Saint Death Page 4

  —You’re so dumb, vato. You don’t just walk into America without a plan. You know that. I paid coyotes to get her to LA. They leave tonight. It would have been five hundred but they wanted an extra five hundred for the baby. I said, no way, it’s nothing. It’s so small. But they said it could cry and make a noise and get them all caught. Said I was lucky they didn’t want a thousand just for the damn kid.

  Something’s not right.

  —Five hundred each—Arturo says.—That’s damn cheap. I heard it cost ten times that to keep a coyote happy. I heard it costs five thousand. Or more. ¿No?

  Faustino doesn’t answer. Arturo knows he knows the answer to the question; he just doesn’t want to admit it. But there’s Faustino, staring at the ground, looking for all the world like a little kid with his hand caught right in the cookie jar. And Arturo knows exactly why the coyotes are charging a tenth of what they might.

  —She’s going to be a burro. That’s it. She’s going to haul drugs for them. ¿Right?

  Faustino doesn’t reply. He still stares at the ground. Across the street, by the car, Eva stands, rocking the bundle in her arms, staring north, across the desert. Arturo cannot imagine what is in her mind, or, for that matter, what was in Faustino’s.

  Arturo keeps his voice down, for Eva’s sake, but he cannot keep the anger out of his voice.

  —¿What were you thinking? Making her a burro … ¿She’s going to have to carry drugs, and the baby?

  Faustino’s rage returns. He steps right up to Arturo, hissing into his face.

  —I don’t have ten thousand dollars, Arturo. I figured I could find a thousand to replace what I took from El Carnero’s stash. I knew I couldn’t find ten. It was the only way.

  Arturo shakes his head.

  —You’re crazy.

  —It was the only way. I had no choice.

  It seems there are no answers to Faustino’s replies, just as there is no end to his stupidity. Arturo knows it costs a lot to pay a coyote to help you cross over. They promise more than just dumping you in the desert. They have networks of people, to take you to a city, to LA if you can afford it, or maybe Tucson or Phoenix. It costs a lot because the borders are controlled, not just by Migra, not just by the American border patrol. There are other forces controlling who crosses the desert, and you either pay them and be safe, or you take your chances. And even if you do pay them, there are always those cases where they just take you out into the night and—

  Arturo stops that thought, dead. Stone dead. Instead, he thinks, ¿Tonight? ¿They’re leaving tonight? ¿Eva and the baby?

  He puts a hand on Faustino’s shoulder.

  —¿But you’re not leaving?—he asks his friend.

  Faustino looks sick. He looks like he will actually be sick on the ground, there and then.

  —Listen, I didn’t want it this way. Eva’s mother threw us out. ¿The moment the baby arrived? She threw us both out. No more mouths to feed, she said. ¡Cabróna! So I said, that’s it. We’ll go. And I borrowed that money for Eva, but unless I pay it back before tomorrow night, I’m not going anywhere.

  —I thought you were the big man now, earning a fortune.

  Faustino is rubbing his head, glancing over at Eva from time to time.

  —I earn some—he says—but look. That’s not what I want. I want out. I don’t want to be a falcon. I want Eva and the baby to go to America. And me.

  He doesn’t say “finally” but Arturo can see the word in his face.

  —¿Why didn’t you take enough to pay for all of you? You could still go with her. Just run.

  Faustino stares at Arturo for a second as if he’s crazy, and then he turns and vomits all over the ground.

  Arturo takes a step back. Over at the car, Eva wrinkles her nose, and turns away slightly, bouncing the baby.

  Faustino stands, bends again, takes a deep breath, then stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  —Wait—says Arturo, and ducks into his shack. He comes back with a Coke can with the top cut off and tape around it to cover the sharp edge. It’s full of water scooped out of the old oilcan Arturo uses to store it.

  Faustino takes a swig, spits, throws the rest over his face. He rolls up his left sleeve, wipes his face with his forearm.

  —Thanks, carnal. The water here still tastes like shit.

  —You’re welcome.

  * * *

  Arturo knows that what he said was crazy. Faustino cannot run away. He must settle his debts in Juárez, one way or the other, or there can be no escape. Los Libertadores, the gang he works for, work for Barrio Azteca. They work for the cartel. Both Barrio Azteca and the cartel have people everywhere. In Mexico, in the north. In El Paso, in Los Angeles. As far away as Chicago. In fact, in pretty much every big city. And they don’t forget and they don’t leave a score unsettled, for these men are gods, insatiable gods, more brutal perhaps than those of the old world, who have lain unappeased in the earth for centuries since they were seemingly overthrown. Only seemingly, for they have not vanished altogether. If Faustino runs, it will be suicide. Delayed suicide, perhaps, but suicide nonetheless.

  Now that Faustino has rolled up his left sleeve, Arturo can see one of his tattoos. Two long Ls, interlocked, running down the length of his left forearm. Los Libertadores. His gang, marked on his body, forever. It would be easier, and cheaper, and safer, to get a fake passport than to get that mark taken off. There is nowhere Faustino can run. If he ever wants to sleep again, if he ever wants to spend a day without being scared again, if he ever wants to see Eva again, he must find that money before tomorrow night. If he doesn’t, he’s already seen enough of what they do to punks like him to know it will not be fast and it will not be easy.

  —Okay—says Arturo.—Okay. I’ll do it.

  * * *

  Whenever I dream of a closed space, a darkened room, I know I am dreaming of my mind. That the dark space I’m dreaming of represents the world of my mind.

  Last night I had such a dream, and I was standing in a big garage, with no cars in it, but I was living in it, or working there, or trying to work there. The doors were open and it was bright outside, but the brightness didn’t come into my space.

  There were candles hanging from the ceiling on strings, and I was walking around trying to light them with a box of matches, but the matches either broke or didn’t light properly, or the candles lit for a moment and then died.

  I couldn’t light a fire in my head. There were figures in the bright doorway; dark beings in silhouette who were going to come in, and I couldn’t light the fire in my head, the light that would keep them away. And as I woke I knew it wasn’t just my head: it was the whole city. It was Anapra, it was Juárez, it was all of Mexico. It was the world.

  * * *

  VOICES

  Faustino cannot speak. He throws his arms around Arturo, who stands still, who does not put his arms around Faustino, who just waits for him to let go, and step back.

  Then Arturo says—Save it for her, vato.

  They look over at Eva.

  —¿You going to come and say hello?—asks Faustino—¿And goodbye?

  Arturo shrugs.

  —Sure.

  —You never got on with her. Not even when we were kids.

  —That’s not true—Arturo says.

  —Sure it is—says Faustino, laughing.—Even when we were at school. ¿You remember that day Doña Margarita wanted us all to put a handprint and our name on the wall outside? And Eva said something and you smeared paint all over hers.

  —And then she poured paint all over my head. Yeah. I remember.

  He remembers that, and how mad Doña Margarita, their teacher, was. Not just with him, but with all of them, though not for long. There was a good woman, Arturo thinks, as they walk over to the car, a really kind woman.

  Eva turns. My God, thinks Arturo as he sees her. She looks rough. No, not that. She looks … older. Eva has aged years since he last saw her. And it’s not just the baby in her
arms, or the clothes she’s wearing. It’s not just the makeup or her hair. It’s in her face, it’s in her eyes, her eyes. Her eyes have aged. She looks … tired.

  —Hey, Arturo.

  —Hey, Eva.

  Arturo doesn’t ask to look at the baby, and Eva doesn’t offer.

  —Good luck in El Norte—he says, and she nods.

  —Thanks. Good luck to you too.

  She glances over his shoulder at his shack. She doesn’t mention the game, she doesn’t talk about the mess Faustino has got them all into, because to Eva’s way of thinking, life is a mess, all the time.

  —¿You know people in LA?—Arturo asks.

  —My cousin has a friend who made it. I have her telephone number.

  All three stand by the car, and no one can think of anything more to say, anything that is worth saying.

  Eventually, Faustino opens the door for Eva, who slides back in, holding the baby on her lap.

  Faustino shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

  —I’ll be back at seven. I gotta take Eva to the place the coyotes told us. Then I’ll be back. Drive you to the game. ¿Seven, okay?

  He gets in the car.

  * * *

  By eight, Faustino has still not returned.

  Arturo watches the sun set and the shadows that lengthen across America are the same ones that lengthen across Anapra. A stray dog trots by, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Arturo knows it. It’s often hanging around because he feeds it scraps sometimes. The dog heads toward Arturo for a second, until he throws a handful of dirt at it and it scampers away.

  —Not now, vato—he whispers.—I have to think.

  In truth, there is nothing much to think about. He’s been sitting on a box outside the front of his shack since seven, holding his calavera pack tightly in his hand. There is nothing to think about; nothing to practice, nothing to learn. Calavera is a simple game, really. He only has to keep calm. He has some idea about what he is heading into, and he wishes he knew more and he wishes he knew less. In the meantime, he knows he must keep calm, and when the time comes he must play his usual game, yet all he can really think is, Damn Faustino, damn Faustino, damn Faustino.

  The sun has set and it is getting dark. There are few streetlights in the backwaters of a place like Anapra. Arturo ducks back into his shack and hides his playing cards under his mattress. He thinks about making something to eat but doesn’t feel hungry. He lies on his bed, thinking, Damn Faustino, damn Faustino, damn Faustino.

  My friend. My brother. Mi carnal.

  At quarter after eight, unable to bear the waiting any longer, Arturo puts on his favorite shirt, an old and fading purple thing that he loves for reasons he could not name even if pressed. He sticks the dollars as deep into his pocket as they will go, the fifty of his own, the twenty Faustino added to it. He sticks Catrina in his other pocket. He slips his rosary over his head, scrapes his hair back with some oil, and goes outside and starts to walk down Salmón, hoping to meet Faustino as he comes.

  Lights burn in homes made of cardboard and plywood. A gentle wind shushes the straggling leaves of Anapra’s few trees. Voices come and go through the darkness. Voices calling out, laughing. He hears someone crying. He can make out few actual words, but he knows these are the voices of his brothers and sisters, his friends, his enemies and haters. They agree, they disagree. They fight. They love. They all drift in and want to be heard, forcing their way between the leaves on the trees and between the leaves in his head.

  Lights blind him. A car pulls up and stops abruptly.

  —Get in—says Faustino.

  Arturo climbs in.

  —You’re late, cabrón—says Arturo.

  Faustino doesn’t reply. He stares through the windshield at the dirt road, doesn’t even glance at the place he used to call home till he moved in with Eva’s mother in Chaveña.

  On Rancho Anapra, Faustino turns right, not left.

  —Hey—says Arturo, pointing—Juárez is that way.

  Still Faustino says nothing.

  Arturo is about to speak when, at the corner of Tiburón, Faustino stops the car.

  —¿What are we doing here?

  —We need all the help we can get.

  Arturo shakes his head.

  —¿What are you talking about?

  Faustino points to the house on the corner. The green house, with two stories. The one with Santa Muerte hanging over the doorway.

  —¿What? No way. ¿What do you want in there?

  —She’ll help us, vato. And we both need all the help we can get.

  —Yeah. ¿But you don’t believe in that, do you?

  Faustino rolls up his right sleeve. It’s hard to make it out in the dark but Arturo can see the other tattoo now, and there’s just enough light to see what’s been etched there in dark-blue ink: La Dama Poderosa, la Hermana Blanca. The Powerful Lady, the White Sister. A skeleton in a shawl holding the world in her hand.

  —I’m not going—begins Arturo but Faustino leans over and grabs the rosary necklace. On the end, Christ dangles on his cross next to the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  —¿And you believe in them? ¿Do you? ¿You believe in them? ¿What did they ever do for you? ¿For us?

  Arturo shoves him away, but Faustino is still gripping the rosary, which breaks. Beads scatter over the seat and floor of the car, but Faustino does not apologize, does not yield. It appears that the anger in him is relentless, and Arturo is quite simply amazed, amazed that Faustino is so angry, because he was never angry before. Never. He was the calm one, he was the peacemaker. Always.

  —¡Nothing!—Faustino shouts. ¡They did nothing for us! ¡But she—he says, pointing at the house—she is powerful! And she welcomes everyone. Everyone.

  He shoves the remains of the rosary into Arturo’s hands.

  —Keep them—he says.—But if you want real help, come with me.

  Faustino gets out of the car and slams the door. He goes to the house, where he pushes a bell.

  After a wait, the door opens a crack and light floods out. Arturo watches as Faustino starts talking, sees him waving his hand back toward the car, and then the door opens fully.

  A woman steps into the street, right where Arturo cowered earlier in the day when the men took Gabriel. She’s short and round. She’s waving at Arturo, gently beckoning, and smiling.

  —Come—she calls.—Come into my home.

  She waves again, and smiles.

  So Arturo goes in.

  A VISIT TO THE HOUSE OF DEATH

  Arturo and Faustino wait in the hall.

  The woman, who is not as old as Arturo thought at first, has gone to the kitchen. She told Arturo to call her Doña Maria, asked him if he would like coffee, and then went to fix it.

  As he came into the house Arturo was careful to step over the strange chalk marks on the sidewalk. The arrows and the curved lines.

  —¿What are those things, vato?—he asks Faustino in a whisper.—Those things outside. ¿Some sort of magic?

  —Doña Maria said they let good spirits in and keep bad ones out. They’re called patipemba, something like that. Old African magic, but that’s okay. The White Girl welcomes everyone to her church. Everyone. You’ll see.

  —¿You’ve been coming here?—asks Arturo.—¿You’ve been coming here and not coming to see me?

  Faustino at least looks guilty this time. His anger seems to have waned inside Doña Maria’s house, and a middle-aged woman’s house is all it seems to be. It doesn’t look weird, or evil, or anything like Arturo imagined it might. He knows a little about Santa Muerte, because everyone does. He knows she spread up from the south, from Mexico City, maybe, or farther. A saint of the people, not one the Church likes much, that’s for sure. And people tell all sorts of tales about her. Lots of it good, but then, Arturo’s heard some bad things too. He knows many people worship her. All sorts of people. Drug lords, cops, the poor, the rich. All sorts of people. He just had no idea Faustino was one of them.
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  Arturo tugs Faustino’s sleeve.

  —¿So you don’t believe in God anymore?

  —Sure I do—says Faustino.—I believe in God. But I trust in Santa Muerte.

  He doesn’t say what he trusts her to do, but Arturo understands. Help. Isn’t that all everyone wants? A little help. A guiding hand. Some goddamn luck, once in a while …

  Doña Maria is coming back, with two mugs of coffee, steaming and black.

  —You know the way, Faustino—she says.—You go ahead. I have housework to do.

  Arturo takes the coffee readily, thanking Doña Maria, and Faustino leads the way while she disappears back toward the kitchen, from where a radio is blasting harsh voices. A phone-in show, a local one. The voices talk about their lives in Juárez, and as Arturo follows Faustino into the next room he hears a woman weeping about her daughter, and it was just another levantón, she says, another “lift,” another “ride.” Another “disappearance,” that’s all it was to anyone else. But to her it was her daughter. The host of the show curses and says he feels her pain, and then he cuts to the next set of advertisements.

  Arturo and Faustino stand in the dark room, looking to where, at the far end, something glows. They’re in an area that feels as if it’s half in the house and half outside. The walls are bare cinder blocks, the floor concrete. It has no windows, save for a small one with a grille in a door that Arturo guesses leads outside. There are a couple of old sofas, some wooden chairs around a table, where he sets the coffees down. But at the far end of the room is what dominates, what emanates power. Arturo sees little else; his eye is drawn to the figure standing on a low table placed in the middle of the far wall. She radiates.

  Holy Death. Santa Muerte.

  Her bony face, her bony hands.

  Arturo stares; her black eyeless sockets stare back.

  Arturo blinks. She does not.

  She’s wearing a white shawl over a long white gown, which reaches to the ground. From under the shawl glimpses of a black wig can be seen, grotesque against the skull face, almost ridiculous, Arturo thinks, and yet it’s more disturbing than it is funny, and in a way disconcerting because it is somehow comical too, and do not laugh at death, he thinks, we do not laugh at death.