Authors: Rudolfo Anaya
She had herself hot to trot! Her and her mumbo jumbo. Humming
wham, bam, thank you ma'am
. Bull. Besides, who's going to tell them?
My lips are sealed, the old man answered, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
The passage of time bothered Sonny. Was it the drink she had offered that caused the hands of the clock to collapse like they did in a Dalà painting? Or had it been like that all day, time moving back and forth, not in a straight line? In the Algodones hut, in the theater, Raven seemed in control of time. Maybe in control of Sonny's fate. Or was time itself the final illusion, a straight line invented around the cycles of nature, the squaring of the circle?
The South Broadway barrio seemed peaceful enough, dark in the crumbling light. Workers hurried home, old men bundled in well-worn jackets, urban men whose grandfathers had once worked the fields of corn and chile in Puerto de Luna, Chimayo, Peralta, Mesilla, all the traditional villages of the state. They had fled the earth of their birth to migrate to the City Future, and this was their reward, the falling night.
Sonny knew the barrio. He had briefly dated a girl from Sanjo when he was in high school. Other friends from the South Valley drove into the dangerous territory to court the girls. The guys from South Broadway and Sanjo didn't like vatos from other barrios messing with their women, so there were a few fights, but nobody was ever seriously hurt.
The grandchildren of Black railroad workers lived here, porters for the Santa Fe railroad who had settled along Broadway. Now these were the streets of immigrant Mexicanos, and they rang with new sounds.
Todo cambia, as the old people said. The barrios of the city were in constant motion as one group layered on the other. Chihuahuenses were moving into the old Chicano neighborhoods, and the Chicanos, who now called themselves Hispanics, had saved enough to afford new houses on the West Mesa. The city was continually shifting, like a snake thrashing as it sloughed off its old skin, swallowing the unrecorded lives of the poor.
Sonny turned south on Fourth Street and into the Hispanic Cultural Center parking lot, which was filled to the brim and ringed with dozens of police cars and TV vans.
The happily drunken, festive crowd from downtown had poured into the center. The news had spread, someone called Raven had killed a bunch of Al Qaeda terrorists single-handed in Jemez Springs and recovered the code that would defuse the bomb. This was reality TV in the making! Why go home?
Sonny parked, got out, and headed for the center.
“Hey!” A cop called, confronting Sonny. “It's full! They're not letting anybody in.”
“Aren't you Sonny Baca?” his partner asked.
“Any chance I can get in?” Sonny asked.
“We can let you through, but they're going to stop you at the door. FBI's got the doors covered.”
“Thanks,” he offered, and hurried toward the main entrance, where dozens of FBI agents who weren't from the Alburquerque office stood surveying the crowd.
The attorney general has sent in his own guns, Sonny guessed. Dominic's mess has spread beyond our little corner of the world. Probably a few CIA agents also working the scene.
He walked around the plaza toward the back of the theater. Someone called. “Phssst! Hey Sonny!”
He turned and recognized Lucinda and Patricia, two ladies who had helped him and Rita do some genealogy research in the library.
“You're late. Doors are closed.”
“You want in?”
Sonny nodded.
“Come with us.”
They led him around the back. Sonny paused and sniffed the air. The scent coming from the river bosque reminded him of wet Raven feathers, or diatomic molecules laid down during the last ice age, but no, it was distinctly pigs.
“Pigs?”
Lucinda explained. “We have a program to teach the kids the old traditional ways our ancestors farmed. The river's ecosystem. Acequias and all that. The kids are supposed to raise animals.”
“Today they were supposed to bring us some sheep,” Patricia added, “But they brought pigs. We put them in a pen near the ditch. Hijo, they smell.”
“We were going to have a matanza in the fall. Teach the kids where pork chops come from.”
“But the pinche pigs got loose. They ran to the river and no one on our board of directors wants to go after them.”
“There's a big black sow. Very mean. She knocked over a maintenance man, nearly killed him.”
“Pinche marrana. Hope they make her into chicharrones.”
They opened a back door just far enough for Sonny to slip in.
“Be careful.”
“CuÃdate.”
The steamy air of the overflowing crowd met Sonny as he squeezed into the theater. He made his way backstage, around the curtains to the side. From there he had a perfect view of the brightly lighted stage.
Frank Dominic stood at the lectern. Seated behind him, dressed in shimmering black, a frustrated Raven. The board of directors had boycotted the meeting. A smart bunch who had built one of the most beautiful cultural centers in the nation, they had washed their hands of Raven. They had to rent the space because of Dominic's political pressure, but they didn't have to attend.
In fact, very few of the dignitaries Raven was courting were in attendance. In the front row sat Fox. He had to be there as representative for the city. After all, a bomb was ticking away in the Jemez, and only Raven had the code that would defuse it. And time was running out.
Sweat glistened on Dominic's forehead as he spoke. “I want to thank all of you for coming. Today we have lived through a day of infamyâ”
The crowd, now sullen and tired from the afternoon's partying, was in no mood for political speeches.
A young woman stood and held up her useless phone. “You promised to get our cell phones working!” she shouted.
“Cell phones! Cell phones!” the cheer went up.
Raven jumped to his feet. “I can and I will!”
“Please!” Dominic shouted into the microphone. “Let's conduct this meeting in an orderly fashion. Please sit. Your questions will be answered.”
Raven sat and the audience settled down.
“That's better. We can't waste time. Most of you don't realize, but today we went through one of the most serious emergencies our state has ever faced. Our social fabric was tested. Our morality wasâ”
A few boos and hoots sounded in the audience. Dominic preaching morality was like the devil giving Sunday's sermon at church.
He knew enough to change the subject. “Thanks to outstanding work by our law enforcement officers we have come through. As you know, the governor was murdered this morningâ”
A wave of oh's rippled through the audience. The news of the governor's death had already leaked out. Now everyone wanted to know the details.
“Who did it?” someone shouted.
“The Republicans!” a voice answered, and laughter broke out.
“Is the bomb real?” another asked.
“Please, all in due time,” Dominic continued. “A terrorist plot to bomb the Los Alamos labs was intercepted by the FBI working in conjunction with the CIA, and our local law enforcement. At great cost, I might add. The governor, whom we all loved as an honest and courageous man, learned of the plot. That's why he was killed. Informants were able to leak the name of the Al Qaeda terrorist to the governor. And as he was about to deliver this information to the police he was murdered in cold blood.”
A wave of whispers swept the audience. The Catholics in the audience made the sign of the cross. “Pobrecito.” “Que descanse en paz.”
Dominic turned and looked nervously at Raven. “Were it not for our friend Raven we would never have identified those responsible. A man known only as Bear is at this very moment being chased down as the ringleader. Bear is the leader of a small renegade group of Indians who call themselves GreenâGreen is a misnomer, because this small group has connections to Al Qaeda.”
The audience stirred uneasily. They weren't dumb. They knew Dominic was positioning himself as water czar for the region.
“As you know, this group of Indians refuse to admit that Santa Fe Woman was here long before any Indian settlements. But they are wrong. Science will prove that Santa Fe Woman was here long before our Indian friends of the pueblos. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear. The vast majority of our Indian friends have distanced themselves from these so-called Green Indians. There is enough water for all of us, if we plan wisely. That is why my corporation, Water Everywhereâ”
He paused and looked at the Hispano Chamber of Commerce representative. “As we say in Spanish, âAgua Para Todos.'”
He smiled, got no applause, and the smile turned into a grin. “I assure you, we will proceed with the purchase of water rights. Believe me, this is the wave of the future. But I pledge on my honor, as we consolidate the water rights of the entire Rio Grande Basin, we will work closely with all the Indian and Hispanic farmers in the valley. And we will save the silvery minnow.”
One environmentalist clapped, but most shook their heads, some whispering an audible “bullshit.” They knew Dominic's way. Placing water rights in a private corporation run by him was like giving up the baby with the tub. Giving up Diogenes.
Fox shook his head. Apparently he hadn't planned on being used as an accomplice. He stood as if to speak, but one of Dominic's aides pushed him back down.
The same man gestured at Dominic, pointing to his watch. Dominic nodded.
“Water Everywhere will represent the state and every agency which deals with water. We will serve you, the people. The major lakes, Cochiti, Elephant Butte, and Caballo Reservoir will be emptied into our underground aquifers, thus preventing loss by evaporation. We presently lose two thirds of the water stored in those reservoirs to evaporation. By storing water underground we will have enough to serve you, the people, for the next ten centuries. The present water rights of farmers, cities, and the pueblos will remain in current usage. Of course, half of those rights will be purchased by my corporation. Excuse me. It is not my corporation. It is ours. Stock will be sold. You can be owners. It's a fail-safe way of dealing with the issue. By privatizing all the water rights of the Rio Grande Basin, we can assure the people of this great state that their children, and their children's children, will have safe, clean water to drink.”
Only his corporate friends clapped. It was obvious the rest had not bought into his plan. Again the assistant pointed at the clock.
“Yes, yes. We have an immediate problem at hand. A nuclear bomb has been planted on the Jemez Mountain with the intent of destroying Los Alamos National Labs. In the interest of time, I have the pleasure of introducing the man who fought the Al Qaeda terrorists on the mountain and recovered the code to defuse the bomb. Our hero of the day, Raven.”
Around the stage a ring of laser projectors fired up, a cloud of ionized space exploded in light, and the image of Raven stepped forward to the microphone.
Some in the crowd clapped politely.
Raven eyes flashed as his gaze found Sonny in the wings. You're too late, his sneer said.
Sonny tightened his grip on the pistol tucked under his jacket. Should he shoot now, take a chance on blasting Raven to hell, or wait until the appointed time?
Won't do no good, the old man said. Look.
Sonny looked at the laser projectors. Was the Raven standing at the podium real or illusion? As long as Sonny could remember, Raven had only once or twice appeared before large groups. He loved the recesses, the shadows, the wisps of mists that rose from dark dreams.
Real or not, Raven's booming voice filled the theater. “As you know, I am an alchemist who can change light to dark. I offer proof by first restoring use of your cell phones!”
“Prove it!” a barrio poet shouted.
“Show us the way!” a lone follower planted in the audience responded.
Raven smiled. He was back in the saddle. He popped his cell phone from his pocket and shouted, “The cell phones were disabled by the Al Qaeda terrorists! My people have fixed the problem. Go on, use your phones. They're working!”
Many in the theater reached into their pockets or purses and clicked on their cell phones. Hundreds of messages went out simultaneously. Calls to husbands, wives, kids home alone, lovers, ex's, dope dealers, brokers, restaurants for reservations, friends, hospital rooms where friends lay dying, prisons, the Weather Channel, vacation confirmations,
Amazon.com
, E-bay, credit card companies, and so on and on.
“Can you hear me now?” Raven joked, and many shouted “Yes!” Their calls had been answered! The cell phones were working. A murmur of thanks filled the space, as if connection to a greater power had just been made.
“They're working!” Raven's crony shouted.
The audience, cynical until now, cheered. The gut-riveting fear of not having a working cell phone was suddenly dispelled. Being able to phone created a mass psychic release. Technology triumphed. The digital age was real, not illusion. The naysayers would be branded skeptics.
“Viva Raven!” someone shouted, and the theater resounded with “Viva Raven” calls as people hugged each other and gave thanks.
In the river bosque, dark now with the shadows of dusk, the pigs who had fled their pens lifted their snouts from rooting in the leafy earth and heard the cry. The huge black sow grunted, calling her brethren down a dark path latticed by Russian olive trees. Someone was coming, a god perhaps, or a man raised from the dead or from the world of illusion.
And men who awaken must be baptized in blood or water.
“There you have it!” Raven cawed triumphantly. “I am the Restorer, not Mephistopheles!”
The audience, some with tears in their eyes, fell quiet, cell phones were ceremoniously put away, all sat back down. The man had proven himself. Let him continue.
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