by Mark Fishman
And Ignacio Pardiñas, Enrique Llanes was trained to be a locksmith by his cousin, and there’s a story that goes with it, one day on the bus, coming back from a job, Enrique Llanes saw his idol Tarzán López sitting there, that’s right, Carlos López Tovar, and he went to shake his hand, Tarzán López asked him if he was a locksmith, saying something on the order of you look like a locksmith and you’ve got a locksmith’s tools with you, well, as you can plainly see, ’mano, I’m a plumber, but I’d love to learn the locksmith trade, and Enrique Llanes, wearing a smile, answered him, it’s true, señor López, I’m a locksmith, and he offered to teach the locksmith trade to Tarzán López in exchange for lucha libre training—at the time, Tarzán López was the biggest star and draw in the country—Tarzán López accepted the deal and taught Enrique Llanes amateur, submission and pro-style wrestling at the Gimnasio San José, and later, in the mid-forties, they even formed a tag team, La Pareja Ideal, “The Ideal Team,” becoming the most popular babyface, or técnico, team of the era, masters of both llaves, you know the rest, it’s the tale of the rise of wrestler Enrique Llanes, one of the finest technicians in the country, and Mariano Alcalá, you see what kind of man you are! and Rosalía Calderón, he retired from the ring in 1963, but worked for years in radio and TV, and Luz Elena, with respect for a title that isn’t only the position of being the champion of a major sports competition, in the eighties, he was a commissioner within the Comisión de Box y Lucha Libre Mexico D.F., the Mexico City Boxing and Wrestling Commission, and Guadalupe Muñoz, he died of natural causes on September 18, 2004, and Ignacio Pardiñas, a lesson to us all, there’s life after death, we’re proof of that—except for Irma, in her two-piece costume, looking a lot like the living Sexi Star, I’m sure Dulce García wouldn’t mind, Rosalía in a rose-colored sleeveless bodysuit resembling the alive-and-well Zuleyma, I’m sure La Princesa Hindu, Elvia Fragoso, wouldn’t mind, Luz Elena in a black opaque bodysuit, reminding us of the ever-present Pantera Sureña, I’m sure Lidia Rangel wouldn’t mind, Lupe, wearing a black and gold bodysuit, with La Dinamita’s face for a mask, I’m sure María Dolores González wouldn’t mind, and of course, our Ernesto as the eternal Mil Máscaras, I’m sure Aarón Rodríguez wouldn’t mind either, we’re representing the living and the dead, which makes us twice as strong, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Ernesto, Guadalupe believing in the words spoken by Ignacio, each of them represented a formidable force in the form of a wrestler, Luz Elena proud in Pantera Sureña’s bodysuit, Rubén Arenal as Enrique Llanes puffing out his chest, Mariano’s neat Air Force blue Aníbal-like face with white antifaz, Rosalía with Zully’s beautiful head of hair beneath the mask of Magdalena Caballero, Irma’s silver star and tiny silver horns on her silver mask glinting in the last golden rays of sunlight, Ernesto’s face wearing a thin skin that was Mil Máscaras’ leopard-skin mask with red trim around the eyes, nose, and mouth, and a white M on the forehead, Guadalupe ready with her signature moves: Lola González’s powerbomb, a flying legdrop, or a senton splash—instead of landing stomach first across her opponent, it was a simple back splash—Ignacio as El Santo, leaving his walking stick where it was leaning against the chair, he’d use his hands, the strength in his arms, the purity in his heart, Ignacio getting up again, spreading his arms to embrace them all, eight warriors moving to the front door of Ignacio’s home on Barrancas del Cobre, the door opening of its own accord, no human intervention, the breath of Coyuco propelling them, or a stupendous effort of Coyuco’s otherworldly will, they felt he was at the center of things, walking with them, arms linked once they’d got out of the house, turning left, then a sort of V formation, but on the earth, their feet on the ground, walking slightly downhill away from the cement staircase with approximately nine steps and a railing on the left-hand side, not going to Mariano and Rosalía’s house, but continuing on Barrancas del Cobre in the opposite direction past Calle 34a, Ignacio as El Santo leading the way, Barrancas del Cobre leveling off, a lemon-yellow house beside a pale orange house on their right, passing a pale green single-story house, one on each side of the road, not a wrestler out of breath, eight pairs of lungs in tip-top shape, proceeding quickly and with determination, Mariano, Rosalía, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ignacio, Irma, Ernesto, Guadalupe, shoulder to shoulder, a row eight wrestlers wide, each the escort of the other, the sun heading for the horizon, no longer throwing shadows, and on their left, a metallic maroon Chevy 4x4 pickup parked at the side of the street with its hood up, the wrestlers arriving at the end of Barrancas del Cobre, taking a right on Calle Trigésima, then a left into Hacienda Agua Nueva, a road with a tree-lined median strip between single lanes of opposing traffic, a few pedestrians, plenty of parked cars, at last coming to a long cement whitewashed brick wall with razor wire running along the top, and a couple of palm trees, a wall concealing one side of a cemetery, Panteón Municipal 2, that lay spread out behind it, they took a right on to Calle 20A, carrying on in twilight, more shapes than distinct figures with faces, Panteón Municipal 1, across the street on their left, a large cemetery with a white painted façade and a slategray stone arch, a bicycle parking rack, a single stone bench, and a man selling flowers under a blue plastic canopy on the left side of the entrance, a bicycle parking rack with two stone benches on the right side, Mariano, Rosalía, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ignacio, Irma, Ernesto, Guadalupe huddling together under a mild evening sky for an informal, private conversation, and Ignacio Pardiñas, all wrestlers are tied together by more than their funciones, or their programas, and Mariano Alcalá, en el Norte, up north, it’s called a card, five matches played out over the course of about two hours, and Guadalupe Muñoz, maybe life’ll be less complicated now that we’re luchadores and luchadoras, their heads were bent, their masklike faces almost touching, as they stood there in a circle until the refraction and scattering of the sun’s rays from the atmosphere drew their attention to the soft glowing light in the sky, each raising his or her eyes, admiring the twilight, and then they heard a song, “Al pie de la tumba,” “By Your Tomb,” a ranchera written by Alfredo García, played and sung by Conjunto Tamaulipas, Rafael Ramírez and Tono Borrego, the music and words entering their ears, one wrestler after the other, until they were all looking around to see where it was coming from, at first thinking it might be the flower seller’s radio, but it was switched off, then perhaps from a small loudspeaker attached to a wall near the entrance to the cemetery, but it wasn’t a loudspeaker, it was a bird or shadow trying to get a foothold at dusk in a crack in the wall, the apparent form of something when the reality was different, so much like life, and without finding the source, under the watchful gaze of a bird, or the stain of a shadow, the music surrounding them, hearing the heartbreaking lyrics, they breathed in each verse like an absent mist which filled their hearts with a renewed sense of loss, of unjust treatment, not much melancholy, and more than a hint of anger at the government, the police, the army, and authority in general:
Me fuí al cementerio
A soltar el llanto
A ver si llorando
Te puedo olvidar;
Ahora comprendo
Que es imposible,
Porque ya ni muerta
Te dejo de amar.
Al pie de la tumba,
Mirando hacia el cielo
Quisiera escuchar tu voz
Quisiera abrazarte
Quisiera besarte
Pero no es imposible
Tu ya estás con Dios.
Dormido te sueño
Despierto te miro,
Muy dentro de mi alma
Siempre vivirás
No puedo olvidarte
Yo quiero seguirte
Que me llevan lejos
Adonde tú estás.
I went to the cemetery
To pour out my sorrow
To see if by crying
My heart could forget;
But now I can see
That it just can’t be done,
For even in death
I can’t stop loving you.
I sit by your tombstone,
Look up to the heavens
I wish I could hear your voice
I wish I could kiss you
I wish I could hold you
But there is no way,
You’re now with God.
At night I dream of you,
By day I can see you,
You always will live
In the depths of my heart.
I just can’t forget you
I wish I were with you
They might as well take me
Away where you are.
Mariano, Rosalía, Luz Elena, Rubén Arenal, Ignacio, Irma, Ernesto, Guadalupe trying to shake off the paralyzing significance of the song, there was a lot to be done down the road, and they understood it was going to be more than they could imagine, they couldn’t afford to become rooted to the spot, no place for feeling sorry for themselves, and Rocket, let’s have a smoke before we go in, Rubén Arenal taking a pack of Faros from his pocket, not Delicados or Fiesta, cigarettes were passed around to those who smoked, and the pack wasn’t a white and green and black pack of Aros that he extended toward Ernesto, having tapped out a Faros to make it easier to reach, Ernesto remembering Aarón’s gold, red and white pack of Capri as he put the cigarette between lips surrounded by antifaz, Ignacio shaking his head no, putting a Chiclets in his mouth, Rosalía holding her hand out for one of Ignacio’s Chiclets, Irma offering Guadalupe a La Casta Toro 6 x 50 by Santa Clara, with a Viso filler from Estelí Nicaragua, San Andrés Morron and Habano, wrapped in San Andrés Maduro, the right size for the occasion, Mariano thinking twice, asking Rubén Arenal for a Faros, the rules had changed since they’d undergone something on the order of a terrific transformation, inside and out, Luz Elena didn’t dare because it reminded her of El Güero, she’d quit smoking when he left her with three kids to raise, until then she’d always had something in her mouth not counting her tongue and a toothpick, the group moved a couple of feet away from the entrance in the direction of the two stone benches, the song went right on playing, the trembling sun hanging for an instant on the ledge of the horizon before letting go, falling out of sight, Ernesto, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Ignacio finding themselves in the dark, in more ways than one, none of them knowing what they were going to see and do once they went into Panteón Municipal 1, but they prayed the dead would rise up and offer them their strength, not in numbers, or physical power and energy, but a boost a lift a shot in the arm with a solemn promise to stay with them, going the distance, and beyond, and hoping for more than a few words of advice when they asked the souls walking the earth outside of death, turning round and round with too much time on their hands, to point out the way, maybe you can walk with us for a couple of miles, or whatever it takes to get there, the beginning not the end, because that’s where we’re headed, we’ve got to move fast, the end might come before we know it, we’re prepared, we swear up and down, just ask any one of us, we’ve got patience, and endurance, too, but the end can come a lot sooner than expected if we’re caught, killed, carved up into little pieces, buried or burned to a crisp, our ashes scattered like the others, or thrown in jail to rot for eternity, so just lead the way, we’ll fight them, we’re recognized wrestlers, widely known, with limitless skills in the ring, flesh and blood endowed with extraordinary know-how, we’ve got our faith, and you to guide us, along with God, according to Isaías 30:21, Isaiah 30:21, Entonces tus oídos oirán a tus espaldas palabra que diga: Este es el camino, andad por él; y no echéis a la mano derecha, ni tampoco torzáis a la mano izquierda, “And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it,’ when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left,” what do you say? no compass required, and if you can’t join forces with the living, you can use your fingers, bony as they are, to show us the spot, more than an indication, the exact point in time or space at which we’ll begin our work, north south east west? you might say we’ve already begun, then don’t hold back! ride with us to our destination, Rosalía and Ignacio getting rid of their Chiclets, Irma and Guadalupe finishing their cigars, Rubén Arenal, Ernesto, and Mariano grinding out the Faros that’d burned their throats by using the heel of their wrestling boots, Luz Elena patiently watching them, together they turned away from Calle 20A, walked beneath the arch of the entrance to Panteón Municipal 1, past the iron gates that were open like welcoming arms, the early stars lighting their way, Ernesto, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Ignacio entering the cemetery, greeting the first bleached white tombs on their left, a sea of graves lying ahead of them, outlines of crypts and vaults, junipers and pines against the darkening blue sky, their eyes adjusting to the nighttime, while indistinct shapes came up out of the dry earth through prickly scrambling wild shrubs, a face peering around a statue, another materializing next to a mausoleum, friendly branches of trees beckoned them from afar, here we are here we are, volunteers one and all, with this encouragement, Ernesto, Guadalupe, Rubén Arenal, Luz Elena, Mariano, Rosalía, Irma, Ignacio moved forward, their masklike faces displaying more than a hint of the hallmarks of reputable wrestlers past and present, and as they made their way farther into Panteón Municipal 1, reacquainting themselves with their surroundings, blending in with the arrangement of the natural and artificial physical features of the graveyard, they swore once more to stick to their pledge, counting on the wonders of the spirits of the dead.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Claudia Paz y Paz, former Attorney General of Guatemala and member of GIEI, Grupo Interdisciplinario de Expertos Independientes, a committee which investigated the disappearance in Mexico of forty-three student teachers from Ayotzinapa; Almudena Bernabeu, international attorney, cofounder and director of Guernica 37 International Justice Chambers; Salvador Saso Torres, poet, novelist and friend. My special thanks to Fermín Herrera, professor of Chicana/o Studies at California State University, Northridge, for his inestimable knowledge of the Nahuatl language and Mexican music, for his talent as a musician, and for his friendship.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Mark Fishman has lived and worked in Paris since 1995. His novels, The Magic Dogs of San Vicente, and No. 22 Pleasure City, were published by Guernica in 2016 and 2018 respectively. His short stories have appeared in a number of literary reviews, such as the Chicago Review, the Carolina Quarterly, the Black Warrior Review, the Mississippi Review, Frank (Paris), and The Literary Review. A short story earned a first prize for fiction in Glimmer Train, issue 100. He was the English-language editor of The Purple Journal (Paris) and Les Cahiers Purple (Lisbon).
