Thirteen Heavens

by Mark Fishman

  Ignacio tapped his wooden walking stick three times on the floor, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Luz Elena, Ernesto, Guadalupe nodding their heads in accord with Ignacio’s agreement with what Rubén Arenal had just said, and when the nodding stopped their clothes began to change, gradually and without lifting a finger, a fade-out of the old and a fade-in of the new, everyone’s clothes but Ernesto’s, and each face, bit by bit and inch by inch, altering according to some unknown formula, transforming itself from its original anatomical form, once familiar faces evolving in an unheard-of but outwardly natural process, changing completely in form, as far as each of them could tell, except Ernesto’s face, an overhaul he’d had in Iguala de la Independencia, and Ernesto Cisneros, without moving his lips, a little Alexandre Dumas right before my eyes, “All for one, and one for all,” or One For All-All For One by Galneryus, the Japanese power metal band, and Rocket, you didn’t speak out loud, ’mano, but I heard you anyway, in order to stand up for our disappeared brothers, sons, husbands, and to try to make a better here and now, which makes me think of Blue Demon’s movie, Los campeones justicieros by Federico Curiel, 1971, The Champions of Justice battling the forces of evil with El Médico Asesino, Tinieblas, Black Shadow, La Sombra Vengadora, we’re becoming like you, man and woman alike, all of us, on the face of it, no pun intended, Rubén Arenal looked at each of the others in Ignacio’s living room, Guadalupe admiring the transparent black sleeves of her wrestler’s costume, a modern touch of Martha Villalobos, María del Ángel, La Diabólica, or La Diabólica without the mask, and Guadalupe Muñoz, reaching back to the last earthquake, in our time, we’re beginning to look like our own versions of Superbarrio Gómez—“We can see it! We can feel it! Superbarrio is in the house!” “The people united will never be defeated!”—wearing masks with the faces of animals, gods, and ancient heroes, or no masks at all, but wrestlers in our own right, look at Luz Elena, no mask, but a black opaque bodysuit and calf-high black-and-white lace-up boots, reminding us of Pantera Sureña, the Orquídea Negra, and Luz Elena, you aren’t wearing a mask either, Lupe, you’re looking more on the order of Lola “Dinamita” González, when she was young and on the cover of Lucha Libre magazine, Guadalupe’s true face blushing beneath the thin layer of someone else’s skin, and Mariano Alcalá, for my age, I’m feeling fit as a falcon, his dark blue wrestler’s tights molded to a pair of muscular legs, a hint in his masklike face of Aníbal, Ignacio Carlos Carillo, when he fought against El Solitario, Rosalía, in a rose-colored sleeveless bodysuit with a single strap around her neck going from shoulder to shoulder, two gold flowers printed on the hips, a bodysuit cut high on her thighs, Rosalía with a full head of hair and resembling Zuleyma, Elvia Fragoso Alonso, a luchadora in the 1980s, Rosalía running to the bathroom for a bath towel to cover her embarrassment, returning to Ignacio’s living room with a towel wrapped around her waist, and Rosalía Calderón, I’ve got the figure of La Princesa Hindu, and now God’s given me a face with the mask of La Dama Enmascarada, Magdalena Caballero, may God rest her soul, a pioneer of women’s wrestling and first national champion, first cousin of Irma González, I’m a younger but not better or worse self, proud but a little embarrassed, and now that my face’s hidden, I can go outside wearing Elvia’s revealing outfit without anyone knowing who I am, La Dama Enmascarada’s face-covering mask with white antifaz, not made of pig skin but comfortable fabric—my skin’s got to breathe, after all—they won’t know me unless they’ve seen a picture of her, now let’s inspect Irma, the youngest of us all, already transformed, looking lovely and powerful, it’s her turn, Mariano, Rosalía, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ernesto, Guadalupe gathering around her, everyone except for Ignacio, completely reconditioned but still sitting in his chair, gripping his hand-painted wooden walking stick, everyone admiring Irma’s shapely figure in a two-piece costume, and Luz Elena, with respect to what’s sexy and what’s not, you’ve got us all beat, you really are La Tigresa, and a sort of Irma Serrano, but you look an awful lot like Sexi Star, Dulce María García Rivas, trained by Humberto Garza Jr., Mr. Lince, Gran Apache, and Abismo Negro, may he rest in peace, and you’re hair’s turned blonde, take a good look in the mirror, you’ll like what you see, who wouldn’t? Irma looked at herself in the mirror, a silver mask with tiny silver horns and a sparkling silver star above her forehead, a mask covering most of her face, Irma using her index finger to tap twice on her exposed chin, approving of the color of the lipstick she saw in the reflection, Irma drew an invisible line around her lips without touching her face.

  A circle slowly formed around Ignacio, sitting in his chair, the warm light of the afternoon showing hints of dusk and throwing early shadows on the floor, seven pairs of hands respectfully folded before him as he looked slowly up the lengths of their bodies from the floor to heads not bowed but aimed nobly at him, and as many pairs of eyes searching, probing and shrewd, accurately accessing the oldest man in the room, by months not years, Mariano only slightly younger, and Rocket, but it can’t be Santo, it isn’t possible! and Mariano Alcalá, of course it’s possible, in this situation there’re only miracles, and Luz Elena, he isn’t even El Hijo del Santo, with due respect to fathers and sons, but the original, one and only El Santo wearing his silver mask, that’s our Ignacio, a kind of leader or senior figure in our group, if only by the calculation of years months days hours, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Ernesto, Guadalupe, each rubbing their hands together in preparation for what they didn’t know but flourishing in faith that it was going to be something exceptional, Ignacio getting to his feet unaided by his cane, a younger man at his age, and Mariano Alcalá, a little history if you haven’t heard it, and a tip of the hat, if I was wearing one, to Salvador Lutteroth, our father of Mexican wrestling, former property inspector for the tax department, founder with Francisco Ahumado, his financial partner, of Empresa Mexicana de Lucha Libre, the Mexican Wrestling Enterprise, the two men incorporating themselves in 1933, promoting events in Arena Modelo—you know it now as Arena México—and Rodolfo Guzmán, our Santo, El Profe, because they called him professor, wrestled for the first time as El Santo in the old Arena Modelo in 1942, getting his first title ever in February 1943, defeating Ciclón Veloz, Fausto Nicolas Veloz Gallardo, winning the Mexican National Welterweight Championship, and then in April 1943, Lutteroth opened Arena Coliseo, just northwest of the Zócalo, at the southern edge of Tepito—in Nahuatl, Teocaltepiton—a barrio of Mexico City, and for its first card ever, Lutteroth booked a Santo vs. Tarzán López main event, El Santo lost the match, but the rest is history—I said it, a dumb thing to say—but history it is, without an ounce of myth, only truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, El Enmascarado de Plata’s a folk hero and symbol of justice, you can call me lazy, ’manos y ’manas, because I’m leaving out plenty, Jesús Lomelí’s part, for example, and how Santo got his name, come closer come closer, it’s more than history, and it’s fun, what I’ve heard, what I’ve read, Jesús Lomelí was the Mexican Wrestling Enterprise’s main talent scout, and a referee, too, so one fine day, or night, the superstar wrestler “Roughhouse” Jack O’Brien, whose real name was Marcelo Andreani, noticed Rodolfo Guzmán and his brother Miguel “Black” Guzmán’s talent—Miguel Guzmán trained his younger brother, our Santo—and Jack O’Brien recommended them to Jesús Lomelí, and señor Lomelí took the brothers to Mexico City, got them signed to contracts with Empresa Mexicana de Lucha Libre—those who didn’t work for them, you could count them on one hand—and it was the start of something big, Rodolfo Guzmán was wrestling unmasked as E Hombre Rojo, but it didn’t last long, our Santo left La Empresa, and so did señor Lomelí, who started promoting on his own—Frontón México, if my memory’s still up and running—so the clock’s ticking and days go by, our Santo wrestling for señor Lomelí as El Murciélago Enmascarado II, because Jesús Lomelí didn’t want him to be Hombre Rojo anymore, but here’s the catch, there’s an original El Murciélago Enmascarado, Jesús Velázquez—you’re following me, aren�
��t you—and this Murciélago Velázquez didn’t like the rookie using his name without permission, so he complained to the boxing and wrestling commission, and the upshot, the payoff, Rodolfo Guzmán dropped the name, so now it’s time Jesús Lomelí used his ingenuity to invent something, and he came up with El Santo, El Diablo, El Ángel, take your pick, that’s what he said, they’re brawny irresistible spirited names, or he didn’t say anything at all, just reciting the list, a few suggestions, take it or leave it, wiping the sweat off his face with a towel, giving our Santo a look straight in the eyes, maybe throwing in a few more words, never say die, mi amigo, you’ve got an appetite and plenty of talent, I can hear his words like he was whispering them in my ear, so what happened? Rodolfo Guzmán fixed on El Santo, considering he was a relentless rudo, maybe tongue-in-cheek, maybe not, but you’ve got to figure there was a hint of ironic intent, and that rudo, our Santo, El Profe, because they called him professor—I know and you know there’s no harm in repeating it—became a great técnico in 1962—it can happen just like that! rudo to técnico—but now my tour through history’s over folks, you can get out of the bus, and I hope I haven’t made you dizzy, facts facts, Mariano taking a bow in his dark blue wrestler’s tights, with a touch of Aníbal on his face when Aníbal fought El Solitario, Aníbal, the Carthaginian Warrior, and his spinning headscissors takedown, a big grin stretching the thin layer of Mariano’s masklike skin, altogether animated by his new role, rejuvenated by his wrestler’s outfit, trim appearance, and undeniable ability to recite.

  And Ignacio Pardiñas, thank you, my brother, my partner, Ignacio making a formal gesture waving his arm out in front of him with an open hand, and Ignacio Pardiñas, thank you to my companions in the ring, I bow to you, without absurdity I claim my role in the name of fate and a promise to fight with each of you for the truth we’re owed and the rights we deserve, Ignacio raising his hand-painted cane, whirling it over his head, a champion of enthusiasm, and Ignacio Pardiñas, whether or not we’re really wearing these costumes and masks—it might be a figment of our communal imagination—it’s of little consequence because we’re engaged, and I turn with honor to Segundo, let’s see his splendor after a narrow escape from danger, a close brush with ghosts right out of Ugetsu monogatari, or “Tales of Moonlight and Rain,” by Ueda Akinari—tales as beautiful as beauty itself, read them and dream, you’ll see what I mean, and all eyes turned to Rubén Arenal now sporting a trim little mustache, shirtless in normal size trunks, arms at his sides with fists loosely closed, thumbs touching his bare upper thighs in a typical pose by and a dead ringer for Enrique Juan Yañez González, or Enrique Llanes, and Ignacio Pardiñas, don’t be shy, give Segundo a healthy look up and down, our Rubén Arenal—Rocket to his friends—has taken the shape of Enrique Llanes, known as El Sol de Otumba, born on August 24, 1919, in Otumba, a municipality in the state of Mexico, a handsome wrestler who wrestled without a mask, making his debut in the Arena Modelo in June 1942, he’s one of the greats! working for the Mexican Wrestling Enterprise, Enrique Llanes, the inventor of the submission hold called La Cerrajera, The Locksmith, a finishing move, a modified abdominal stretch, and the Quebradora con Giro, a Tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, was his signature move, during his career he held both El Campeonato Mundial Peso Medio de NWA, the National Wrestling Alliance World Middleweight Championship and El Campeonato Nacional Semicompleto, the Mexican National Light Heavyweight Championship, and just to make the circle complete, Enrique Llanes was trained by the celebrated champion, Carlos López Tovar, known as Tarzán López, the Tarzán that made his professional debut as Carlos López in April 1934 at the Arena Peralvillo-Cozumel in Tepito, Mexico City, Rubén Arenal, his ears tuned in to every word, more proud than ever, standing as straight as he could, not used to the exceptional level of firmness in the resting muscles of his legs despite all that running around Chihuahua, first in one direction, then another, to find himself beneath the unforgiving sun in front of the plate glass window of La Popular, with its wood-paneled shop floor, arriving there to look with admiration and love at the tall, slender figure of La Pascualita in a bridal gown he couldn’t afford, and Rocket, you’re a fascinating fact machine, señor Pardiñas, like señor Alcalá, and more lively than I’ve ever seen you, and Mariano Alcalá, that’s why he’s El Fuerte, mi Fuerte, el fuerte viento, our strong wind, Ignacio tapping three times on the floor with his walking stick, but with his recently acquired strength it almost snapped in half, and Ignacio Pardiñas, you can be proud of who you are, Segundo, more than a duplicate of the son of José Yañez López, a telegraphist aligned with the Mexican revolutionaries, and María González Moreno, a direct descendant of Pedro Moreno González, a famous insurgent in our war of independence, Ignacio sat down in his chair with his back as straight as a pine, resting his now powerful hands on the top of the cane, indicating with his chin hidden by a silver mask that everyone should relax and return to where they’d been sitting before he continued with what he had to say about Enrique Llanes.