Saint Death

  Her arms are slightly outstretched. In her right hand is a scythe, and in her left, a bunch of rosaries, hanging.

  —Come on, vato—says Faustino, and they approach the saint.

  Now that they are closer, Arturo sees that she is made of papier mâché, painted with thick white paint. Arturo finds that she is no less convincing for this. The low table she’s standing on is an old TV console, chipped and stained. It’s covered in all sorts of things: offerings; candles, lots of candles, many of which are lit, the source of the glow that illuminates her. There are glasses of water. Flowers in bunches and single stems. Loose cigarettes. A joint or two. Scratch cards. There are lots of pieces of paper on the table, under candles, on the walls behind, and pinned to her gown itself. One of the pieces of paper is large, the writing scrawled big enough to read from where they stand.

  Abre nuestros caminos para la llegada del dinero.

  Open our roads for the arrival of money.

  The money seems already to have arrived; there are notes of all kinds, mostly pesos but some dollars too, tucked under candles, in little pots, rolled up and shoved between her fingers of paper-bone.

  Arturo cannot fully take his eyes off Santa Muerte; he cannot fully look at her either. Either way, she is there, watching, as he whispers to Faustino.

  —¿What is this place, cabrón? ¿Some sort of church?

  —It’s Doña Maria’s shrine. She lets people come and worship, because hers is one of the best in all of Juárez. They leave her offerings. And don’t say cabrón in here.

  Arturo ignores that. He looks around. On the other walls are gaudy paintings, cheaply done, in heavy frames. One shows the Virgin of Guadalupe, another shows Jesús Malverde with his slicked-back black hair and neat black mustache. He’s wearing a beige shirt and black bandanna around his neck, and there’s a halo behind his head. A third painting shows Christ in agony on the cross. A fourth shows Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Dirty saints, all of them. All of them from the streets. A fifth is not a painting but a poster, nor is it a depiction of a saint, but a huge image of a large Catrina—sexy and lascivious, her black eyes and her skeletal features painted on, small red roses and hearts across her forehead, alluring and menacing all at once. Just like the one on the handle of Arturo’s knife.

  He turns back to Faustino.

  —¿And you come here?

  Faustino doesn’t answer.

  He goes up to the figure and kneels, picks up the hem of her gown and kisses it.

  He stands, and fumbling in his pockets pulls out a bent cigarette and a disposable lighter. He lights the cigarette and begins to puff.

  —¿Since when do you smoke, cabrón?—Arturo asks.

  —I don’t so much—says Faustino.—But she does.

  With that, he leans right up to her face and blows gentle wreaths of smoke into her gaping skull mouth.

  —She likes it—he explains.—She likes all the things we like. ¿You don’t believe? ¿See this water? She drinks it. If we come back later she will have drunk the water. She likes beer too, and tequila. I’m giving her a smoke. She’ll look after us both tonight. And don’t swear in front of her.

  Arturo laughs, then stops himself as he sees Faustino’s face.

  —Show some respect—says Faustino. The cigarette is half burned down. He stubs it out on the bottom of his shoe and leaves it by one of the candles. He comes back to Arturo.

  —She helps anyone who asks for help. And we need help. People leave her a little money. She pays them back ten times over. ¡A hundred times! ¿How do you think Doña Maria built this house? She was good to our White Sister and our White Sister has paid her back. She’s here to help, vato, and you should get down on your knees and worship her because tonight you’re going to need all the help you can get.

  Arturo doesn’t move. He looks at Faustino, then glances at Santa Muerte, briefly, whose eyeless gaze has never left him, not once, not since he first stepped into the room.

  —No—he says quietly.—I can’t.

  —¡Hijo de puta!

  Faustino shoves Arturo in the shoulder, who backs away, holding his hands up for peace. He knows lots of people worship her, all sorts of normal people, and yet something about it makes him uncomfortable. Words drop into his head, words he heard a friend of theirs once say: When you cross a bridge there is always something to pay, but Arturo has no idea what it means, not yet, and Faustino is waiting for him to answer.

  —I can’t do it, Faustino. Don’t make me.

  —¿You scared? There’s nothing to be scared of. She’s here to help us. ¿Who else has helped you? ¿Who? ¡No one!

  Arturo shrugs. He shakes his head. Faustino curses again.

  —You just said not to swear in here—Arturo says.

  Faustino laughs.

  —Oh, she doesn’t mind. Not really. She’s one of us. Listen, you have to do it. If not for you, then for me. And if not for me then for Eva.

  —¿And the kid?

  —And the kid, right.

  Arturo hesitates.

  Faustino tries to be patient. It’s something he used to be very good at, but now it seems to take an enormous effort of will. He takes a deep breath.

  —¿Do you know how much Eva made in the maquiladora?

  Arturo shakes his head.

  —A hundred pesos. A day. A hundred pesos a day. And she had to pay eighteen pesos a day out of that to the company bus to bring her to work in their own damn factory. An American factory, whose managers live in El Paso and come over to Juárez to work and earn twenty, thirty times what Eva did, and in dollars, and then drive back over the Puente Internacional to their nice homes. And they have days off and health care; all that stuff. There’s no laws over here for those American factories. Nothing. ¿You know what happened when they found out Eva got pregnant? She lost her job. Just like that. And since then, we would’ve been screwed, but for one thing.

  He points at Saint Death.

  —Her. She saved us. She got me my job. And now I have some money and we can buy food and without her we’d be dead. So get down on your damn knees and pray to her, Arturo.

  Arturo holds his friend’s angry gaze, but it cannot last. He feels Faustino’s pain, and it is too much to bear.

  He lifts his arms out to the sides. Shrugs.

  —¿What do I do?

  —Anything you want. Give her something. ¿Do you have anything to give her? Not your dollars, we need your dollars. You can just light a candle for her and ask her for help. She’ll listen. She listens to people like us. You’ll see.

  Arturo still hesitates. But Faustino is waiting, staring at him, and she is waiting, staring at him. She could wait forever. So Arturo gets down on his knees, on the bare concrete, and bows his head.

  He mumbles something, quietly, so that Faustino cannot hear. He lifts his head, and looks at the table before him. Dozens of people have been here before him. Some have left notes. Now that Arturo is closer he can read some of them, even the old ones, very old and faded, those that speak of the missing of Juárez. The girls, the women.

  Bring her back safe.

  Protect her, wherever she is.

  Bring her back to us. O holy death, bring her back.

  Countless women who were taken by the gangs. And by the police, and by the army, who were able to pass off anything as the work of the narcos, and besides, as everyone knows, it’s hard to tell just where the gangs stop and the cops start.

  The disappeared women. Most of them never seen again, and those that were seen again … It’s better not to think of that, Arturo knows. He looks at the notes left by people who believed that Santa Muerte could help them, could help protect and save or just bring final peace to those women who’ve vanished.

  Still kneeling, he turns to Faustino.

  —Vato, gimme your lighter.

  Faustino hands him the lighter and then hobbles away.

  —Don’t take all night—he says over his shoulder.—You’ve got a card game to play. br />
  Arturo nods. He flicks the lighter into life and looks at the candles. There are many different colors, a whole rainbow of colors. He doesn’t suppose that it matters, so he chooses one nearest to him, one that has not been lit before, sitting in the piles of cigarettes and the notes and the little bundles of dollars, and he lights it.

  —Bring her peace—he whispers.—Wherever she is.

  * * *

  “And one day, after five years of smoke, dust, and blindness, that cloud lifted, and two empires lay in the dust. No monarchy, no armies, only the enormity of the usurpation in ruins, and on that horrible rubble, one man standing: Benito Juárez, and next to him, Liberty.

  “And do you know what Juárez did with that liberty? He could have shown mercy, he could have shown that his liberty was greater than the dictator he had deposed: Maximilian of Habsburg. Let the violator of Liberty be saved by Liberty.

  “But what did Juárez do? Did he show Mercy to Maximilian? No. Instead, he had the deposed emperor executed; and so he chose to remain true to Death. In this way, the cycle of Death continued.”

  * * *

  ON THE COUCH

  As they drive down Rancho Anapra, Arturo looks at Faustino, steadily, wondering. He is wondering what has happened to his friend. He is wondering about many things, that all seem to have erupted this one evening, from nowhere, as if a wild devil has sprung into his sleepy life, determined to disrupt and destroy everything. He is afraid, and he knows it. He still cannot understand why Faustino has joined a gang, though he can guess easily enough. There are lots of reasons why; they’d seen enough guys they knew get involved with M-33, or whoever was ruling the turf around Anapra, to know that it was one way out of poverty, one quick way. But Faustino? It’s just too much for Arturo, just too much to understand.

  It is Friday evening, cars come and go, groups of people walk here and there in twos and threes. Normal people doing normal things, Arturo thinks, and here am I, with my friend Faustino. My old friend and nothing is wrong, really, and—

  Arturo voices one of the things he is wondering, one of the simpler things.

  —¿You still got that gun?

  Faustino laughs.

  He pulls over to the side of the road, stops the car. They haven’t even left the colonia, but here, at the far end of Rancho Anapra, where the road rises for a short way before dropping down the hill into the pits of Juárez, is somewhere they both know well.

  A strip of purple neon stolen from god-knows-what and god-knows-where illuminates the name above the door: El Diván. A single-story hut of concrete blocks, a few unoccupied chairs and a maltreated fake leather sofa, or couch, on the stoop. Already a raucous din is pouring from inside.

  —I don’t know about you—Faustino says—but I could do with a drink.

  —You said we had to get to the game.

  —Yeah. We do. But nothing’s gonna be happening yet, anyway. No big money. And I need a drink.

  He opens his door and puts his good foot out onto the ground, then turns and waits for Arturo.

  —Mierda, so do I—says Arturo, and they head for the bar.

  —¿When did you even learn to drive?—Arturo asks.

  —A couple of Los Libertadores showed me.

  —¿You pass some kind of test?

  Faustino laughs again.

  He pulls up his sleeve, briefly and flashes the two Ls inked on his arm.

  —That’s my license, vato. Any cop stops me, I show him that.

  —¿And what if he isn’t being paid off by the Azteca?

  —Well, they can’t take my license away. ¿Right?

  No, thinks Arturo, but someone might take your arm away, just for having that tattoo. Faustino seems to know this too. He rolls his sleeve back down before they push their way through the doors and into the bar, because this is M-33 territory.

  El Diván is about half full. People spending what little they’ve earned in the week. It’s mostly men, a few women. A kid or two hanging around. There’s a game of calavera under way at the usual table in the corner. Any other Friday night and Arturo would already be sitting there. Any Friday night a year ago and Faustino would have been sitting there too.

  Carlos sees them straight away. He’s barreling through the tables with a tray of beers and a bottle of tequila.

  —¡Hey, muchachos! ¿Arturo, you playing tonight? ¡Faustino! ¿Where you been? Haven’t seen you in forever. And this one wouldn’t tell me where you’d got to.

  He nods at Arturo, who shrugs.

  —Don’t ask me, Carlos. Ask him.

  Carlos delivers the drinks to a table nearby, all locals that Arturo and Faustino know well enough.

  —¿So?—Carlos asks.—¿What can I get you?

  Faustino looks toward the bar.

  —¿Isn’t Siggy here?—he asks.

  Carlos rolls his eyes.

  —Sure. He’s here. “El Alemán” is just in one of his moods … You know how he gets. I’ll go find him. He might cheer up if he knows you’re here. ¿You want a drink or what? ¿Beer, tequila? We got some pulque on the go, and Siggy got hold of a barrel of turbo, if you want something even stronger. But you don’t wanna go there. You wanna drink something that prisoners make and smuggle out of jail, you might as well be dead.

  He can’t stop chuckling, waving his hands in front of their faces, same Carlos as ever.

  —Two beers—Arturo says.

  Carlos rolls away, back toward the bar, where he sticks his head into the back room, shouting.

  —¡Hey, Siggy! Get out here. ¡Arturo and Faustino are here! ¡They wanna see you!

  Life heaves all around Arturo and Faustino as they find an empty table, and wait for their beers, nodding at people they know.

  —¿Why do they call him that?—Arturo asks.—I never knew.

  —¿Siggy, you mean? ¿El Alemán—the German? I guess because he’s from Germany, cabrón.

  —His Spanish is really good. He doesn’t sound foreign.

  —Carlos once told me he came to Mexico when he was still in his twenties or something. Dropped out of some fancy school in California when he was still a kid.

  —¿And he ended up here? Dumb luck.

  —He ended up with Carlos. And then they ended up here. There’s a difference.

  —¿What difference?

  Faustino doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he does, it’s almost too quiet for Arturo to hear, but he thinks his friend has used the word love.

  Before Arturo can ask, Siggy is wandering over. He looks as haggard as always, possibly hung over, his shoulders bent toward the floor. From somewhere he musters some energy, pulling his little round glasses down from his head and straightening them on his nose as he comes.

  —¡Hola! ¡My friends!

  They slap hands.

  —¡Faustino! ¿Where you been?

  —It’s a long story.

  Siggy nods.

  —¿Aren’t they all? ¿Arturo, you not playing tonight?

  Arturo glances at the calavera game, the kind of game he’d usually play, a game for a few pesos at most. Then he looks away. He shakes his head.

  There’s a silence that no one fills, until Carlos wanders over with two bottles. Siggy puts his arm around Carlos’s shoulder and whispers a word in his ear. Arturo lip-reads the word sorry, but then he’s thinking about that narco with the tattooed face mouthing some word at him. ¿Was that only this afternoon? My God, thinks Arturo. That’s not possible.

  Siggy is speaking again.

  —¿You guys in some kind of trouble?

  —No, we’re fine—says Faustino quickly, and then Arturo adds, just as quickly—Yeah. We are.

  Carlos and Siggy look at each other, then Carlos sees people waiting at the bar, and heads away.

  —Siggy, do not bend their heads with your nonsense—he says as he goes. ¿Right? ¡This time I mean it!

  Siggy mocks looking hurt, then pulls up a chair and sits.

  —Whole world’s in trouble. ¿Right? The whole
world’s in trouble. But we don’t care about that. ¿What’s your part of it?

  The friends do not answer. Arturo because he does not want to speak for Faustino, Faustino because he does not want to speak.

  —I have learned one thing in my fifty years on this planet—Siggy says, very calmly, very quietly.

  Faustino stares at the table.

  Arturo waits for Siggy to go on.

  —Life, as we find it, is too hard for us.

  Faustino seems to be getting riled up again, and shakes his head angrily, but El Alemán ignores him.

  —I may have said that before.

  —About a million times—Faustino says, standing.—I need to take a piss.

  He goes off and out through the back door, into the cool night of the sierra.

  Siggy watches him go.

  —¿What’s eating him, Arturo?

  Arturo shakes his head.

  —I … can’t tell you. I shouldn’t tell you. Listen, Siggy … ¿What do you know about Santa Muerte?

  —¿Is that it? ¿Faustino has become a muertista?

  —No—says Arturo.—I mean, yes, he has, but that’s not the problem. ¿Is it dangerous?

  —¿Dangerous?—Siggy says.—No, not dangerous. In fact, as religious matters go, I would say it’s pretty harmless.

  —Faustino thinks it’s powerful.

  —Oh, religions have power. For sure.

  —I thought you think religion is stupid.

  —I do. All religion is patently infantile. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have power. Religions are given power by the people who believe in them. Personally, I believe that religion is the obsessive handwashing of a group of people who would otherwise be insane.

  He points a finger toward the ceiling, and Arturo looks desperately for Carlos; for Siggy is about to embark on one of his rambles, and there is no one to save him. He sees Carlos behind the bar, too busy with customers to notice, and Siggy is just getting going.