Chango's Fire (9 page)

Papelito walks behind me and lovingly takes the portrait from my hand.

“I got to touch him, Julio. He showed up in El Barrio and we mobbed him,” he says, placing the picture carefully back where it belongs. “I grabbed his arm
and fua,
his cufflink came off.” Papelito's face saddens. “I was so young in ‘68. Didn't even wear dresses yet.”

The bells chime again. A woman walks in and whispers something in Papelito's ear. Papelito nods. They talk briefly.

“I took up a collection, Papelito. This is
el derecho
for the Orishas,” she hands him a wad of money, “can you do the
trabajo?”

“Pero contra mami,
” lightly placing his fingertips on his chest, near his heart, “of course I'll perform the
trabajo.”
When Papelito talks, his whole body moves with fluidity, gracefully as oil slowly pouring out of a bottle.

The woman looks my way and gives me a distrustful stare. She says something to Papelito behind her upheld hand, to be sure I can't hear.

Papelito nods again, gently kisses her cheek, and escorts the woman out. He shuts the door behind her, turning over the
CLOSED
sign.

“Mira mi amor,
your mother was here a few days ago asking about a cat,” he says in a low voice as though a scandal may erupt simply because my mother spoke to him.

“Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it. I'll get her another one. Here,” I say, handing Papelito the money so he can deposit it and write a check to pay the bank as if it is his mortgage. After I hand the money over to him, I stand there like I'm waiting for a train. I want to tell Papelito that a woman wrote me a letter, and ask what the Orishas might have in store for me. I want a consultation, but I feel stupid asking for one. Especially after I have rejected Papelito's offer to try one out, time and time again. I stand there, all nervous, and no words come out. Instead I think about psychic networks and horoscopes and stuff like that, stuff I have no faith in. I have always believed that you can fit any situation of your life into a horoscope and those readings. That's why they hold no water for me. But Papelito's religion is a religion of survival. One that took certain steps in order to keep itself alive. A religion of cunning. Santeria is something else. Something real. But, above all, I have faith in Papelito.

“I have to talk to you,” he whispers after he takes my money. He stares at my eyes as if he has seen something that he knows I'm afraid to tell him. Like he is making it easier for me, like throwing me a life-saver. “Come, come.” He takes my hand.

“I gotta go Papelito,” I say, because I feel like chickening out. “I have night school, then help Mom put in those new tiles in the kitchen. That apartment needs work—”

“No mijo, mira,
” blinking his eyes and pausing to make sure he has my attention,
“que
this is important,
mi amor,”
he says, and I have to laugh inside, because it's not what he says but how he says it. The way he choreographs his hands with his speech is like watching a ballet. But I'm happy, because it's really what I wanted all along and couldn't push my pride, fear, doubts or all three, far enough to do it.

We go to the basement.

It's where Papelito has set up the He, the house of the Orishas. It's a magnificent room, full of fresh flowers and plants. At the feet of every saint are fruit offerings, bowls of sweets, and symbols attributed to each Orisha. Nailed to the wall are bows and arrows, spears, and entire sugar canes along with flags of different colors. An elaborate altar for Ochun is assembled on a knee-high table. Next
to
it, upright and loving, stands a life-size statue of La Caridad de Cobre, the Lady of Charity, the Catholic saint with whom Ochun shares a duality. There are five baskets filled with fruits—five because that is her number—and feathers of a peacock, the bird associated with her. Yellow silk scarves and other similar fabrics decorate the altar, celebrating the colors of the Orisha.

Papelito asks me to sit down on the floor, where two pillows face each other, and then he asks me for the
derecho,
the fee for the Orishas. I want to tell him I didn't ask him for a consultation, that it was he who wanted me to come down here. Instead I dig in my pocket and bring out three twenties. He instructs me to fold them and cross myself with them by touching my shoulders, then forehead, and then stomach, kissing the money at the end. I do as told, because I don't want to offend Papelito or his religion.

I hand the money over, and Papelito takes the
derecho
and puts it in a colorful jar next to a statue of El Niño de Atocha, the saint the Orisha Elegua shares a duality with. Papelito catches me staring at Elegua.

“Elegua is both messenger and gatekeeper, he has the keys so we can speak to the black gods. It always starts and ends with Elegua.”

Papelito then joins me on the floor.

“Let's see what your
letra
is today,
mi negrito”
he tells me. Papelito takes a necklace made up of tortoise shells and starts casting it down between us. After each cast, he writes different combinations down, numbers I can see or words he only understands. Papelito mumbles to himself quietly. He instructs me to hold on tightly to some objects he hands over to me. A stone. A bone. A shell.

He writes down more combinations.

“No one has asked the Orishas to harm you,
mijo”
he tells me.

“So that's good, right?” I say, trying to be cool about the letter. I really want to ask him if love is in the cards for me? Or something along those lines.

“Pero perate,
two women are coming your way, Julio.”

“Get out,” I'm excited.

“One is white, she will have money, the other is dark but she will love you and give you children.”

It's a religion of poet priests yanked out of their beloved Africa and forced to embrace not just slavery in the new world but also Catholicism. And so these poet priests preserved their religion by hiding their gods inside Catholic saints. The Spaniards bought the hustle, and, in time, the two religions merged, forming the way of the saints, Santeria. A religion born out of a need for survival, of diversity, of color and magic. The Dark Continent was in our blood and Africa's religions were part of our cultural heritage. Like the blood of our people, Santeria became one with so many other things in order to survive. It adapted and transformed itself into something new. It is this instinct of survival that lives to this day in botanicas all over the country.

“Wow, two women,” I whisper to myself, “what do I have to do?”

“You have to make a decision,
papi.
“

“I can't keep both?” Man, I'm thinking, when it rains it pours.

“No, greed is not the Orishas' way,
mi amor.
“

“You sure?”

“
S
í mijo, I'm sure. They love to eat, but they are not greedy. Now,
mijo,
you have to erect an altar for Ochun, goddess of love and marriage. Five yellow candles, five sweet cakes, a peacock feather, that's Ochun's bird. After five days, throw the cakes in the East River as an offering.
Me entiende?”

“Okay.”

“Julio, the East River, not the Hudson, the women are coming from the east.”

“Sounds good.”

“You know what saint shares her duality with Ochun, right?”

“La Caridad de Cobre, right?”

“Good, learning,
mijo,
learning.” Papelito then checks his numbers again. “
S
í pero, there is still harm in your
letra.
Some harm is coming.”

“Like what?” My eyes narrow and I fear the flames of those fires I set are reaching their arms to grab me. Engulf me maybe.

“No se,
” Papelito shakes his head, deeply looking into his calculations. “But the harm is coming from a powerful force, Julio,” he stares at his numbers as if double checking.

“Hey, Papelito,” I pause, because I've been wanting to ask him this for a long time and want to say it right, “why do you believe in the Orishas so much?”

Papelito laughs a little, his head drops back. He starts to put away his numbers and with his finger he taps a glass of water that is sitting on a table. The glass makes a pretty, crystal-like ring that drones for a few seconds. Papelito gets up and goes over to light a blue candle to his Orisha, Yemaya. Then he bows to Elegua, because all things start and end with Elegua.

“This is a holy room,
ven mijo”
he says, and I follow him back upstairs, where a couple of women are waiting for him outside the door. The women's Latin American faces let me know they are from Maritza's church. They have been waiting patiently and silently for Papelito to reopen his botanica.

“Momentito, momentito!”
Papelito kindly lets them inside. He hands them each a small statue of the saint San Lazaro, who shares his duality with the Orisha Babaluaye, saint for the sick and diseased. The women take the statues and hold them close to their chests, as if they were some miracle vaccine, something as vital as water in a desert. Papelito tells them to thank Maritza, and the women silently leave. They don't go through the front but take the back exit. Maybe they fear that their friends, who don't understand the religion and might see them coming out of a botanica, might judge them.

Papelito's attention returns to me. He puts his hand on top of mine, which he does when he has some revelation to tell you.

“Your question is easy,
mi lindo”
he says. “Regla Lukumi is really the
patakis,
the stories I have chosen to live my life by.”

“Stories?”

“Yes, powerful stories that teach me how to experience life, my life. How to live my life within nature and my community.”

“Why do these stories hold so much power?”

“Because they are beyond stories, Julio. They hold power for all of us,
mijo.
Listen. These stories are really our search for truth, for meaning, for significance. These stories are us in disguise.
Mira mi amor,
some people choose to live their lives by Christian stories, Hindu stories, Muslim stories, Buddhist stories, or, like me, Yoruba stories, but if you take all the stories, you will see similar patterns, similar characters.”

“Like who?”

“Like Elegua earlier,” and he points at another statue of El Nino de Atocha. “Elegua is not just the gatekeeper but the trickster, a joker. Many religions have a joker, Julio. In your Christian beliefs, just when God had given man a job, a woman, and eternal life, the serpent had to stick its nose in. The joker is there to tell you, just when you think you have it all under control,
Sape! Te jode la vida.
Depending on the stories you have chosen to live your life by, Ganesha, Hanuman, Lucifer or Elegua will throw things at you. They are really the same character in different stories.”

“Stories, huh? Any love stories in there?”

Papelito smiles the brightest smile I have ever seen decorate his face.

“All the good ones are love stories,
papi,”
he delicately swats at my shoulder. “It's really what it's all about. The real hero in all stories is love.”

I get nervous and feel embarrassed to be asking him about this. It makes me feel like the women that visit him. Truth is, I want to hear more but I switch gears.

“Stories? I see,” I say, lifting my head a bit, like I understand it.

“Yes, stories that if you listen closely will tell you things about yourself that deep down you know are true.”

“But I like the Christian stories. What I don't like is the church,” I shrug.

“Then
mijo,
what you don't really like is their
rituals.
These stories come with rituals. It's the only way these stories become real to us.”

“So Regla followers make their stories real by possessions and potions and stuff?”

“No different than the pope telling you to eat the body of Christ,
verdad?
Or a pastor speaking in tongues, that's possessions? No?
Mira,
they're all rituals, all relative. Maybe it's time that you exchanged your stories. Maybe you'd like to live your life by another culture's myths and rituals. Pray, Julio.”

He takes his hand off mine and winks and goes to attend a customer who had walked in while we were talking. He sways his hips towards her, hugs her like he's known her for decades. Maybe he has, the woman is as old as Papelito. They start to gossip.

“When? No? That husband of yours!” Papelito exclaims as he and the woman both laugh and continue to whisper like meddling witches.

T
hat night, I buy the items I need for my offering. I go home thinking about rereading Helen's letter and about exchanging my stories. Why not? It might do me good. At school I'm getting a BA in management, because I know I can get a good job; problem is that management is really boring, like playing bilingual Scrabble with my parents. In night college I'm not learning stories to guide me, I'm just getting a bunch of information. A series of technologies for a new and supposedly improved job market. But stories interest me. I know some of the Yoruba stories and many of them are beautiful, colorful and lovely. The black gods speak from the wind and thunder. The spirit of God flows in every mountain stream and glade of grass. It's an earthly religion with poetry. There was no poetry in growing up Pentecostal.

As for Papelito asking me to pray, I never doubted the power of prayer. Both good and bad. I had witnessed it myself when I was a little kid and our pastor had asked the entire church to pray on behalf of this brother who was unemployed. This brother had to feed his wife and five kids but had no work. Jobs were hard to come by during the recession. Unemployment was at an all-time high. New York City was near bankruptcy. If things broke, they stayed broken. So, the pastor pleaded week in and week out for the congregation to hold this brother in our prayers. I remember praying something silly, like, “Lord Jehovah, you have a job. Please help this brother have a job, too.” Something along those lines, something that would only make sense to a seven-year-old. When the brother landed a job driving a milk truck, our entire church rejoiced. He even donated milk to those in the congregation who needed it. But on the third month on the job, a fire engine crashed into the brother's milk truck, killing him. I felt betrayed. Did my prayers kill him? Did God? The pastor got up in front of the platform and said, “He was probably singing a hymn when God took him. He was a sweet brother, like honey. His death was a reconciliation of milk and honey.” And the congregation laughed at his little pun. But I was sad. I nervously confronted our pastor after the service, and he brushed aside my question of “why” by telling me to listen to my mother. I was a kid, so I didn't bother him anymore after that. But even at that age I began questioning our beliefs. There were other forces at work here. My religion wasn't the center of the world, like I had been taught to believe. There were other sets of truths that my religion feared, and didn't want to challenge, or didn't know how to address when brought up. By anyone of any age.