Chango's Fire (24 page)

Kaiser loves to be petted. The cat is wonderful, and I know Mom loves him so much. Having him close to me makes me happy, because I think of Mom. I'm holding something that my mother loves. It's a bit silly, really, maybe I just like cats?

“Seguro,
that's what we'll have to do. Let me tell you, me and your mother, we like it here. We ain't going nowhere.”

“Okay, Pops,” I say, looking at the cat's eyes. I hadn't noticed before that one eye is green and the other yellow.

“That's right. Now about the
blanquita,
if it's really nothing. Then it's nothing. But if it's something, you better tell her everything. I mean everything because she'll find out sooner or later. Now, you never told me or your mother how you got this place, but I trust that when you're ready you will. But a girlfriend is different, a girlfriend wants to know everything.”

I let go of the cat.

He lands on his feet.

“I know,” I say, as the cat moves over to Pops for affection.

“I know you know, Julio. You know what I mean—go away.” The cat receives no affection from him. “Let me just tell you this Julio,” Pops gets a little bit closer to my ear, “I didn't read all of your letter—”

“Oh yes you did, you knew I had left my watch there.”

“I skipped to that part.”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Let me just tell you this, Julio, from what I read, you blaming her for something—”

“If it was just her—”

“No pera,
let me finish. I see all these
blanquitos
moving in and you know what, Julio, they can only experience El Barrio as El Barrio shows itself to them,
me entiende?
To think that they will see El Barrio for the first time, the same way we saw El Barrio for the first time, is stupid of us,
me entiende?
Julio, unless you can put that
blanquita
of yours on a plane and take her back to El Barrio of the sixties, the seventies or the eighties, and make her live that, you can't be angry at her for not understanding,
me entiende?”

I do understand. Doesn't mean that it's all good. That no harm is done.

Pops walks to his favorite chair where he always sits as he looks at old salsa album covers. Sometimes he plays them in low volume. Drifting back to the past, his past when he saw his first snowflake or heard the word “spic.” He was one of the many Puerto Rican casualties of Operation Bootstrap. Brought over to the United States for cheap labor. The labor ran out. Now he dreams of a time when he'd healed his back broken from pushing garment-district carts all day by playing in salsa bands all night. It was rough times, and though he fell prey to addiction, it was Mom and that music that saved him.

It was sweet of Pops to think of Mom. I do as told and take the letter out of the book. I don't know where to hide it, because Mom looks in my things. Pops knows it and I do, too. But I don't want to rip it up or anything. I see my altars and think that it would be a good hiding place. Mom would never touch that.

I
go downstairs, next door, to find Papelito. I have always felt he was the wisest of men, and I am going to level with him. Tell him what a mess I'm in. Hopefully he'll give me good advice and maybe I'll take a consultation, being that the last one was right on target. Maybe the Orishas are singing to me? Maybe Helen was their way of telling me to take my time, that they will wait for my complete dedication. Papelito said stories are there to guide us. Maybe he'd have a story for me as well. A story where I can get lost in someone else's misfortunes or maybe just a story with a laugh.

As soon as I walk inside the botanica, I feel happy. All that darkness I sense when I see Eddie or Mario, is the exact opposite of the feeling I get when I walk inside Papelito's botanica. Like I'm hit with a spring day at the Central Park Zoo. I love Papelito's botanica. It always smells of jasmine, spearmint or some scented incense. I look behind the counter, where the valuable and dangerous items, like sulfur, frog eyes, cow hooves and other items used for the darker side of Santeria, are stored. And there, next to all these items, are stacks of San Lazaro. The statues are small, just a few inches taller than children's dolls.

Papelito is arguing with this dark man who's just as dark as Papelito is. Both men have such a dark complexion, they almost look blue. They stare at each other intensely. The man is wearing a blue-and-orange dresslike garment. He speaks in an African language that I don't understand. I think of Helen's letter and wonder, if I keep listening will I feel that overwhelming buzz? Helen had written how she likes to be surrounded by understanding. That's one reason she loves it here. But for me, witnessing this conversation, a conversation I can't understand, is not enjoyable at all.

In any language, I can tell it's a fight. I get ready to leave when, suddenly, Papelito and the man switch to English.

“Yes, yes, Akinkuato,” Papelito interrupts the other
babalawo.
“It once protected the slaves from being punished, but no longer is the case. We live in a country where we have backing and religious freedom, Akinkuato.” Papelito's delicate gestures are evident, but his speech is missing the usual flirtatious overtones. This is serious business between these two. “I'm going to do it,” Papelito says, “I'm going to film it.”

The other head priest doesn't like what he has heard. He snarls at Papelito.

“In Brazil,” he tells Papelito in a loud, aggressive expression, “in Cuba, you can't just walk into an Ocha room and observe the rituals—”

“Yes, yes, Akinkuato,” Papelito seems respectful but he is putting his foot down, “but seeing something is not the same as experiencing it. Anyone can see our rituals but will they understand them? Will they know how they work?”

The other
babalawo
says something in African, and his eyes bulge in their sockets. His head moves with such passion as if he is trying to make Papelito understand that this is a matter of life and death. Two women enter the botanica only to turn around and leave.

“No, no, Akinkuato,” Papelito points at the street, “in Nigeria what we call Lukumi secrets are common knowledge to any kid walking the streets. It's about power, Akinkuato. I don't want any part of that. I don't want fear and secrecy because it just breeds power and badly trained priests.”

The other
babalawo
is stunned. His face turns an even darker shade. They must have been arguing intensely for so long they don't care who hears them. It is such a heated debate that they must feel like they are the only two people who exist.

“Because of all this secrecy,” Papelito kindly places a hand on the other man's shoulder, a sign of friendship, “corrupt and inept priests have swindled so much money from those who sincerely want to learn Lukumi. If the people know what it is about, then they can't be cheated.”

The man takes Papelito's hand off his shoulder and throws it aside with force. If Papelito's hand wasn't connected to his body, it would have hit the wall.

“You don't know what you are doing,” the man can speak good English when he wants to. “If these secrets get into the wrong hands, think of the bad things that can happen. I am your
oluwo,
you will listen to what I say. It is the way it's done in Cuba!”

“Please understand, my
oluwo,
that this is not Cuba,” Papelito says. “You can throw me out,” Papelito's eyes are watery, “expel me, take away your sponsorship. But I will film it. I will film the
Asiento
ceremony.”

The man is about to say something, something angry. His arms are in the air and he is standing on his tiptoes, as if he was about to summon a lightning bolt and hurl it at Papelito. But the man short-circuits himself, and instead he storms out of San Lazaro y las Siete Vueltas, the fury of his energy still present in his absence.

I see Papelito's head hang low, his eyes staring intensely at the floor, as if he could count each molecule.

“Julio,” Papelito doesn't take his eyes off the floor, “the bank called me.”

I don't say a word.

“Your mother doesn't know,” he says and looks at me. “Your mother doesn't know.”

“She doesn't have to know.”

“Mira, papi,”
he seems a bit rattled. “I have enough problems, okay? I need good
ashe.
Please tell your mother what you're doing.”

“I'm not nine years old,” I say, but truth is I know my mother would never have agreed to have a
santero
do a favor for her family. It's like a Muslim letting a Kabbalist make him dinner. “I don't have to tell her anything.”

“Well you better,
papi.”
Papelito then looks at me and brings out a letter from his pocket. He hands it to me and I see it's not the usual mortgage bank statement he hands over to me every month, but a real bank letter. I open the bank letter. It states that a woman came to ask for a loan claiming that her son owns the property. The bank was reminding Papelito to be aware of identity theft. Something along those lines. The letter ends, we are always looking out for the best interest of our clients, thank you for doing business, blah, blah, blah.

Papelito is angry and he doesn't want to get into another fight. I have come to ask for his advice but I don't feel like it's the right time.

“Papelito who was that man? I mean if you're in trouble I can maybe help you,” I say.

Papelito is not himself. I have never seen him this disturbed.

“He is my senior
babalawo,”
he starts arranging the scratch-off lottery-ticket shelf, “he is ‘head,' he is my
oluwo.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” and Papelito walks behind the counter and brings out a copy of
El Diario/La Prensa,
opens it and places it on the counter for me to see, “that he has the power to see.”

I begin reading it. That man's picture plus his readings are in bold. The captions say this year's strongest Orishas are Babaluaye and Ochosi. Sickness and war. A bad year for the country, it reads. Increase in cases of HIV and a nasty, long war are imminent. The man who was just here a second ago, this “head,” predicted all this last January.

“Every year all the
babalawos
get together to find the
odu,”
Papelito says, “the future and where we are headed. He is the one that speaks for all of us.”

“So why is he mad at you?”

“I don't like all this fuss, all this secrecy, it just creates trouble. It was needed once, but not anymore. So
mira,
I informed my
olowu
that I am going to film
an Asiento.”

“An
Asiento?”

“The ceremony when someone gets his Orisha placed on his head. The two will be one for life. Possession and sacrifice will be part of it, and I'm inviting the local news shows, too. Of course he is against it.
Pero, pa'mi,
I think I'll break down the walls that have made people afraid of Lukumi. Secrecy creates trouble, Julio. That is why
, papi,”
he says, “you have to tell your mother that it's your apartment and it's your money, but that it's under my name.”

“I don't want to, Papelito. My mother, you know how she feels about you, and you know, I think she'll never change.”

Papelito takes my hand.

He places me in front of Santa Barbara, the saint that shares her duality with Chango.

“Let me tell you a
pataki.”
I look at Papelito, but he turns my face toward the saint.

“There was a time when the Yoruba Nation was plagued by war and internal conflict. Chango brought stability and united the country. But with all this peace he got bored and tricked his two brothers into fighting to the death.
Que zangano.
Anyway, the people were very unhappy about this and so Chango, because of his mistake and grief, hanged himself from a tree.”

I look at Papelito.

“So?”

“So what that story teaches you?”

“Papelito, I have to go—”

“No mira, papi,
if you want to walk in the way of the saints you have to interpret the stories to fit your life.”

“It teaches me,” I sigh, “to love peace?”

“Wow, I didn't see that one,” Papelito squints, placing a finger on his chin, “yeah, I guess it teaches to love peace. But in your life, what does that story tell you about your life, Julio?”

“I don't have brothers, Papelito,” I say, not interested right then. Though I did like the story, I'm not in the mood to interpret anything.

“Mira, bijo de
Chango, let me tell you what I see. What this story teaches me.”

“Okay.”

“That we all make mistakes Julio. Even the god of fire. But Chango owned up to his mistakes. I don't expect you to be that drastic,
mijo,”
Papelito picks up a glass of water that was on a shelf, “but you have made some mistakes, and the sooner you own up to them the better.” Papelito dips his fingers in the glass and starts to sprinkle water around his botanica. When he stops, he sprinkles some water on me.

“Mira, mi amor,
I see great things in you. But none of it will pass if you don't live in truth. I see terrible consequences that we, we will all have to pay because of your mistakes.”

“So I should tell my mother, is that what this is all about?”

“That,” Papelito says, placing the glass down hard, and his hands on his hips, “is just a start.”

Papelito stands there in one of his most graceful poses, expecting me to tell him things. To confess my errors. Mistakes he won't force out of me. He wants it to come from me and me alone. To free myself by telling the world what I've been hiding.

I turn around.

I leave him standing there. I leave with the hopes that when I see Papelito again, he won't be angry at me. I had heard what he could do when he got angry. How he could kill with prayers, but that didn't scare me, because I knew he would never hurt me like that. It's what he had said about people in my life paying for my errors that did.