Ballad & Dagger, page 25
In seconds, I’m working my way through the crumpled steel where the two cars met. There’s an older man in the seat; I can see his hands, now his face. Tantor Batalán, the grocer. His granddaughter Zala is a grade below me. He always makes corny jokes in the checkout line. Tonight, though, he tried to kill me. Instead, he’s…I look closer: he’s gone, too. No movement, just that impossible stillness of the dead.
Yet maybe…
I know this is ridiculous. I do. But I’m already pulling him out through the smashed window, laying his body on the sidewalk, ignoring the tiny fractals of glass that dig into my knees as I lean over his body and listen.
Nothing.
Nothing, and then, a tiny something…A faraway note, then another. Two notes is a melody, however faint.
Again.
My hands land on his shoulders, slide up to his bruised neck.
Speckles of snow land on his gray face.
I close my eyes.
Listen.
Something took flight in the crash, became a projectile. I can almost see it. The thing ricocheted off the dashboard and made a direct hit with his throat, crushing the windpipe.
I can fix that. What happens next…Well, that’s another story.
The two notes find a third, and a new melody is born—a distant thing, but there, real. It repeats, even stronger this time.
It’s all I need. Tantor Batalán’s crumpled cartilage smooths out, hardens, and rises against my fingers. Air pours through what once was a closed passageway.
And then…silence rears up so suddenly it blots out all sense of the world around—all sight, sound, and smell—and almost knocks me over.
Death.
I remain, and the sheer void of it sends wave after wave of panic through me.
I remain.
I’m ready for it this time. I know it now. It still might overwhelm me. The tiniest flinch could send everything spiraling; the maw of the abyss grows wider.
It’s just nothing and more nothing.
And then…
Ga-gung.
One double-tap heartbeat against my palm.
Silence.
Another ga-gung.
And again. Then a fourth, a fifth. Chaos organizes itself into a rhythm. Life.
I rise, watching, feel the dizzy abyss shrink as I stand.
Tantor’s eyes—the eyes of my enemy, my neighbor, my patient—pop open, and he heaves forward with a gasp as I step back.
“What the—” He skitters to his feet, frantic, the grayness giving way to pink on his face. “What the devil did you do to me?”
I don’t have an answer to that, so I just shake my head.
Tantor stumbles a few steps away, then turns and runs.
For a moment, I stand there, breath rising in misty clouds. A sharp tingle whispers through me, and I know without having to wonder that it is death. I have stolen this void from him, and I should probably do what Tía Lucia taught me: cleanse it off in a river or a crossroads somewhere, be rid of it.
But I can’t lie—there’s a strange comfort in knowing I carry death within me now. The icicles were already there. They’ve grown and glistened all week in sharp, unforgiving angles, and now I realize they’ve formed the perfect nest to embrace this new entity within, this eternal emptiness that I carry, this sweet abyss.
And maybe, just maybe, I can study it, understand it, and somehow use it to save my tía.
Or even…I glance over at Arco, the man I killed. The man I couldn’t save.
I reach him at a run, skitter to a stop, and place my hands on his cold, dead skin, already turning paler than before, a cruel blue-gray taking over.
I can save you.
But when I reach him, I don’t even feel an abyss. It’s like I’m touching a fleshy rock. There’s no music, no abyss to snatch. Nothing.
“Come on!” I grunt, my concentration shattered, reaching deeper and deeper with nothing to show for it. “Come on!”
“MATEO!” Huge tree-trunk arms wrap around me, and I know this isn’t the first time the rabbi has yelled my name. “We need to go!”
He’s yanking me to my feet, and the world spins in a wild drunken carousel as Arco’s body is wrenched from my grasp.
Rabbi Hidalgo’s strong hands grip my shoulders, and I manage to meet his glare. “You can’t help him! And we have to go! Now!”
He’s right. Maybe I could have saved Arco earlier, but now I can’t, and…Movement at the far end of the street catches my eye.
Towering figures. Four of them. Bambarúto. They stride toward us like they have all the time in the world. Which makes them even more terrifying.
“We run,” Rabbi Hidalgo urges. And we do.
In the tunnel, the rabbi squints at me as the lump on the back of his head diminishes beneath my touch. An audacious bolero rises; I guess a prayer would’ve been too obvious to expect. Already, healing has become second nature to me; it was always there, waiting to take flight within.
“What happened up there?” he asks.
“You took a bat to the head,” I say, hedging. “One of the guys died in the scuffle.” I don’t say I killed one of them. But it’s there, the truth—it’s in me. Doesn’t matter. No, that’s a lie. It matters more than anything. “I scared the other one off.” Another lie, if only by omission. “Vedo, too.” Then: “Didn’t take much. Cowards.” I feel both smug and ashamed, but I know very simply, very clearly, that what I’ve done—the taking of life and the taking of death—is not an anecdote, not a story to vomit out simply because it happened, because someone asked. No. It is a sacred thing, and I will honor it.
The rabbi is safe, that’s what matters.
He regards me with uncertainty. “You saved me, didn’t you?”
I do a kind of halfway nod-shrug. That much I can admit, sure. And it’s true. Just not only in the way he thinks.
“Thank you, manseviko. I will not forget this.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, and mean it. “You don’t have to…It’s fine. I just—I have to get back to my tía.” Who I can’t save, supposedly. None of this is fair. “You’ll be okay getting home?”
He nods, still rubbing the back of his head. “I’ll take the tunnels and be careful. See you tonight, Mateo.”
And then he trudges off into the darkness, and I am alone.
“OH, THERE YOU ARE. TOLO lives in the Bronx now o ¿qué?”
“Sorry, it took so long, Tía. I…Things got a little complicated.”
“¿Y eso? Pass me that cornmeal and put a pot on to boil, hmm? Rápido.”
“He’s okay. But those bambarúto creatures are out in the streets.”
“Comemierdas sinvergüenzas del carajo. Chop this onion. And your healing powers, mmm?”
“They’re, uh, improving, yeah.”
“Menos mal.”
“Tía Lucia?”
“Hmm?”
“Who do you think—”
“Chop, I said, not…whatever that is you’re doing.”
“Tía…”
“You’re cooking for santos, m’ijo. You can’t just do whatever. Here, give me the knife. Roll this cornmeal into little bolas.”
“Tía, I’m trying to— OW! Damn!”
“Language, m’ijo. The cornmeal is still hot, be careful.”
“So I noticed!”
“Hrm.”
“Who do you think the San Madrigal initiate is…or was supposed to be?”
“Ay, m’ijo, these questions. It was fifteen years ago, papito. We did the best we could, Mateo. I don’t look for the shells to tell me what I want to hear. I listen to what they’re saying, and then check with them to confirm what I hear. It’s the same when you heal, I think. You see—or feel, maybe—what it is that is wrong. Then you check, and then you act. The shells speak in riddles, sí. Pero usually they are very clear, if you are paying attention. The shells said the island would fall. We didn’t realize how soon it would happen, but the island surely did fall. They said it would rise again, that the same thing that destroyed it would raise it, hmm? And now we have to see what that means, or do what that means. No sé. Some answers are bigger than we can fathom, ¿Entiendes? Ahora aqui—revuélveme esos huevos.”
“Santos eat scrambled eggs?”
“No—bueno, sí, pero this is for the French toast.”
“Santos eat French toast?”
“Ay, m’ijo, have you really not been paying attention all these years? Jes, French toast is Oya’s favorite food. Ahora, por favor, scramble these eggs and put some more butter in the pan and then get the bread out before I escream.”
“Fine, sheesh.”
“And put the coffee on.”
“Do you believe Chela is really Okanla incarnate, like an actual walking living santo?”
“Sí, como no.”
“Does that mean I am…?”
“Hmm?”
“You know…”
Finally, finally, Tía Lucia stops what she’s doing and looks at me. Her face has aged since I’ve been gone, like time has accelerated with the knowledge of what’s to come. In spite of all her efforts to dye her hair that ridiculous blond, more gray is showing. Crow’s feet form tiny tributaries down her cheeks. She’s at home amidst this flurry of movement, and her tired eyes look somehow so sad and so alive, invigorated at the same time. She puts two fists on her hips and narrows her gaze to a squint, a slight smile painting her face.
“Do you feel like a sacred spirit, Mateo?”
It’s the kind of question most people would ask in jest, to mock the very notion. But she means it. Chela had told me she’d somehow always known she was Okanla. That’s nothing I can relate to. I’m just a kid who loves music and, sure, can magically heal people. But I’m still just a kid. I shake my head slowly.
She tips her head to one side, then the other, raises a shoulder, and lets out an extended “Buuuueno.” Then she turns back to the chopping board. “Bring these plates out to the altar. We’ll put down what’s ready and do the rest later, hmm? Guests will be coming soon. MIRIAM! ¡VAMOS A PRESENTAR, MI AMOR!”
Farts appears in the doorway, then waddles ahead of me like an escort as I carry various dishes full of delicious spirit delicacies into the living room. I guess I’m not a demigod or whatever like Chela, an angel. I didn’t really think so, but the whispered idea had been dancing tiny tantalizing circles around me for a week.
I carry an icy shard of death itself now, and that in itself makes me feel somewhat unstoppable. Recklessly so, perhaps, but these are reckless days and nights of silent warfare, so no, I won’t walk unarmed again.
Tía Lucia stands in front of her shelf full of spirits, a steaming plate in each hand. “Ay, mi gente,” she sighs with gusto.
Aunt Miriam floats up beside us, beams. “They look beautiful, mi vida. Just beautiful.”
They do—she must’ve dressed the orishas while I was out. Each one has been wrapped in glittering fabric that winds upward and bursts in an elaborate flare from a metal crown on top. Fruits and wineglasses full of honey and molasses adorn them, and the whole scene looks like some luxurious Caribbean throne room.
Tía Lucia kisses the plates, then presses the edge of each to her forehead and heart while mumbling Lucumí prayers. Afterward, she hands them to me with instructions on how to arrange them on the straw mat.
“I already spoke to them,” she says when we’re done. “You want to salute, Mateo?”
I drop down, pick up the red-and-white maraca for Shango, Tía Lucia’s main santo, and shake it.
This is when I’m supposed to pray.
I’ve done it a million times—well, dozens, anyway. I don’t always necessarily believe in it, but it’s just something we do, you know? You pray for people you love. If God or some spirit hears you, all the better. If not, no harm, no foul.
But right now, no words come out.
Instead, my mind wanders to Tía Lucia’s casual acceptance of her own death. She’s not mad about it, not fighting. I know it took her some time to get there, but still…And then Arco, that sudden blue-gray color he became, that I made him. I took a life, and while I’ll be marked by it forever, he’s just gone.
I feel that iciness glisten and tremble within me; what it means, I do not know.
“Ay, please don’t cry at my santos, Mateo,” Tía Lucia says, halfway joking.
I’m not crying, though. I’m angry, I don’t know who at. And I’m lost.
Galanika’s serious face glares out at me from his picture on the wall.
“Take care of my tía,” I finally whisper beneath the sharp shushing of the maraca. “Whatever happens. And help me know what to do.”
I press my forehead to the mat and stand, hug Tía Lucia, and trade cheek kisses with Aunt Miriam’s chilly shroud. Then the doorbell rings and the first round of guests piles in with shrieks of excitement and even more food, and the party has begun in earnest.
The elder Madrigalerano Santeros arrive first, and they bring all kinds of delicious meats and seafood platters. They come with kisses and gossip, salutes and songs. They braved the hazardous streets to get here, and now they wonder in vivid whispers about the chilly silence that has come to rest in our little barrio, perhaps to stay, and what other curses these icy November winds will bring.
But mostly they pray. Each elder takes a turn on the mat, clanging a bell or shaking the maraca to accompany their words up to heaven with a sultry beat. The others touch fingers to the floor in a sign of respect, eyes closed, heads bowed. Holy Yoruba names of ancestors stream past amid exultations, gentle jokes, songs.
Then the door busts open, and Iya Lisa rolls in with a whole other crew, all in their fancy whites, carrying dessert trays wrapped in tinfoil and bags of treats. “You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you, Mama Lucia?” Iya Lisa yells. She even brought Oba Nelson, a high priest and renowned diviner from the Bronx who only shows up on special occasions—he’s from the Cuban branch of Santería, not the Madrigal one, and with him is a whole entourage of tough-looking priests all dressed in white. Our little apartment is suddenly so full, bursting at the seams with love and laughter, and it feels like a hot bath after so much separation and silence.
I peer out into the hallway as the parade of smiling revelers streams past. The clank of a cane sounds from the stairwell, and then Tams’s smiling face appears with Baba Johnny Afrá at her side. I’m so happy she’s okay. We’ve been texting, and she knows how to take care of herself, but still…danger lurks everywhere these days.
She glances behind her and yells, “You comin’?” and for a second, my heart races into overdrive, imagining that Chela has joined them. But no—of course not. It’s Maza, who is wearing a nice white suit and brought some kind of fried-dough treat.
“Welcome to chaos.” I smirk as Tams and I hug. Johnny Afrá punches my shoulder with a playful wink, Maza and I trade a dap, and then we’re all inside. The place is full of laughter and the delicious smells of many different cuisines, and of course, someone brought a conga, and someone else a guitar, and soon music swirls around us.
Tía Lucia soaks it all in with a forever smile plastered across her face. She’s right at home, surrounded by the love of her people, enshrined in her seat of power. Iya Matilde belts out a high-pitched ode to Shango’s prowess, mostly in Lucumí, and the whole room raises their voices to answer her call, a wild and raucous chorus.
It’s only now, as I’m belting out the Shango song with everyone else at the top of my lungs—possibly butchering the pronunciation—that I realize I’m not anxious. I’m not hiding in the corner, not consumed by a hundred versions of the terrible things people are probably saying or thinking about me.
A week ago, I stood up in front of everyone in my world, and the person I once admired most tried to tear me down. And all those people—all these people, the ones around me now—they wouldn’t let him. They’ve always been here, really, even when I was in my own head, even when I was imagining the worst about them and what they thought of me.
A whole new threat has arisen; there’s a new truth to be reckoned with; there’s so much work to be done to deal with our past and our future. But, finally, I don’t feel like I’m all alone in the world.
Our voices rise and rise in the night, an absolute middle finger to the past week of crushing silence. Just when I think someone’s about to pass a spirit, the door opens again and everyone goes “Oh!” Rabbi Hidalgo and Tolo walk in, arm in arm, with huge smiles and a whole gang of pirates and Sefaradim in their wake.
This time I know enough not to expect Chela to be with them, but I look for her, anyway. Now the apartment is so thick with folks it might burst, and everyone is carrying on like the snow outside isn’t spiraling toward streets full of dread. Somehow we’ve warded off the foul stench of silence, if just for this moment.
Rabbi Hidalgo nods at the altar—which, though small, is quite an edgy statement, given his practice and status. Then Tolo shocks everyone by dropping into a full on-the-ground salute, picking up the maraca and rasping out a few shaky lines of Lucumí before wishing long life and eternal happiness to Tía Lucia. His father was a Santero, I remember—it’s just that everyone focuses on the pirate stuff. He stands, embraces my tía, and turns to find all of our bewildered, wide-open faces staring back. We want answers. And action. Some sense of what we can do. I feel it move through the room, through me, that hunger.
Tolo takes a breath and looks like he’s about to speak, but instead Mama Korinna hits an audacious, jangly flamenco chord on her guitar and Tolo laughs. Then, once again stunning the rowdy room into silence, he sings.
His voice sounds a thousand years old. It’s a deep baritone tinged with a charred growl, and when he launches into an ancient Ladino lamentation for a lost homeland, I think we all feel it in the depths of who we are.
I had no idea the man could sing. I don’t think any of us did—even Rabbi Hidalgo looks caught off guard.
I just close my eyes and let the sound and the story move through me. Then something seems to shift in the air ever so slightly. I feel the shuffle of bodies turning, hear quiet expressions of surprise beneath those dancing chords and Tolo’s barbed-wire voice.
