The Jaguar's Children (23 page)

This is the signal for the calenda band to play, drums and tuba keeping time while the clarinets scream like rockets and the trumpets sound the blasts. All eyes are on Abuela who is now a tower, a dancing castillo four meters high. She moves carefully in the empty street, dancing simple steps because there is a bomb up there. It is a kind of duel that way between her and the fire, and no one will come near because it is hers alone to do. She will make her own light now. When the rockets go off, they fly from her head in all directions, exploding over the street, the church, the band—everywhere sparks and fire and bits of burning this and that coming down like falling stars, reflecting in the church glass, in the shining bell of the tuba, maybe burning a hole in your jacket or in Abuela's huipil. And when she feels it coming through, burning her skin, and all that fire and heat is sucking the air out of her lungs, she shows no pain but only prays harder and keeps dancing because she is not your grandmother anymore, she is a Zapotec volcano sending a message direct to the Virgin and you are her witness en el centro de la creación.

It is now the jets begin to fire and the wheels on her head begin to turn, faster and faster until they disappear into halos of burning light spinning in the dark all around Juquila, until there is so much smoke and fire and color it's hard to see the person anymore, or to know how she can breathe, or even to believe that inside all of this is your own abuela dancing, proving her devotion in body and fire and prayer. We are all clapping now, cheering for her courage and beauty and faith because she has stopped time and with her dancing freed us from the past, the future, all the burdens we must bear. But only for a moment—the spinning wheels will slow, the last rockets will fly, and the bamboo frame will collapse upon itself in little fires burning here and there. Maybe the music grows softer and stops or maybe it doesn't, but you go into the street then and help your abuela take that smoking basket down.

This doesn't happen only once. Many women go out to do this dance and prove their faith, to send this glorious message to the Virgin they love and who they are certain loves them more. And if you are still there and awake at three in the morning, you will see a strange and wonderful sight. Most people have gone home now, but there may be a cohetero with some rockets left, reminding Juquila and God in heaven that we are still HERE. And of course Juquila is there in her shrine, on her little altar with flowers everywhere, even on the roof, and her robes fresh and shimmering with loops of orchids around her neck, a crown upon her head, hair flowing to her feet in a dark river.

Juquila is never left alone, and in the coldest, quietest part of the night, just before sunrise, is the time for “Las Mañanitas,” the morning song, our birthday song. And for this the band comes dressed in black from head to boots, with wide sombreros and wool ponchos over their small jackets, and black pants with silver conchos down the side, made to catch the light and throw it back. Not two, not four, but eight of them appear in the solitude of the night. They are mariachis, but here, at this hour in the dark street with their black suits and cases, they look like some strange vaquero priests come with their tools to make a sacrifice. One by one, they enter the church taking off their great sombreros that can together fill a room. They set these on the chairs and their cases on the floor, and they take out their guitars and guitarróns, a big bass, a violin and one small silver trumpet. Then they arrange themselves around our Juquilita to sing and play for her. There is no audience but her small holiness and our great loneliness, unless you are there watching from the door, listening to the deep sweet voices and that falsetto weaving in, all of them rising and falling together and around, weaving a braid of sound—eight voices making love in the air and offering it to Juquila—

 

On the morning you were born

All the flowers bloomed at once

And the nightingales sang at the baptismal font

To honor you, our finest one.

 

And more like this:

 

With flowers and herbs, today I come to greet you.

Today for your saint's day we come to you and sing.

From the stars in the sky I need to lower two,

One with which to greet you and the other for goodbye.

 

For an hour and more they sing, filling that mountain church which is made for song so everything and everyone is multiplied in there, building on each other until their bodies and skulls are vibrating like the instruments and the church is transformed into one big box of sound, singing from itself through the open doors and windows, out into the valley to mix with all the others gone before. And when they are finished, these dark men cross themselves, pack their instruments and go away into the night, eight sombreros floating over laughter and a bottle passing. It is their secret gift to her, and us too.

I ask you, AnniMac, how can Juquila not hear this? What god could bear to turn away?

 

Sat Apr 7—08:01

 

What does it mean when the only proof of living is the pain you feel? I can see my abuela, eighty years old with the fire all around her, dancing as her lungs burn and her skin also. The heat did not weaken her, it made her stronger, because what is faith unless it is tested?

Sat Apr 7—08:17

 

My abuelo is dead now since November, but two days before he closed his eyes for the last time, he asked me for his bag. It was made from the ball sack of a burro and he kept it always on his
payu
—a belt of red cotton that only fiesta dancers wear now. He was in the bed so much at the end that his bag was hanging from a nail on the wall. I got it down for him and with his eyes he told me to untie it. Then he took it from me, reached inside and pulled out this little clay head, the one I carry with me now. It's old—a thousand years or more, broken off with an ear gone, but you can see it is a jaguar by the teeth and the eyes.

“The professor let me keep this one,” said Abuelo, “because it is Zapotec and so am I. Now, I am going in the ground soon, but this was down there long enough already.” He held it out to me. “I think if he had the chance to know you, your gringo abuelo would want for you to have this. There are some ways you remind me of him—the way you hold your head when you are listening. And your curiosity. Be careful where it leads you.”

Taking that little clay head from my abuelo's hand made the tears come to my eyes because I knew he would never carry it again. In that moment I saw only dead men holding this, passing it on from one to the next since long before my grandfathers, and who knows when I will be one more?

 

In my abuelo's last days we would sit together outside his house, sometimes for hours saying nothing, looking out across the valley at the green ridges all around. Just being with him was enough. It was on one of these days in the beginning of November that the army ants came. This time they took the tree of golden flowers that stood behind the granero where Abuelo stored his corn. From there, the ants came marching right across the steps of Abuelo's house in a perfect line, one behind the other by the hundreds and the thousands, each with its own golden flag. Day after day they came, waving their golden flags until there was nothing left of that tree but the bare branches. After three days, Abuelo looked at the dead tree and at the line of ants disappearing into the forest and he said, “It is the same like us, no?”

 

Sat Apr 7—08:53

 

To Lupo and the coyotes I say, Chingate, no estoy muerto. With every word I say this. But what can I offer you, AnniMac, when I am asking for so much? Salvation is no small thing. How could I know that water and light were so important? Who is keeping me alive right now is my abuelo. So he is my offering to you—his strength and this story he told me only one time.

In those last weeks, Abuelo was pissing the bed like the Apache was leaking oil. It was me who took out his petate every day and washed it down so I was glad the wind moves through that old house so easy. Every morning it wasn't cold, he sat on a little bench outside, leaning against the wall of his house, facing south, warming himself in the sun and many times lizards would be there with him doing this also. The adobe in those walls is old and made from the dirt around the pueblo so you can see all the things going into it. Along with the rocks and mud and grass is the sole of an old huarache, pieces of clay pots, the jawbone of a goat, a cotton rag, some wire—it is the story of our pueblo in there. By Abuelo's head where he sat, there was the funnel hole of a spider, but it never bothered him. So many creatures fell on my abuelo or crawled across him in his life, like he was only another piece of the Sierra. Even scorpions he would not kill, but only cursed and swept aside. So many times in my life I sat like this with him and saw these things framing the picture of his face with all those lines in it. For me those lines were a map, helping me to find my way through.

In front of his bench there was always a stump of wood with a couple of nails sticking out, and this was his workbench where he carved little animals, mostly burros and bulls. Sometimes he would paint them, but paint is expensive and at the end his hands were not that steady. For him the knife was easier. When I came to visit I'd bring some small nails with me and this is how he attached the legs—so close it was hard to see the joint. The horns and tail went in with no glue, only sap from the tree. Most of this work he would do with a machete and a goat knife, but he had also an old saw blade and a file with handles made from corncobs. It was something, what he could do with only these, and it helped him pass the time. One morning, when the sun was warm and he was out of nails, he told me the story—

“It was not long after el jaguar Pancho Villa was assassinated,” he said. “They shot him in a Dodge, you know. I don't know the model, but after that we called it el Dodge Emboscado.”

Abuelo looked at me and winked. It was a joke he had not thought of in almost a hundred years, but I told you his Spanish name is Hilario.

“I had maybe eighteen years then, so that will make it 1925 or 1928, but who can count it now. Ever since la Revolución many men—not just soldiers and assassins—were carrying guns because there were so many of them around. People were used to this from all the fighting, and many men felt something was missing without some iron on them. I didn't have a gun then because it is too expensive, but I can also see how the man who has one is often getting shot himself. You know what we called a bullet in those days?” He was smiling to himself. “A nice little warm one. It makes it sound not so bad, almost like a woman.”

He closed his eyes then and hummed to himself, tapping his finger on his knee. Then he began to sing in a breaking voice, “I'm off to battle with my .30-30 / I entered the rebel ranks / If it's blood they ask for, blood I'll give them / For the people of our nation.”

He was humming and frowning, searching for the words. After a moment I said his name. He opened his eyes then and was surprised to see me. “Abuelito,” I said, “what are you singing there?”

“‘Carabina Treinta-Treinta.' This talking reminds me of it. Many men had the Winchester rifle in those days and that song was very popular. I always liked the tune. It's about us, you know.” He closed his eyes again, nodding to the invisible music and reaching back in his mind. His eyebrows lifted and he smiled, waving his arm to the rhythm.
“We're headed for Chihuahua! Your black saint is leaving town. And if I catch some bullet. Go and mourn me on hallowed ground. ¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva! I'm off to battle with my .30-30. I entered the rebel ranks.
Yes, that's it. Más o menos
.”

“I think I know that song,” I said. “I heard it on the radio.”

“On the radio? Me lleva la chingada. Ooni'ya, if you like that, I must sing for you ‘The Gravedigger.'”

“Abuelo,” I said, “you were telling me a story—from when you were a young man.”

“Yes, that's right,” he said, and I could see him thinking again—an old man with so many things who has put one of them down and can't remember where.

“Ooni'ya. In this time I have no wife or child and I am short, but not as short as now. It is the market in Tlacolula—Sunday, and it must be April or May because it is hotter than hell and I am going there to sell some turkeys—you will see why I remember this, and also the terrible music. Well, I had a late start that morning.” He smiled and took a drink from his thumb. “Already I was walking many hours in the heat from the village with a headache and my burro and the turkeys in the baskets, one on each side, and I heard the music even before I came into the Zócalo. This music—if you must call it that—is caused by an accordion and when I get to the Zócalo I look for it because I am wondering to myself, Who can be making such sounds? It is like an animal doing this. Ooni'ya, you know the cantina opposite the church? Sitting by the wall there is an indio I don't recognize. He is the one with the accordion and he is playing ‘La Adelita' over and over, so out of tune it is like he is torturing her. Maybe the accordion is broken or probably he is drunk. And now that I am close I can hear also that this cabrón is trying to sing! It is a kind of moaning that is so wrong I think he must be an imbecile and I don't understand why he is tolerated. Well, there are some light-skin gachupines there also—younger sons of hacendados—drinking aguardiente at the cantina. They are sitting under the arcade and I can still see their cántaro on the table there and the clay copas all around. But it is before noon so normally no one is too drunk yet.