Signs Preceding the End of the World (4 page)

Git! said Chucho. Makina moved toward him because even though she knew he was talking to her she thought he was asking her for help. He must be asking for help. Makina wasn’t used to having people say Run away.

One more bullet exploded from the revolver; Makina saw the barrel head-on, saw the way it dilated the split second it spat fire and the way it contracted just as the bullet clipped her side. The impact caused her to whirl but not fall, and as she span she took two steps forward and dealt the rancher a kick in the jaw. He was still moving but had lost his sense of direction: he was aiming, like his bullets, for Chucho’s neck but where he clawed, all there was was air. Chucho punched him in the chin, which didn’t knock the man out but did curb his momentum, and said, stressing each word, I can take care of this. Makina looked to the trucks, then again to the men on the sand, then to the mountains, colliding endlessly before her, and started to run, guns and evil bastards on both sides. She heard them behind her, ordering Freeze, on the ground, but didn’t turn, not even when she heard another shot that must have come from a police gun because it sounded different, less powerful than the rancher’s.

She ran uphill till she could no longer hear shouting behind her, then she turned to look. The cops had the two men in their sights, Chucho’s hands on the back of his head and the rancher seemingly unconscious. Another cop looked in Makina’s direction but showed no sign of following. Only then did Makina inspect her side. The bullet had entered and versed between two ribs, ignoring her lung, as if it had simply skimmed beneath the surface of her skin so as not to get stuck in her body. She could see the gash of the bullet’s path, but it didn’t hurt and barely bled. She looked once more to where the men were arguing. Now there was no cop watching her. Chucho was on the ground talking; they stood listening in a semicircle around him. The rancher was still face down.

Makina remembered Chucho’s mouth saying I can take care of this. She guessed that he was talking, more than anything, about her, and decided to keep on climbing.

Rucksacks. What do people whose life stops here take with them? Makina could see their rucksacks crammed with time. Amulets, letters, sometimes a
huapango
violin, sometimes a
jaranera
harp. Jackets. People who left took jackets because they’d been told that if there was one thing they could be sure of over there, it was the freezing cold, even if it was desert all the way. They hid what little money they had in their underwear and stuck a knife in their back pocket. Photos, photos, photos. They carried photos like promises but by the time they came back they were in tatters.

In hers, as soon as she’d agreed to go get the kid for Cora, she packed:

a small blue metal flashlight, for the darkness she might encounter,

one white blouse and one with colorful embroidery, in case she came across any parties,

three pairs of panties so she’d always have a clean one even if it took a while to find a washhouse,

a latin–anglo dictionary (those things were by old men and for old men, outdated the second they left the press, true, but they still helped, like people who don’t really know where a street is and yet point you in the right direction),

a picture her little sister had drawn in fat, round strokes that featured herself, Makina and Cora in ascending order, left to right and short to tall,

a bar of
xithé
soap,

a lipstick that was more long-lasting than it was dark and,

as provisions: amaranth cakes and peanut brittle.

She was coming right back, that’s why that was all she took.

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4

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THE OBSIDIAN MOUND

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When she reached the top of the saddle between the two mountains it began to snow. Makina had never seen snow before and the first thing that struck her as she stopped to watch the weightless crystals raining down was that something was burning. One came to perch on her eyelashes; it looked like a stack of crosses or the map of a palace, a solid and intricate marvel at any rate, and when it dissolved a few seconds later she wondered how it was that some things in the world—some countries, some people—could seem eternal when everything was actually like that miniature ice palace: one-of-a-kind, precious, fragile. She felt a sudden stab of disappointment but also a slight subsiding of the fear that had been building since she’d versed from home.

On the other side of the mountains was the truck Chucho had told her about. She went up to it, opened the passenger door and said Are you Aitch’s man? The driver jumped out of his skin then tried to recover his hard-boiled slouch, upped his nose as if to say S’right, and finally jerked his head to signal Get in.

On the way the driver turned to look at her every little while, as though hoping she’d try to talk to him so he could refuse, but Makina had no interest in the challenge; she should have been exhausted but what she felt was an overwhelming impatience. She turned to the window to look out without seeing. If she didn’t get back soon, what would become of all those people who had no way of communicating with their kith and kin? She had to get back, because Cora was counting on her; and what about the switchboard, how would it look and feel without her? Ay, the guilt, reducing reality to a clenched fist with set hours.

The city was an edgy arrangement of cement particles and yellow paint. Signs prohibiting things thronged the streets, leading citizens to see themselves as ever protected, safe, friendly, innocent, proud, and intermittently bewildered, blithe, and buoyant; salt of the only earth worth knowing. They flourished in supermarkets, cornucopias where you could have more than everyone else or something different or a newer brand or a loaf of bread a little bigger than everyone else’s. Makina just dented cans and sniffed bottles and thought it best to verse, and it was when she saw the anglogaggle at the self-checkouts that she noticed how miserable they looked in front of those little digital screens, and the way they nearly-nearly jumped every time the machine went bleep! at each item. And how on versing out to the street they sought to make amends for their momentary one-up by becoming wooden again so as not to offend anyone.

Out on the concrete and steel-girder plain, though, she sensed another presence straight off, scattered about like bolts fallen from a window: on street corners, on scaffolding, on sidewalks; fleeting looks of recognition quickly concealed and then evasive. These were her compatriots, her homegrown, armed with work: builders, florists, loaders, drivers; playing it sly so as not to let on to any shared objective, and instead just, just, just: just there to take orders. They were the same as back home but with less whistling, and no begging.

She was seduced by something less clear-cut as she wandered by the restaurants: unfamiliar sweetness and spiciness, concoctions that had never before passed her lips or her nose, rapturous fried feasts. Places serving food that was strange but with something familiar mixed in, something recognizable in the way the dishes were finished off. So she visited the restaurants, too, with the brevity imposed by glaring managers who guessed She’s not here to eat, and it wasn’t until the fourth restaurant that she realized they were here, too, more armed than anyplace else, cooks and helpers and dishwashers, ruling the food at the farthest outposts.

All cooking is Mexican cooking, she said to herself. And then she said Ha. It wasn’t true, but she liked saying it just the same.

The driver jerked up his palms when he saw Makina take out the package from Mr. Aitch. You don’t give nothing to me. Didn’t you know that? He dropped her on a deserted street and said Here’s where they’ll tell you where to take it. Since there was nobody around she ambled through a supermarket and sniffed restaurants. When she returned, a flower store had opened; an old man was sitting at the entrance, resting one hand on a cane and bringing a piece of bread to his mouth with the other. Makina planted herself in front of him. They looked at each other. Again Makina made as if to take the packet out but the old man said Wait, go clean up first and then I’ll take you. With his cane he pointed to a little door at the back of the store. Makina went through it, washed her hands and face; the wound on her ribs was dry and when she rubbed the soap across it hardly even stung. When she versed from the bathroom the old man was standing up. Come with me, he said. See those men? Makina saw two guys in a black ride with silver rims. Cops, wondering who you are, he went on. We’re going to walk till they get sidetracked. They began walking. The car followed close behind, suddenly accelerated and disappeared, but soon returned to follow them at a distance.

I’m taking you to the stadium, the old man said. If they stop trailing us, you hand it over there; meantime I’ll tell you about your kin.

Makina was overcome by foreboding. Is he dead?

No, no, alive and kicking like a mule, he’s fine; you’ll find him changed, but still, he got here ok. Like you, he brought a little something from Mr. Aitch and things got rough, but then he went off on his business.

Do you know where?

The old man said Help me walk. Makina took his arm and the old man smoothly slipped her a piece of paper with his other hand. Address’s right here.

They kept walking. The black car slowed beside them, the occupants eyeballed for a few seconds and took off.

Think it’s safe? Makina asked.

Don’t know, but it’s got to be done.

The stadium loomed before them. So, what do they use that for?

They play, said the old man. Every week the anglos play a game to celebrate who they are. He stopped, raised his cane and fanned the air. One of them whacks it, then sets off like it was a trip around the world, to every one of the bases out there, you know the anglos have bases all over the world, right? Well the one who whacked it runs from one to the next while the others keep taking swings to distract their enemies, and if he doesn’t get caught he makes it home and his people welcome him with open arms and cheering.

Do you like it?

Tsk, me, I’m just passing through.

How long you been here?

Going on fifty years … Here we are.

They were standing at one of the doors to the stadium. The old man gave a whistle, the door opened, the old man said Get it over with, and turned away.

The darkest kid Makina had ever seen in her life pointed to a corridor. She walked down it toward the light. At the end she was instantly overcome by the sight of a vast expanse, two rival visions of beauty: the bottom an immense green diamond rippling in its own reflection; and above, embracing it, tens of thousands of folded black chairs, an obsidian mound barbed with flint, sharp and glimmering.

She was standing there, dazzled, when from other tunnels around her more men emerged, ten or fifteen or thirty all at once, all black but some blacker than others, some sinewy as if they’d grown up in mountain air, others puffy like aquatic animals, many bald but a few with long matted hair down to their waists. All looking at her and walking toward her, calm and cool but with faces that clearly conveyed they were serious motherfuckers.

Don’t let my associates scare you, she suddenly heard behind her, in latin tongue. They’re not such tough sonsofbitches, just had to learn to look like it.

Down the corridor she’d walked, a man limped nearer, his features becoming clearer as he was gradually bathed in light: his blazing blond hair was streaked with orange highlights, he held a cigar in one hand and wore mirrored shades. Makina had never laid eyes on him before but there was no mistaking who he was. Mr. P, the fourth top dog, had fled the Little Town after a turf war with Mr. Aitch and every once in a while you’d hear how one way or another they were goading each other from afar. What had Makina gotten herself into? Did Mr. P think he could mess with Mr. Aitch by messing with her?

You got nothing to fear from me neither, girl, said Mr. P, suspecting her guts were churning. And not because Aitch and I have made peace. We do business, sure, but who says that’s not just another way to eat the dish cold?

Makina noticed that from his belt hung a long, thin knife and that Mr. P patted it nonstop. Very slowly, she at last pulled out the packet that was for him. Mr. P held out his hand, weighed up the package without taking his eyes off her, and passed it to one of his associates. He patted and patted his knife and smiled at Makina while the associates opened the package, closed the package and in anglo said We’re cool. Mr. P, though, kept leering and smiling at Makina and patting his dangling knife, and she wanted to go now but couldn’t muster enough of a voice for even the first syllable.

Wouldn’t you like to come work for me, child? asked Mr. P, eyeing her crotch.

I’m here for my brother.

Of course, the brother.

Mr. P stopped looking, scratched his chin and repeated The brother, the brother.

His eyes scanned the stadium with idle curiosity, he turned, and the associates began to verse leisurely down the tunnels, until Makina was all alone.

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5

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THE PLACE WHERE THE WIND CUTS LIKE A KNIFE

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They are homegrown and they are anglo and both things with rabid intensity; with restrained fervor they can be the meekest and at the same time the most querulous of citizens, albeit grumbling under their breath. Their gestures and tastes reveal both ancient memory and the wonderment of a new people. And then they speak. They speak an intermediary tongue that Makina instantly warms to because it’s like her: malleable, erasable, permeable; a hinge pivoting between two like but distant souls, and then two more, and then two more, never exactly the same ones; something that serves as a link.

More than the midpoint between homegrown and anglo their tongue is a nebulous territory between what is dying out and what is not yet born. But not a hecatomb. Makina senses in their tongue not a sudden absence but a shrewd metamorphosis, a self-defensive shift. They might be talking in perfect latin tongue and without warning begin to talk in perfect anglo tongue and keep it up like that, alternating between a thing that believes itself to be perfect and a thing that believes itself to be perfect, morphing back and forth between two beasts until out of carelessness or clear intent they suddenly stop switching tongues and start speaking that other one. In it brims nostalgia for the land they left or never knew when they use the words with which they name objects; while actions are alluded to with an anglo verb conjugated latin-style, pinning on a sonorous tail from back there.