Thirteen Heavens Read online

  THIRTEEN HEAVENS

  GUERNICA WORLD EDITIONS 26

  THIRTEEN HEAVENS

  Mark Fishman

  TORONTO—CHICAGO—BUFFALO—LANCASTER (U.K.)

  2020

  Copyright © 2020, Mark Fishman and Guernica Editions Inc.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Michael Mirolla, general editor

  Julie Roorda, editor

  Cover design: Allen Jomoc Jr.

  Interior layout: Jill Ronsley, suneditwrite.com

  Guernica Editions Inc.

  287 Templemead Drive, Hamilton (ON), Canada L8W 2W4

  2250 Military Road, Tonawanda, N.Y. 14150-6000 U.S.A.

  www.guernicaeditions.com

  Distributors:

  Independent Publishers Group (IPG)

  600 North Pulaski Road, Chicago IL 60624

  University of Toronto Press Distribution,

  5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto (ON), Canada M3H 5T8

  Gazelle Book Services, White Cross Mills

  High Town, Lancaster LA1 4XS U.K.

  First edition.

  Printed in Canada.

  Legal Deposit—First Quarter

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2019947117

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Thirteen heavens / Mark Fishman.

  Names: Fishman, Mark, 1954- author.

  Description: Series statement: Guernica world editions ; 26

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190163453 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190163461 | ISBN 9781771835282 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771835299 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781771835305 (Kindle)

  Classification: LCC PS3606.I835 T47 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.

  —Isaiah 1:18

  Forgiveness is for small things, not for sins.

  —Mohammed Mrabet, “Qrira”

  CONTENTS

  Rubén “Rocket”…

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Rubén “Rocket” Arenal, standing in front of the plate glass window of a bridal gown store, La Popular, and its wood-paneled shop floor, raising one leg then the other, a cramp, calves sore from running, a kind of stitch in his side, the muscles of his legs aching, never out of breath, and the sun hanging by a cable above Chihuahua in a blue sky streaked with clouds, a city in the north of Mexico, south of New Mexico and west of Texas, the sun pouring its heat on the tapped inhabitants, bled of energy, people walking the grid-patterned city, moving here and there, not such a big city after all, or just sitting down fanning themselves in the high temperature of midday, in the central Plaza de Armas, or Plaza Hidalgo, but Rubén Arenal, feet firmly planted on the sidewalk, looking at a woman’s tall, slender figure in a bridal gown, La Pascualita, or Little Pascuala, veined hands, wide-set sparkling glass eyes, eerie smile, real hair and blushing skin tones, she even had varicose veins on her legs, Rubén Arenal rubbing the calluses on the palm of his right hand with his right thumb, a habit when he was nervous, a tic without moving a muscle of his face, he didn’t raise his eyebrows, no surprise, he was frozen there, a fixed gaze resting on a woman standing behind glass in a shop window, a mannequin first installed there on March 25th, 1930, dressed that morning in a spring-season gown, they still put curtains up in the shop window to preserve the dummy’s modesty, March 25th, 1930, a Tuesday under the sign of Aries without a cloud in the sky, and now, Rubén Arenal, faster than a speeding bullet, stopping to look at her three times a week, or more, a destination after making his way through the city, a population of a little more than 800,000, and Rocket, what year is it? I don’t remember, and who cares, Rubén Arenal concentrating on other things, recognizing a trait in the face of the dummy, a distinguishing characteristic, not the daughter of Pascuala Esparza, a striking resemblance to a girl he’d seen, and Rocket, you’ll remember, take your time take your time, giving her more than a once-over, I am taking my time, Rubén Arenal answering no one, each day thinking the same thing, remembering a story, a sort of rumor that the figure wasn’t a dummy, a mannequin resembling Pascuala Esparza, the shop’s owner at the time, looking a lot like her, it was the perfectly preserved corpse of Pascuala Esparza’s daughter, she didn’t have a name, or if she did no one remembered it, La Pascualita, who died from the bite of a female black widow spider—araña capulina, chintatlahua or from the Nahuatl, tzintlatlauhqui, meaning “the red one”—on her wedding day.

  Rubén Arenal admiring her, a well-preserved corpse, La Pascualita, and the other passersby, turning away from the bright reflection of the sun on the pavement, passersby casting their reflection in the window of La Popular, a few of them gathering around the shop window, lighting votive candles, leaving flowers, white dahlias, and already there were bright orange zinnias with yellow stamens, the purple flowers of the cane cholla, a cactus with a cylindrical stem, and a handful of pink sand verbenas, a prostrate perennial with thick, succulent leaves and pink-colored flowers with white centers, and Rocket, they must’ve come from far away, but from where? Rubén Arenal, fond of plants and flowers, appreciating them, and Rocket, Chihuahua’s name in the Uto-Aztecan language, Nahuatl, maybe it’s rooted in the word xicuahua, meaning “dry and sandy place,” the pink sand verbenas might’ve come from someone’s garden, Rubén Arenal watching the flickering light of five votive candles, a light lost in the painful brightness of daylight, and there was a quiet respect from everyone standing there looking at Little Pascuala, no words, a stillness, and a little veil of curiosity, Rubén Arenal counting the faces, one two three four five, and then they dispersed, went on their way, but another arrived, then another, and a few people who just turned their heads, looking left and right, looking at the window display of Casa Meouchi S.A., Victoria number 805, artículos del hogar, household articles, shiny pots and pans, or a building for rent half a block away, who could say, but now Rubén Arenal was the only one standing in front of the shop window, rubbing the calluses on the palm of his right hand, the synovial palmar carpal tendinous sheath, then folding his arms, turning his head to look up at the sky, his thoughts evaporating in the heat of the sun.

  Rubén Arenal turned away from the window, the weight of long minutes of concentration lifting from him, shoulders light as feathers, but right away he missed the absent weight, as if he’d lost something that had always belonged to him, but another day, another visit, Rubén Arenal facing Avenida Ocampo, blinking in the sunlight, his eyes looking away from the heat waves shimmering along the street, now gazing up at the red banner of Zapaterías Irlanda, Coyote Joe boots, then across the street at Rodeo City, Rubén Arenal turning right and walking down Calle Libertad, approaching Plaza Merino on his left, Calle 4a and the Catedral de Chihuahua ahead of him, the skies in his head as clear as they’d been while he was running, with circulating blood carrying loads of oxygen, no La Pascualita to get in the way, a mind free of questions, but his taste buds opening their eyes, an appetite after physical and mental exertions, Rubén Arenal thinking of Shiwawita on Calle Victoria, his favorite grocery store, scratching his head, and Rocket, so why take Calle Libertad, you oughta be heading straight for Shiwawita, taking Calle Victoria, spending a little money on chabacanos, apricots, and a bag of mango enchilado, mango with chili, or pinole, roasted maize-flour so I can mix it with cold water, cinnamon and sugar, make a couple of glasses when I get home, and the discomfort of
the day with its glaring light ready to kill, Rubén Arenal wanting a cigarette, reaching for a pack of Faros in his shirt pocket, nothing there, it was empty, no rice-paper cigarettes, not a pack of Delicados or Fiesta, no white and green and black pack of Aros, he’d have to wait, maybe a piece of chewing gum, he put a Chiclets in his mouth, and Rocket, from the Nahuatl, tziktli, or tzictli, check the dictionary, shutting his eyes against the light, listening to his footfalls, under his lids images flickering, then slowing down to snapshots, a part of the stock of Shiwawita at his fingertips, jars of salsa, walnut jelly, crisp tortillas, cheese, dried meat, walnut, almond and pine eggnog cream, fig honey-drop candies, and he saw his hand reach for more than a few paletas, a handful of popsicles, plátano, cereza, mamey, y limón, banana, cherry, mammee apple, and lemon to cool him off.

  A scissor-tailed flycatcher, tirano tijereta rosado, bluish-gray with salmon-pink flanks extending to under-wing patches, red-orange sides, blackish wings with an elongated, deeply-forked black tail with white edges, a tirano tijereta rosado standing on a bench, not resting there, but alert and watching and ready to shoot like a star into the overly bright sky, Rubén Arenal approaching it—he didn’t see a thing, blind as a bat with his eyes shut—and the bird stood its ground, the bench, a scissor-tailed flycatcher, Tyrannus forficatus, waiting for him to get nearer, and the flycatcher, Ernesto Cisneros, a bird’s whisper as accurate as a dart, hitting Rubén Arenal right between the eyes, the name of his best friend, he could count his close friends on one hand, Ernesto Cisneros Fuentes, named after the football midfielder, a happy coincidence provided by Ernesto’s father’s first apellido, Rubén Arenal hearing the bird without seeing it, recognizing its voice, his eyes still closed, but he saw Ernesto and himself projected on his eyelids, it was a long time ago, a memory, and in the memory he was talking to Ernesto, and Rocket, you’re intelligent, Esto, we both are, we’re advanced for our age, Rubén Arenal and Ernesto, the same age, around nine years old, and Rocket, you’re better with words than I am, mi amigo, I’m good with my hands, but I can’t draw you something right here right now without my pencils, so say something! a few words, don’t be shy, Ernesto lowering his eyes to hide his emotions, Rubén Arenal ribbing his friend, giving him a light punch on the shoulder, Ernesto giving him a playful shove back, and Rocket, that’s right, you can say we’re learning to read and write, so we’re deserving students, how about a few paletas, popsicles or ice cream, what do you say? I’m buying, my allowance is a little pocket money that’ll give us both a treat, Ernesto’s expression brightened, but his lips were still sealed, Rubén Arenal opening his eyes, focusing on the flycatcher in front of him, and Rocket, here I am now and not then, but look how one thought leads to another, with my two feet in the present, I’m going to take a step back to yesterday, or it was the day before, what difference does it make, when friends are friends it doesn’t matter which day it is, it’s the content that counts, but it really wasn’t long ago, earlier this very week, just a few days, or only two, and weighed down by the heat of the midday sun, standing in front of Ernesto’s house, having a heart-to-heart, but there were tears this time, crying, because there’s no good-natured teasing in a tragedy, Rubén Arenal with his arm around Ernesto’s shoulder, comforting a friend because his friend’s son, Coyuco Cisneros Muñoz, a student at the Raúl Isidro Burgos Normal Rural School of Ayotzinapa in Tixtla, was missing, disappeared, Rubén Arenal squeezing Ernesto’s shoulder in a firm grip, and Rocket, I know you’ve got to go, don’t explain a thing, but it’s a long drive in that rust bucket of yours, your Renault 8, mi amigo, almost a thousand miles by car, so you better take my Ford F-150, the Lobo pickup, you know the wolf, you’ve driven it, a proud animal and relible machine, Rubén Arenal, a mind like a steel trap, shutting his eyes again, his voice repeating from memory while his fingers drew a map, and Rocket, let’s see, Esto, you’ll be heading out on Mexico 45/ Carretera Jiménez-Chihuahua to Mexico 45D, and then Mexico 49D/Carretera Gómez Palacio-Jiménez and Durango, merging onto Mexico 40D/Carretera Durango-Gómez Palacio to Mexico 49/Carretera Entronque La Chicharrona-Cuencamé and Zacatecas, continuing on Mexico 49/Carretera San Luis Potosí- Entronque Arcinas and San Luis Potosí to Mexico 57/ Carretera Querétaro-San Luis Potosí and Querétaro de Arteaga, Mexico 57D and Mexico, Mexico 95D toward Taxco Cuota/Iguala Cuota and Guerrero, then Mexico 95/Carretera Taxco-Iguala into Iguala, and what the fuck! what happened, and why on earth? ¡Madre de Dios! and ¡Dios mío! Rubén Arenal retching without bringing anything up, thinking to himself, plunging into a canyon of no hope, and Rocket, it doesn’t really matter where or when, disappeared or dead, we’ll never see him again, it’s a country of ghosts, mi México, and I’d bet 7,754 pesos, a sum I haven’t got, but if I sold two dozen hidrias, two sets of bowls, plates, tea and coffee cups, and don’t forget the price of gas to fill up the Ford, I’d bet that Coyuco was killed in Pueblo Viejo, fifteen inhabitants, not even a village in the middle of nowhere, near Iguala, Iguala de la Independencia, on Federal Highway 95, around sixty-seven miles from Chilpancingo, the capital city of the state of Guerrero.

  Rubén Arenal, opening his eyes, almost colliding with another pedestrian, a fat woman eating peanuts without looking where she was going, tears in the corners of his eyes, a memory’s as good as it feels right now, a big sadness stuck to the soles of his shoes making him drag his feet, perspiration under his arms, the damp fabric of his shirt sticking to the skin on his back, chewing his mint gum, a fresh flavor, Rubén Arenal shaking his head to throw off a despairing thought of Ernesto, and of Coyuco, Rubén Arenal looking at his hands, fingernails with clay residue beneath the nails, long hours throwing pots, a ball of clay placed on the wheel head, shaping it, then another, and another, firing the clay, making pots with narrow spouts, mugs for posol, bowls, plates, a hidria, a jar or pitcher for water, cups for tea, mugs for coffee, a vase for flowers, Rubén Arenal making pottery with fettling knives, fluting tools, wires, paddles, ribs and scrappers, a few things he’d brought from Mata Ortiz, an ejido, a small land-grant village with adobe dwellings, a village four and a half hours south and west of El Paso in the high plains of northern Chihuahua, between the mountains of the Sierra Madre and the desert, along the banks of the Palanganas River, it was a long time ago, learning how to make pottery, not hitting the books, but hands on, studying not far from the ruins of Casas Grandes, and the city Nuevo Casas Grandes, Rubén Arenal learning to use the coil method, and scraping pots with a hacksaw blade to shape them, using an inverted flowerpot sagger covered in cottonwood bark, or manure, and then setting it on fire, the Mata Ortiz way, then Rubén Arenal returning to his home in Chihuahua, refining his technique, a curious amalgam of the traditional and the modern, and Rocket, but I owe an enormous debt to Mata Ortiz, forever and ever and each day after, Rubén Arenal using as many methods as he could put together in his head and hands and eyes, using a potter’s wheel, not always, but most of the time, they didn’t use a potter’s wheel in Mata Ortiz, and now and then, a few pots with the bottom molded, the upper part created by the coil method, just to keep his hand in, Rubén Arenal, blushing, wiped the tears from his eyes.

  Rubén Arenal kept on walking, cruising on automatic pilot, and Rocket, you’ve got to follow the feet, brother, they’re taking you somewhere, and you’ve got to have the confidence that even though you think you don’t know where you’re going they’ll get you there, and in this case, a hint, a nudge in the ribs to say to yourself, I know where I’m going, I’m headed straight for the cathedral, going there with La Pascualita and my memories, La Pascualita and my daydreams, La Pascualita and my nightmares, my fears, and the unequivocal sorrow of Coyuco’s disappearance, and then a voice in his head, a reply he wasn’t expecting, knowing he was already talking to himself, a voice saying, so you’re going to see the judge? that’s a new departure, and Rocket, what’re you talking about? and why are you bothering me with questions? it’s a cathedral, and in a cathedral there’s God, not a judge, Rubén Arenal at first feeling
a warm caress in the palm of his hand, it felt like a feather had dropped there, Rubén Arenal turning his head sharply to the left, something or someone brushing against him, he was sure of it, and now it was like a hand grasping his, but there was no one there, nothing, an empty sidewalk in the heat from the sun that burned like the bite of a rabid dog, an insensitive sun beating down on pedestrians, cars, trucks, lampposts and traffic lights, Rubén Arenal wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, the other hand occupied by a warm hand he couldn’t see, and a sudden thirst, desperate even, mouth parched, harking back to a childhood memory, and Rocket, a few paletas, that’s what I want, my sister’s got them in the freezer, popsicles and three children, Avelina, Perla, Cirilo, my nieces and a nephew, one thing—or three, in this case—goes with the other, I won’t buy anything now, I’ll go to my sister’s, with a stop on the way, Rubén Arenal tightening his grip on the hand that wasn’t there, exhaling, not a breath of fresh air, some pollution, and Rocket, but really, it’s warm, and using the handkerchief again, the hand holding his was squeezing back, but Rubén Arenal, focused on what was in front of him, he’d got to where he was going, Plaza de Armas, looking at the Catedral de Chihuahua, and Rocket, it’s no time for shamanism, or maybe so, but I haven’t got the patience for someone with access to and influence in the world of good and evil spirits—how I remember a definition when I read one!—prayer’s what it takes, and he went into the Metropolitan Cathedral of Chihuahua, heading straight for the side altar on the northern side of the chancel and the statue of Our Lady of Sorrows to make the sign of the cross.

  A recording of Mariachi Coculense, lead by Cirilo Marmolejo on guitarrón, Pedro Casillas and Casimiro Contreras on violin, Jesús Briseño and Pedro Alaniz on guitar, José and Juan Marmolejo on vihuela, Mariachi Coculense playing “La Pulquera,” “The Pulque Vendor,” a bright and mournful canción: