cigarette, not out of a white and green and black pack of Aros, but a crumpled pack of Faros, tobacco rolled in rice paper, a reddish man at sunset on the pack pinching the brim or tipping his hat, looking out at a lighthouse, Rubén Arenal lighting it for him, then his own, then sitting back down on the floor, Irma taking a draw on the cigar but not swallowing smoke, blowing a cloud into the air, Rosalía turning toward Luz Elena, and Rosalía Calderón, who’s looking after the kids, and Luz Elena, they’re at the neighbor’s, and Guadalupe Muñoz, can I try one of your cigars, niña mía? Irma setting her cigar in an ashtray, opening her leather case and taking out another cigar, clipping it, handing the Aromas de San Andrés Robusto to Guadalupe, and Irma Payno, go slow, Lupe, or you’ll knock yourself out, behind the antifaz Ernesto was smiling, and Ernesto Cisneros, it’s what we all need, Lupita, taking a long pull on the Faros, his mask changing before their eyes, left side gold, right side red, red feathery applications on the gold, gold on the red, and a lime-green M on his forehead, the mask worn by Mil Máscaras in Mil Máscaras vs. the Aztec Mummy, Luz Elena leaning toward Rosalía, and Rosalía Calderón, almost a whisper, we saw everything in a vision, the voice of pipiltzintzintli spoke to us through our señor Pardiñas, nuestro Fuerte, and we understood everything, the voice put us in the picture, Ignacio smiling, tapping three times on the floor with his cane, and Ignacio Pardiñas, we heard it, didn’t we, Mari? and Mariano Alcalá, that’s for sure, El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, we were there, and el pipiltzintzintli spoke to us, and Ignacio Pardiñas, and there was a poem by Octavio Paz, and Rosalía Calderón, a little something from Cantares Mexicanos, mi Jícama Gigante, my giant but tender turnip, large as you are, and Mariano Alcalá, don’t forget the words of Nezahualcoyotl, jazmín mío, my flower, we were all there, the three of us, you, me and our señor Pardiñas, and Irma Payno, just listening to you, hearing the names you’ve given each other, El Fuerte, Mari, Jícama Gigante, and jazmín mío, an expression of affection, makes me want to cry for Coyuco, my hands are empty and my heart is cold, and if there was a deep well nearby, I think I’d throw myself into it and look for Coyuco on the other side of this life, Irma set her cigar down in the ashtray, Ernesto, leaving his Faros behind, stood up from the sofa, affected by her sadness and desperation, wringing his hands, taking deep breaths through the opening in the mask that was his mouth, lips like Lycra, approaching Irma with confident strides, not a long journey, but an important one, Guadalupe taking the San Andrés Robusto from between her lips, a look of pride on her face, Ernesto lifting Irma straight out of the chair, holding her in his new-found wrestler’s arms, all at once the room lost daylight but wasn’t too dark, a spotlight shone down on Ernesto and Irma, separating them from the others, sketching a wrestling ring in the middle of Ignacio’s living room, Rosalía looking up from where she was sitting, speaking to Irma, and Rosalía Calderón, according to Adela Fernández, Piltzintecuhtli, Señor Niño, hijo de Oxomoco y de Cipactonal, identificado con el Sol Joven, protector de los niños, “Child Lord,” son of Oxomoco and Cipactonal, identified with the Young Sun, the protector of children, a god of the rising sun, a god of healing, m’hija, my child, so let him keep you in his arms, our Ernesto can help you, and Mariano Alcalá, that’s right, my flower, you said it just before we went up to the roof, and Ignacio Pardiñas, up to the roof as usual in situations like this, Irma looking up at Ernesto’s face, now a white Lycra mask with a cutaway mouth and chin, shiny black applications on the upper forehead, one under the nose, feathered applications around the eyes, including black heartshaped pieces with three small holes for the ears, a red M in the middle of the forehead, a presentation mask, and Irma Payno, what I feel is your strength, and tears started running down her cheeks, and Ernesto Cisneros, from now on my role is action, not words, his arms were a hundred arms like branches reaching out to envelop Irma, and the intertwined fingers of his hands were a thousand fingers like long twigs spread out to form a net that supported her, keeping her from falling.
Ernesto raising her above his head, she weighed almost nothing, a feather in his hands lifted by wrestler’s arms, Irma held so safe so tight she couldn’t even run her hands through her hair, Ignacio tapping his cane three times on the floor in approval, the spotlight following Ernesto as he walked in a circle carrying Irma clasped by a thousand fingers, a murmuring from the onlookers, and Irma Payno, who’re Oxomoco and Cipactonal? and Rosalía Calderón, the first man and woman that were created, and Mariano Alcalá, once, long long ago, they were high gods, no different from the Lord and Lady of Sustenance, rightfully belonging in paradise, residents of the uppermost heaven, and Rosalía Calderón, but they were so antiquated by the time of the Aztecs and so overlaid by later levels of myth, they were brought down to earth to almost human height, and Mariano Alcalá, as first forebears, our ancestors, they took on the role of culture innovators, creating the world of civilized man, giving him knowledge of many things, but they were celebrated as lords of the tonalpohualli, the count of the days was their great work, in the words of Burr Brundage, and Anales de Cuauhtitlán, and Rosalía Calderón, according to John Bierhorst’s free translation of the Annals of Cuauhtitlán, or Year Count, which in Nahuatl is xiuhpohualli, “The year count, the day sign count, and the count of each twenty-day period were made the responsibility of those known as Oxomoco and Cipactonal. Oxomoco means the man, Cipactonal means the woman. Both were very old. And from then on, old men and old women were called by those names,” and Ignacio Pardiñas, what they’re telling you, hija, is that time can heal the pain of our grief, our suffering won’t last forever, the first man and woman that were created, created our days, months, years, and Rocket, maybe the words betray a lack of original thought, maybe not, but we can get hold of a cliché by its handles, let’s all look at our fingers, it’s no joke, Ignacio tapping three times with his cane, admitting his use of a platitude, and Rocket, “Time Is On My Side,” yes, it is, by Jerry Ragovoy—Kai Winding did it first, then Irma Thomas recorded it with additional lyrics by Jimmy Norman, and you know the rest, Guadalupe hauling in smoke from her cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke above her head, Mariano pouring himself another glass of agua de guayaba, Rosalía smoothing her dress with the palm of her hand, tugging gently at the hem, and Rocket, continuing, as for the ancient progenitors and first cultivators of maize, Oxomoco and Cipactonal, they “invented the count of the destinies, / the annals and the count of years, / the book of dreams, / they set it in order as it has been kept, / and as it has been followed,” an example for us to follow of the determination of a people not to lose the memory of their past, and Ignacio Pardiñas, El tiempo está de mi lado, sí así es, and Guadalupe Muñoz, like I said, we’ve tossed around plenty of levity in our story, you might call us empty-headed, but we aren’t, we’ve got to breathe, stay full of life, because if we don’t breathe and aren’t full of life we’ll never find a way to soften the sharp edges of pain or know how to live with what’s happened to those kids, our children, and God doesn’t want us to shrivel up from weeping tears until we haven’t got any, not a drop of salty water in our bodies, not our God, and not the ancient Gods either, if they created the days, months, years, we’re supposed to live them, sorrow or no sorrow, and Ignacio Pardiñas, cry until we’ve cried enough, that’s what I say, but not until there’s nothing left of us, Ignacio tapped three times on the floor with his stick, the hand-painted eagle and snake moved swiftly down the length of it and back again.
Ernesto circling the circle sent down to earth as a spotlight, carrying Irma in his arms, the others watching them, the sudden denseness of the air leaving them dizzy,
and through their eyes, as Ernesto walked in circles with Irma, raised up as an offering to something that wasn’t there, the life and movement in the circle took on the bright, luminous, grotesque colors of the circus, a whirling lively gathering of hues striking the pinpoint precise pupils of Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, who hadn’t said a word for several minutes, Luz Elena sitting up straight, and Luz Elena, with respect to traveling companies of acrobats, trained animals, clowns, this is something special, it’s our own Ernesto’s big top under your roof, señior Pardiñas, our Pardiñas, leaving all of us wondering what’ll be next, and Mariano Alcalá, such magic! but it isn’t the third hour of the night, and Guadalupe Muñoz, no, it isn’t Piltzintecuhtli, Señor Niño, it’s too early, and Rosalía Calderón, shh! don’t break the spell, let’s wait and see, but there was no spell, no state of enchantment by words or motion on Ernesto’s part, he was a hard-working workhorse, a rookie wrestler without controlling or influencing Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, his friends, by availing himself of maneuvering magical powers, and the climax was almost anti-climactic, a sawed-off pinnacle for the performance, it wasn’t a wrestling match, the spotlight went out, the daylight came in, Ernesto setting Irma back on her chair, a beatific smile on her face, no tears no trembling, and Irma Payno, earth is a great thing to help you see, but it’s even better when you’re just above it, thank you Ernesto, I’m calm now, not withered and dying, and Luz Elena, with respect for a true understanding of the relative importance of things, or a particular attitude toward something, a bird’s-eye view gives us a picture we can’t have sitting in a chair, a wrestler’s arms are good for more than a submission hold, like Gory Guerrero’s Special, a hanging, back-to-back backbreaker, or La Mecedora, The Rocking Chair, or La Campana, The Bell, or La Torre, The Tower, a transitional hold, and Guadalupe Muñoz, taking a pull on her cigar, my Ernesto’s an instrument for things not in this world, no words but acts, and a man of courage, and Luz Elena, with respect for that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality, “Tell me and I’ll tell you. Hear me and I hear you,” and Rosalía Calderón, “If you even think, I’ll hear you. Or if I think, you’ll know what I’m thinking,” Ignacio tapping loudly three times with his cane, and Ignacio Pardiñas, in the words of the English poet and politician Edmund Waller, from Divine Poems, “Could we forebear dispute, and practice love, / We should agree as angels do above,” and we do! then a voice coming out of nowhere, it was Coyuco, and Coyuco Cisneros, summoned! Ignacio’s walking stick called me, I’m not an echo of your past, but a precise presence of the here and now, Ernesto staggering, Guadalupe getting up to help him sit down, everyone blinking their eyes, fingers wiggling and pressing against the small pointed projection of their ears trying to clear the tube leading to the eardrum, jaws opening and closing, a voice in each of their heads saying, what we’re hearing we can’t be hearing, Coyuco standing at the entrance to the kitchen, not entirely there, but more than an unfilled-in outline, what looked to each of them like Coyuco taking on color and shade in the space within the outline, and Ignacio Pardiñas, ah, what a marvel! this presence is presence itself, and it gives a true pleasure, Coyuco’s completely there, shimmering like silver, studded with all manner of gems like the golden throne “hard by a hillock of green jasper and on the hill top”—that’s One Thousand and One Nights— take him in from head to toe, Coyuco’s shape was adorned with a purple variety of quartz, blue beryls, rubies, emeralds, and a few rare gems: Alexandrites, with their effects, depending on the nature of ambient lighting, Musgravites, red beryls, and his black eyes were Serendibite, an extremely rare gemstone and mineral from Sri Lanka, Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Ernesto, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, their own eyes blazing like live coals, a voice in each of their heads saying, what we’re seeing we can’t be seeing, but it’s him, no real arms and legs but the semblance of them, no face but it’s his face, and nothing like skin, a bejeweled body from head to toe, and Coyuco Cisneros, I’m far away, alone, and a stranger, I go and come back, and I’ve forgotten, and Guadalupe Muñoz, you’re still my son, no matter what form you take, and Coyuco Cisneros, there are things in the sky, men, women and children, everything is white, and their happiness is in the middle of whiteness, and at night, there are stars and a moon to light our way, nothing evil can happen to us there, and Rocket, many went upward and got to the sky, and the city is great and full of strange things, our Chihuahua, Courage, Loyalty, Hospitality, en nuestro México, country of ghosts, I’ve said it before, I might say it again, and Mariano Alcalá, yes, this is the world and this is life, it’s not good, I know, but it sharpens our minds and fills them with thoughts, and Luz Elena, with respect to visions and sounds, what I see and what I hear, queridos amigos, “If you say it, I must believe it. If I see it, I’ll say: Yes, I have seen it. If I hear it, I’ll say: Yes, I’ve heard it. All you need do is speak,” and Rosalía Calderón, “In the end whatever is going to happen will happen, because it must,” Irma running her hands through her hair, in no doubt, self-possessed, and Irma Payno, Salmo 73:23-24, Con todo, yo siempre estuve contigo; / Me tomaste de la mano derecha. / Me has guiado según tu consejo, / Y después me recibirás en gloria, “Nevertheless, I am continually with you; / you hold my right hand. / You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory,” Ignacio tapping three times with his walking stick, and Ignacio Pardiñas, with those words, Irma, you’re my daughter, too, along with my son Ernesto, and Segundo, my second son, then everyone turning to look at Coyuco, or what appeared to be him, it was his body, skin covered with gems, his face, precious stones, and a chorus of their voices, Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, everyone’s voice except Ernesto’s, even the light and air in the room joined them, and the wind outside, they could see it and feel it, and Mariano Alcalá, Rosalía Calderón, Ignacio Pardiñas, Guadalupe Muñoz, Rocket, Luz Elena, all together, saying, we can’t live without you, and you can’t live without us, we’re together, our eyes weep, our hearts ache, our eyes empty themselves, the deepest cut is the one that doesn’t break the skin, and then silence, until Ignacio used his cane to tap three times on the floor, looking down at where he’d struck it, then up at Coyuco, and Ignacio Pardiñas, do you have something to say? and Coyuco Cisneros, not much because I’m not here, and Mariano Alcalá, you’re here as far as we can tell, and Ignacio Pardiñas, Mas vosotros no vivís según la carne, sino según el Espíritu, si es que el Espíritu de Dios mora en vosotros. Y si alguno no tiene el Espíritu de Cristo, no es de Él, “You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him,” Romans 8:9, and Irma Payno, I know what’s next, Pero si Cristo está en vosotros, el cuerpo en verdad está muerto a causa del pecado, mas el espíritu vive a causa de la justicia, “But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness,” Romans 8:10, and it wasn’t your sin but another’s, you’re a virtuous man, killed by criminals, destroyed by transgressors, and you’ll forever be my saintly spirit, an upright ghost living in my heart, Irma began to cry, wiping her tears with a handkerchief Guadalupe handed her, and Coyuco Cisneros, my eyes are in the heavens and my ears are in the air, following the words of the one who is dear to me, and Irma Payno, yes, listen, and believe, and Coyuco Cisneros, I was born, I lived, I died, those are three things, Ignacio tapping three times on the floor with his walking stick, Irma releasing a muffled sob through the handkerchief, and Ignacio Pardiñas, someone’s calling, and he’s called out three things, I recognize your voice, Coyuco, and I know those words are true, and Coyuco Cisneros, I’m tired of going without having anywhere to go, and I’m tired of coming back and bringing nothing with me, my hands are empty because they can’t hold anything, my head isn’t really my head and it isn’t part of my body, my legs and arms aren’t attached to me, they’re here and some
where else, what you’re looking at is what I’m letting you see so that the state of things as they actually exist doesn’t cause you more harm than has already been done, Mariano, Rosalía, Ignacio, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena offering a chorus of sighs, a simultaneous utterance, Ernesto wringing his wrestler’s hands, and Coyuco Cisneros, I know what your heart’s telling you, I hear it when it speaks, and your tears and anguish are my own, and Guadalupe Muñoz, you’re free to go, and we thank you for coming, we weren’t expecting you or any gifts, what could you possibly carry, my son, our Coyuco, your father’s and mine, and Coyuco Cisneros, there or not there, but there nevertheless, and Guadalupe Muñoz, when we raise our eyes to the sky, we’ll look for you, thinking of you sitting on the clouds, or when we lower them, looking at the earth beneath our feet, we’ll think of you, for all one knows you’ll be residing for eternity in Mictlan Opochcalocan, and Coyuco Cisneros, I can’t tell you where I’ll be, but I’ll call to you, shouting, “Look at me, I’m here!” you might feel the wild wind, Mictlanpaehecatl, the wind which comes from Mictlan, and Mariano Alcalá, Rosalía Calderón, Ignacio Pardiñas, Guadalupe Muñoz, Rocket, Luz Elena, together, another chorus, ¡qué así sea! so be it!
