His final thoughts, as he slipped into a dreamless sleep, were how he wished he were a man half his age again, at the height of his powers. That bittersweet conceit kept him occupied as cold seawater rushed to submerge his bed.
And so his story ended.
-terminó-
“CUMPLEAÑOS FELICES,” THE dark-skinned Katao boy from Cabarroquis whispered, his eyes soft and liquid brown. “I am your birthday present.”
Miguel Lopez Vicente fought his almost overwhelming excitement and sought his voice. “You — you are?”
“Yes,” the boy smiled, trailing a slender finger down his bare chest, stopping short at a point past his hairless navel. “Your uncle engaged me for tonight. For you.”
“Oh,” Miguel managed, “I see.”
“Do you like what you see?”
Whatever words Miguel had suddenly dried on his tongue as he watched the boy disrobe.
“There is no need to feel anxious.”
“No, no, I am — not anxious.”
“You only turn sixteen once. It should be special. It will be special.” The boy had crossed the distance between them in the span of a thunderous heartbeat and Miguel shuddered when he felt the intense heat the boy seemed to radiate. He did not know if it was the result of his imagination or barely controlled desire but he feared that he would burn.
“You cannot possibly be older than me,” Miguel said, casting his gaze to the side, suddenly conscious of the boy’s nearness.
“I am fifteen. Or thirteen. Unless you prefer me to be older,” the boy spoke as he began unbuttoning Miguel’s shirt. “I can be eighteen. Or twenty. Just let me know.”
“I—” Miguel began, but as the boy’s fingers found his skin he lost all words, the language abandoning him to the trails of heat left by the boy’s explorations. When their tongues met, he was certain he would be consumed by fire, losing himself in the intense moment of unadulterated sunlight that reduced everything that he was into a throbbing cinder, wanting only the explosive release that was as inevitable as life and death.
“Never leave me,” he told the boy.
“Everyone loves me,” the boy answered. “You must live only for the moment.”
“Then I’ll never be old.”
Later, after his birthday gift had left, he lay trembling in a bed built for one, his body weak with the demarcation of new frontiers, while his soul, not quite anywhere, exulted in the epiphany that he was his own boundary and that it was as wide or as narrow as he wanted.
What Miguel Lopez Vicente did not know, what he could not know, was that his heart was ill-suited for single night’s passion. It was fragile and tender and rare, wanting only true love, and collapsed upon itself, heavy with imagined loss in the small hours before dawn, feeling lost, betrayed and old before its time.
And so his story ended.
-terminó-
WHEN MIGUEL LOPEZ Vicente turned eight, his father brought him to see the End of the World.
The spectacle, held only once every generation and lasting for fourteen nights, was staged on a massive series of sculpted sets within the Baluarte of the Plaza Miranda. Ciudad Manila spared no expense — the costumed cast numbered in the hundreds and great machines, made invisible by cloth and convention, spew fire, blew wind and rained artificial hailstones the size of macopas but with the consistency of cotton. The Beast of the Apocalypse (a magnificent contraption maneuvered by three alternating shifts of eighteen people) towered over the amazed audience, clawing its way out of a bottomless pit; its words and imprecations resounded with the voice of the Most Excellent Primo Orador herself.
Much of the performance went over Miguel Lopez Vicente’s head; instead he was terrified by the sights and sounds of the Apocalypse, much to his father’s regret.
“Did you not enjoy the show?” Antonio Manuel Vicente asked him afterwards, visibly irritated at his son’s obvious pallor.
“Yes, Papa,” Miguel lied with little difficulty.
“It is important that you know about things like this,” Antonio continued, not hearing him. “The world ends in horror if the will of the Three Sisters is not followed.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“That is why you must pray every day, every night, before you eat, before you sleep. Pray for their mercy.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“When you grow older, you’ll understand that we are all servants of the Three.”
“Yes, Papa,” Miguel replied, but in his heart he had decided never to grow old.
When they returned home, Miguel rushed to his room and trembled in a corner, his thoughts ablaze with images of endings and destruction. He cried for over an hour, caught off-guard by the tears his fear provoked, feeling helpless, alone and destined to die in the Apocalypse that could occur tomorrow or the day after that.
The young boy turned his back on the faith of his father that day, with the fierce determination of the very young, and resolved that he would rather die than live to see the End of the World.
Before he went to sleep, he deliberately did not say his bedtime prayers and turned the statue of the Three Sisters away from his bed. He did not want them watching him.
The Apocalypse arrived that night, triggered by the loss of one little boy’s faith. In their fury, radiant devas came to Miguel’s room on shimmering wings, shattering the walls of the house. “So this is the one who brought about the End of Things,” the fiercest among them said, pointing to the sleeping boy with a sword that burned with a flame unseen since the Beginning of All Things. With a soundless cry she struck down the remnants of the house then flew with her legion into the sky that wept stars.
And so his story ended.
-terminó-
MIGUEL LOPEZ VICENTE’S mother, dead just a week, came to him on the eve of his fourth birthday, saying something her son could not quite hear.
He sat up, straining to listen to her words, having no fear of the woman who had shown him only love.
“Miguel.”
“Mama?”
“I am lonely here. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
When his mother kissed him on the forehead, Miguel felt suddenly cold and embraced her, his heavy heart, lately engorged by sorrow, shrinking to the size of a child’s perfect love.
“You are the only one I have ever loved, my Miguel,” she told him as they stepped into the shadows.
“Yes, Mama.”
“You will always be my little boy.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Do not forget to take your smile with you.”
Miguel set his face into a smile of unconditional trust and walked forward.
And so his story ended.
-terminó-
ANTONIO MANUEL VICENTE, the rising dramatist, stood at the balcony of his tower residence and contemplated his life, like pages in a chapbook he felt he had only partially authored.
A soft wind, heavy with the suggestion of salt, blew in from the nearby harbor, carrying muted voices that sang, argued, lied or whispered promises. He pulled his dressing robe closer to his body, thinking about the sad and strange paths his life had taken, the people he had loved and left behind, and how the simplicity of a change of perspective — the height of a balcony — could provoke thoughts of drastic action.
In his arms he carried his sleeping son, Miguel; a two-year-old result of a dalliance with a woman he could honestly not remember. He had found the boy sitting alone, silent and stone-faced, on the stairs of his residence, with a brief letter that held even briefer introductions. That was a week ago.
Antonio had his entire life before him and felt that the unwelcome weight in his arms was an unfair burden. When he felt his son stir in his arms, he summoned up all the paternal inclinations in his heart and came up with an absolute emptiness.
He looked at the son he had never wanted, never even dreamed of, and without a single other thought, hurled him off the balcony. He felt no remorse, prepared to act the distraught
parent when tomorrow brought news of the horrible accident to his ears, already composing the lines of dialogue that he, grief-stricken, would speak.
Miguel Lopez Vicente watched the ground rush up to welcome him with the same stoicism he had when he was abandoned by his mother.
And so his story ended.
-terminó-
Mr. Henares looks at his inventory
IN THE STOREROOM of his shop along the Encanto lu Caminata, Mr .Henares looked at the eighty four vials he had distilled from the future days of his largest customer of the year.
He gently swirled the closest one between thumb and forefinger and watched the marvelous stories of Miguel Lopez Vicente unfold in a glimmer of effervesce, liquid tales brimming with potential. He paused and thought about the nature of stories, the vagaries of time and the single, long road of desire and shook his head, resigned to the fact that for as long as people were people, his business would continue.
Mr. Henares replaced the vial of Miguel Lopez Vicente among the eighty-three others, put off for the next day the task of determining their relative prices (perhaps he would bundle two or three — one of his regulars, a famous astronomer when he was young, wanted some more time for stargazing), and went about closing the shop.
“We all burn sunlight,” he muttered to no one in particular, scratching an arm with a motion that could almost be mistaken as a caress.
The Kite of Stars (L’Aquilone du Estrellas)
THE NIGHT WHEN she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama — the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail — the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her — she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death.
These were the elements of the accident-waiting-to-happen: an ill-tempered horse hitched to some noble's qalesa; an equally ill-tempered qalesa driver with a whip; a whistling panadero with a tray of plump pan du sal perched on his head; two puddles of fresh rainwater brought about by a brief downpour earlier that day; a sheet of stained glass en route to its final delivery destination at the house of the Most Excellent Primo Orador; a broken bottle of wine; and, of course, the young man who walked with his eyes closed.
Without a moment's further thought, Maria Isabella stepped on the tail of the dog that was resting near her. The poor animal yelped in pain; which in turn startled the horse, making it stop temporarily; which in turn angered the qalesa driver even more, making him curse the horse; which in turn upset the delicate melody that the panadero was whistling; which in turn made the panadero miss stepping into the two puddles of rainwater; which in turn gave the men delivering the sheet of stained glass belonging to the Most Excellent Primo Orador an uninterrupted path; which in turn gave the young man enough room to cross the street without so much as missing a beat or stepping onto the broken wine bottle; which in turn would never give him the infection that had been destined to result in the loss of his right leg and, ultimately, his life.
Everyone and everything continued to move on their own inexorable paths, and the dog she had stepped on growled once at her and then twisted around to nurse its sore tail. But Maria Isabella's eyes were on the young man in the star-embroidered coat, whose life she had just saved. She decided she would find out who he was.
The first twenty people she asked did not know him. It was a butcher's boy who told her who he was, as she rested near the butcher's shop along the Rotonda du'l Vendedores.
"His name is Lorenzo du Vicenzio," the butcher's boy said. "I know him because he shops here with his father once every sen-night. My master saves some of the choicest cuts for their family. They're rather famous, you know. Maestro Vicenzio, the father, names stars."
"Stars?" Maria Isabella asked. "And would you know why he walks with his eyes closed? The son, I mean."
"Well, Lorenzo certainly isn't blind," the butcher's boy replied. "I think he keeps his eyes closed to preserve his vision for his stargazing at night. He mentioned he had some sort of telescope he uses at night."
"How can I meet him?" she asked, all thoughts of musical conch shells gone from her mind.
"You? What makes you think he will even see you? Listen, "the butcher's boy whispered to her, "he only has eyes for the stars."
"Then I'll make him see me," she whispered back, and as she straightened up, her mind began to make plan upon plan upon plan, rejecting possibilities, making conjectures; assessing what she knew, whom she knew, and how much she dared. It was a lot for anyone to perform in the span of time it took to set her shoulders, look at the butcher's boy, and say, "Take me to the best Kitemaker."
The butcher's boy, who at fourteen was easily impressed by young ladies of a certain disposition, immediately doffed his white cap, bowed to Maria Isabella, gestured to the street filled with people outside, and led her to the house of Melchor Antevadez, famed throughout Ciudad Meiora and environs as the Master Builder of aquilones, cometas, saranggola, and other artefactos voladores.
They waited seven hours to see him (for such was his well-deserved fame that orders from all over the realms came directly to him — for festivals, celebrations, consecrations, funerals, regatta launches, and such) and did not speak to each other. Maria Isabella was thinking hard about the little plan in her head and the butcher's boy was thinking of how he had just lost his job for the dubious pleasure of a silent young woman's company.
He spent most of the time looking surreptitiously at her shod feet and oddly wondering whether she, like the young ladies that figured in his fantasies, painted her toes blue, in the manner of the circus artistas.
When it was finally their turn (for such was the nature of Melchor Antevadez that he made time to speak to anyone and everyone who visited him, being of humble origin himself), Maria Isabella explained what she wanted to the artisan.
"What I need," she began, "is a kite large enough to strap me onto. Then I must fly high enough to be among the stars themselves, so that anyone looking at the stars will see me among them, and I must be able to wave at least one hand to that person."
"What you need," Melchor Antevadez replied with a smile, "is a balloon. Or someone else to love."
She ignored his latter comment and told him that a balloon simply would not do, it would not be able to achieve the height she needed, didn't he understand that she needed to be among the stars?
He cleared his throat and told her that such a kite was impossible, that there was no material immediately available for such an absurd undertaking, that there was, in fact, no design that allowed for a kite that supported the weight of a person, and that it was simply impossible, impo
ssible, impossible. Impossible to design. Impossible to find materials. No, no, it was impossible, even for the Illustrados.
She pressed him then for answers, to think through the problem; she challenged him to design such a kite, and to tell her just what these impossible materials were.
"Conceivably, I could dream of such a design, that much I'll grant you. If I concentrate hard enough I know it will come to me, that much I'll concede. But the materials are another matter."
"Please, tell me what I need to find," Maria Isabella said.
"None of it can be bought, and certainly none of it can be found here in Ciudad Meiora, although wonders can be found here if you know where to look."
"Tell me."
And so he began to tell her. Sometime during the second hour of his recitation of the list of materials, she began to take notes, and nudged the butcher's boy to try to remember what she couldn't write fast enough. At dawn the following day, Melchor Antevadez stopped speaking, reviewed the list of necessary things compiled by Maria Isabella and the butcher's boy, and said, "I think that's all I'd need. As you can see, it is more than any man could hope to accomplish."
"But I am not a man," she said to him, looking down at the thousands of items on the impossible list in her hands. The butcher's boy, by this time, was asleep, his head cradled in the crook of his thin arms, dreaming of aerialists and their blue toes.
Melchor Antevadez squinted at her. "Is any love worth all this effort? Looking for the impossible?"
Maria Isabella gave the tiniest of smiles. "What makes you think I'm in love?"
Melchor Antevadez raised an eyebrow at her denial.
"I'll get everything," she promised the Kitemaker.
"But it may take a lifetime to gather everything," the artisan said wearily.
"A lifetime is all I have," Maria Isabella told him. She then shook the butcher's boy awake.
"I cannot go alone. You're younger than me but I will sponsor you as my companion. Will you come with me?"
The Kite of Stars and Other Stories Page 2
