Chango's Fire (27 page)

“That's the mother lode. Hundreds of them. That's what they want.”

Papelito and I walk over to bring the statue down, getting the tin box from underneath it.
It's
a heavy statue, and when we do take it down and settle it on the floor, the cup that Santa Barbara holds in her hand breaks off and plaster shatters on the ground. Papelito stares intensely at the broken pieces. He sees things. Patterns, images or numbers in the white, chalky mess on the floor.

“Because of all this fear, Julio,” he says, his eyes still intensely gazing at the floor, “we have given away all these rights. Gave the government the power to now come inside our bedrooms. But one day, Julio, this fear will die down. But the government will still have those powers and they won't want to give them back.” He looks up from the floor and sucks his teeth. Papelito looks disgusted, as if a foul smell suddenly filled the air. “And now, Mari has given them just what they want. An excuse to call you or me a patriot, just for snitching on each other.”

I realized then that Papelito had been in contact with Mario way longer than I had. I didn't know what Mario had on Papelito, but he had something. The same way Mario had something on me. The same way the government has something on everyone.

Maritza walks inside the botanica, seething. Nostrils flaring. She shakes her head in disbelief at Papelito as if he has betrayed her. She waits, stands there for Papelito to confront her. Instead, Papelito ignores her. Walks right by her and exits his botanica. I do the same.

Outside. In the rain.

Papelito looks at the curb. He looks for oil slicks, like someone trying to find peace with nature—at least his version of nature. There are leaves clogging a drain by the gutter. Different colored leaves bunch up from the heavy rain. Papelito is seeing something in the patterns they make. I watch him as I hear Maritza smashing statue after statue inside. I hear her yell in frustration at everyone and everything. It is only then that I realize that Papelito isn't looking for prophecies or philosophies in the leaves in the gutter. He is meditating so as to ignore Maritza's insults. They are both my friends and I want to stay, but I'm late for work. Papelito had already told me what I needed to do. It's all up to me now.

I
t's no surprise that the first thing I see when I get to work is Mario cuffed and being escorted into a squad car. The boss is talking to a detective.

“He stole the pipes,” Antonio tells me in Spanish. “I always knew it was him.”

“Great,” I say, disgusted. “Are you going back to Mexico?” I ask Antonio.

“This will be my last pay,” he says.

“Just like that. You won't say bye to Maritza?”

With all this rain around us, Antonio stays quiet. The cops drive off with Mario, and the boss tells everyone to get back to work. The boss approaches.

Antonio walks away. He doesn't want to deal with any of it—me, Maritza or the boss.

“Julio you're tainted,” the boss says.

“Tainted?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck is tainted,” I say. “You mean I'm fired?” I say, not caring the slightest.

“Hey don't get sour with me, Julio,” the boss says like he's an angel. Like he never does anything wrong. A perfect being who takes care of everyone. “Take it up with Eddie. He's in the trailer.”

The trailer isn't that far away, just a few feet. But I drift to an incident mat was.

It happened to me years back, when I was twelve. This fifteen-year-old Italian stallion of a kid kept picking on me. He was huge, already five feet eleven, and all those who didn't know him thought he was an adult. He picked on me every day, for months, and well into my thirteenth year. And there was no way I could take him. I could've cloned two more of myself, and he'd still beat all three of me, at the same time. This wasn't teasing, like Trompo Loco would get teased with verbal arrows, which hurt, too, but mine were real kicks and punches. And, of course, you're a sucker in the neighborhood if you tell your parents. In my case, my mother would have just said to pray to God. And I did, and that big kid was still beating the shit out of me. And so, after exhausting all my options, even praying to God, I lost it and just didn't care about the consequences.

Fuck it if you win.

Fuck it if you lose.

I swung.

I was about to do that now. All these bullies. I had nothing to lose.

I
enter the trailer and Eddie is sitting down, making adjustments to his books. He sees me and closes his ledger, like he doesn't want me to see how much he steals, takes or makes.

“What?” I say without a greeting. Eddie understands. He can see I'm angry.

“I got this kid,” Eddie says, looking right at me, “from El Salvador taking your name.”

“So he'll front for me? Is that it?” I ask and Eddie nods. I see what he's up to. “And you get most of his paycheck, right?”

“Of course,” Eddie says. “Julio, you owe me a lot of money. This way, you can find another job and I don't lose another hand.”

I start to hate him but it's a good deal. It's a good deal. It's a damn good deal. It cuts my problems in half. Now I only have to deal with Mario.

“Okay, thanks,” I say. “I'll see you.”

“Wait where you going?” he says, arms outstretched.

“You said you found a front for me?” I say.

“I did. So?”

“So, you're going to keep deducting what I owe you? I'm lending you my union membership?”

“I don't think you understand,” Eddie says, bringing his swivel chair to an upright position, “that just takes care of the interest.”

“Interest?”

“Listen Julio, I like you, I do. You never let me down. This is the best I can do. I'm giving you a chance to find work and to pay me back all at the same time.”

I'm silent. I'm thinking about that kid who picked on me.

“But I've had it with you Julio.”

I'm thinking about the day I got fed up with this bully and before this bully could even come over and beat me up, I went over to him. I had a glass bottle in my hand, and before he knew it I whacked him on the head. The bottle shattered above his left eye. There was blood all over his face, and I started kicking him while he was down.

“It's either do your own home or take that job in D.C.”

The problem was, when that guy recovered, there was hell to pay. And that kid beat me up so bad he sent me to the hospital.

“So what's it gonna be?”

But when I got out of the hospital, he never fucked with me again. That beating we gave each other changed both our ways. We didn't become friends, far from it, but he respected me and I didn't fear him.

“So you now have a kid,” I say to him, making sure I got it all straight, “who will take my name at this site.”

“Correct.”

“And you will take most of his check. Leaving me free to work for you in D.C.—”

“It's brilliant Julio, you'll pay me back and at the same time make money for yourself.”

I feel that brutal feeling again. That same feeling I felt when I attacked that bully.

“Fuck you Eddie, fuck you and your job.”

“What did you just say to me?” Eddie stands up. He is old, and like his son he's tall. Like a cornfield that towers over you, shadowing your view. A place where you can get lost and go in circles.

“After all I've done for you? You little shit.”

“Keep all your jobs Eddie,” I say, getting ready to head out, “I'll get you the money—”

“Yeah, well I need that money,” Eddie holds my arm. “You hear me, right now!”

I whisk my arm away. I clench my hands into fists so hard my left arm cramps. It hurts but I don't want Eddie to see me massage it or to notice. So, I take quick breath after quick breath.

“You're going to go burn your building right now, this minute—”

“It's raining! You fuck!” I yell at him and he grabs me by the throat like a cop would a protester.

“Then you burn it tomorrow night, you hear me!”

He lets go of me. It wasn't a tight or vicious grip. My throat doesn't hurt the slightest bit. Not like my arm. Eddie grabbed me more out of frustration, like a bad parent slapping a child on the wrist. I am now sure that Eddie, like powerful men who back him, would never hurt anyone physically. Eddie is like a bomber pilot, who kills his enemies from a distance. He could never look his victims in the eye. If he did, they'd become too human for him to kill. That's left for the little people, like me.

“I never liked it, any of it.” His eyes hold mine but there is no heart in them, it's just a job to him. A job where he will not see any faces. “You either set your house on fire or I'll send someone else to do it. And that someone won't send out any warnings to anyone living there.”

The
A
siento,
the ceremony where a person “makes the saint,” when he or she will become one with the Orisha that chooses him or her, is taking place inside Maritza's church. The drumming can be heard a block away. It's a celebration, a sort of baptism, being born again but in Ocha, in Santeria. Papelito had not been kidding that he wants no secrets. There is a camera crew from Telemundo, the Spanish channel, reporting on the first ever public view of an Asiento. Papelito has been cautious as well, and has his lawyer present in case animal rights groups or other protesters show up.

Papelito has welcomed all progressive followers of Lukumi, as well as curious souls like myself. All he asks for is respect.

I walk into some heavy drumming. Sacred bata drums are being pounded by a group of men in a corner. There are a few fowls leashed to the legs of a chair and there are tables loaded with assorted symbols, all according to the Orisha that the table is set for. There is an artificial wall made up of white sheets, which hides a child's plastic wading pool that sits in the corner. Through the transparencies of the white sheets, I can make out a naked body standing, arms outstretched, being washed by other hands. The people surrounding the naked body dry it with towels and dress it.

“As a newborn can't do things for himself, so is one who is newborn into Santeria.” A
babalawo
that I don't know is explaining every step to the Telemundo reporter. “The clothes are all white. Representing birth.”

I look for Papelito. I want to apologize for what I was going to do. It would affect his botanica. Especially the water. The firemen will drench my building with so much water, it will overflow to his livelihood next door. His herbs, candles, and other items will be ruined. I need to tell him I have no choice, that if I don't burn the building, someone else will. That I hope he'd forgive me.

But it's hard finding him with the drumming so intense. With some people dancing, others praying, yet others eating and drinking.

I soon realize that Papelito, as the
padrino
of the initiate, must be one of the people behind the white sheet wall.

“We can't see it, but right now the
santero”
I get close to the
babalawo
who is explaining this to the reporter, “is now passing over the initiate's body two roosters whose blood will then be spilled over the items on the tables, making the items sacred.”

That was what Papelito was doing. It's the worst time to talk to him. To say I'm sorry not for my mother but for other things, during a ceremony this sacred, is just plain stupid of me.

“And then the animals,” the reporter asks, “will be eaten?”

“Yes,” the
santero
says, “look around you, all these people have to be fed. The ceremony will last many hours and the guests will be hungry.”

“So it's not cruelty to animals then, as some state?” the reporter asks, which gets Papelito's lawyer involved.

“Can I take that one, please.” The reporter places the microphone in front of the lawyer. “The animals are sacrificed in a clean and humane way, then they will be served as the feast meal. The animals will be consumed as food. No different than when you go and get a burger at McDonald's. People don't understand that when they eat a steak that animal was killed in the same manner that the animals of this ceremony will be, and then, just like that steak, served as nourishment.”

The drumming continues.

I see Papelito come from behind the wall of white sheets. He has two roosters in his hand. His face is serious, almost trancelike. I don't go over to him as the drums pound. Papelito disappears into the men's room, followed by other
babalawos.
When they reappear, Papelito has ajar in his hands. He goes over to the table and spills the rooster's blood over the items on the table.

“This is the first cleansing,” the
babalawo
tells the reporter, “the animals passed over the initiate's body have taken away all past sins. A second cleansing with river water is next, before the—”

“One last word on animal sacrifice,” the lawyer interrupts the explanation of the ceremony, “all this, what you see here, including the animal sacrifice, is protected under the First Amendment, freedom of religion.”

Papelito is trancelike, as if he is praying inside all the time. I realize that is exactly what he is doing. Papelito wanted this filmed so people won't be afraid, so people won't be taken in by fake
santeros
who don't know what they are doing. It is important to him, so important that he is willing to get kicked out of his religion as a dissident.

I leave Papelito alone.

I can't talk to him while this most sacred and complex ceremony is taking place. I walk out of the church into traffic, and it feels like silence. The drums are now faint heartbeats. There's nothing more for me to do but wait until the ceremony is over. During that time, I go see Helen, because the same things I was going to say to Papelito, I have to say to her.