“Sonny, Sonny, I’m so glad.… Lorenza told me what happened.”
She touched the bruise above his eye. “Raven?”
He nodded.
“I’ll take care of it,” she whispered, and touched her honeyed lips to his, tasting him tenderly, as if for the first time, acknowledging the enormous need they had for each other, an embrace that only the poets of India can describe adequately, for the kiss opened a door into each other’s flesh and spirit, and why shouldn’t the flesh be rewarded after such a long absence from the lover? Why shouldn’t every cell burst forth with all the hormones the body can muster, adding adrenaline for spice, surging in the blood and pounding heart, tingling the nerves, renewing marrow?
Fundamentalists beware! The flesh will outlast you! The cells contain circuits of memory eons long, fibers enclosed in blood as ancient as the earliest stories from India or Mesopotamia, each cell sloshing with the salty water of a cosmic sea in which primordial images float.
He felt Rita’s body tremble as she held him tight, the first movement of an orgasm that would evolve into a rainbow of joy, tremors that would last long into the night, blooming colors from the prism of love, a bridge from this world to the next, an arc on which one walked into paradise, the reward of the flesh to the tired soul.
Complete and fulfilling fruition, in whispered moans asking after the first orgasm to be fulfilled again, such is the way of lovers.
The spring sun would blossom into summer, and why stop at one season when the lover and beloved are meant to bond for life? They would nurture each other in the heat of the New Mexico summer, drive together in autumn to Jemez to pick the apples that have grown a delicious yellow and red, wander through the brilliant gold of river cottonwoods and hike up into the aspen groves that dot the green mountainside, then ease into winter’s quiet pleasures with fat logs burning in the stove and the first snow of November blanketing the Jemez River Canyon. Those are nights when life stirred again in the womb to awaken in a coming season, such is the way of the birth cycles.
After all, the rhythms of the seasons are the rhythms of love.
“Shakti,” he whispered.
“I’m Rita,” she said, smiling.
“Shakti means ‘my beloved.’ I found it in the dictionary.”
“You and your books. Think you’ll go back to teaching?”
“Maybe. In the meantime—”
“Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
“Say it again.”
“Mi amor. My shakti.”
“I love you Sonny Baca.”
“I love you Rita de mi corazon.”
“Oh—”
“Que?”
“A letter came. You forgot to renew your PI license. They cancelled you today.”
“So all day I haven’t been a PI?”
“Not according to their rules.”
“And I’m not a tragic hero. I’m just me, Sonny Baca. I know the face in the mirror.”
His mirror was the shining lapis stone hung on a chain around her neck, the philosopher’s stone, perhaps the very Zia Stone he had sought in vain. Could it be the sought-after, transforming Zia Stone?
“You’re not tragic at all,” she whispered, “but you are my hero.”
Sonny nodded then laughed, a hearty laugh that only a man who truly enjoys arriving home can laugh, a man who truly loves the breadth and width of his beloved, whatever the size, whatever the radiance of her, enjoying every aroma that emanates from her body. Rita laughed with him.
I’m sure I’ll have my critics, he thought, holding her and looking into her eyes, his blood boiling with a joy that couldn’t be bottled. This is just too good to be true, they’ll say. Too sweet, too romantic at heart. If they only knew his beating heart resonated to hers. But who cares! Lead on McDuff!
“Ready to go home?”
“Hummm, am I ready,” she murmured in his ear, the song of a honey bee echoing in the flower’s open petals, the sweet nectar flowing, pollen and wetness on her lips, the probing proboscis, the need to get home to a bed they both knew well, where the mattress sinks and rises to contours of love and the feel of feather pillows eases the tired head to sleep. The luxury of clean sheets waiting to caress the returning warrior.
“It doesn’t get any better,” Sonny whispered.
“It will,” she said.
“Vamos.”
“Wait.” She picked up a menu and with a lipstick from her apron pocket she penciled in dark red erotic letters: CLOSED FOR THE DAY.
“You’re going to close tomorrow,” he said. Rita’s Cocina was only closed for Christmas, New Years, and Easter. She served comida de cuaresma on Good Friday.
“I’m going to be busy,” she answered, her smile tempting enough to launch a thousand ships.
“Órale!” he exclaimed.
She placed the sign on the window and with Chica under her arm they hurried out to Sonny’s truck.
She held his hand as they drove, feeling the electric current that flowed from her to him. She looked out the window at a moon that dripped honey, miel virgin, the stuff bees suck from the flower’s yoni as they gather the pollen that sticks to their probing, wet tongues, a gooey mixture that needs no cloning, no in-vitro pollinating, just nature working as she always has with her alchemical transformations, making from the sex of the flower the fruit of the table.
In the warmth of the truck she looked at him and squeezed his hand.
“It’s a beautiful night,” she said. “You’re home.”
She turned the flame burning in her to low, so as not to rush, enjoying the heat of her sex as they drove into the night. She could wait, because she knew she had to cleanse his bruised eye and feed him. When his ablutions were done they would slowly undress, let fall the grape leaves of Eden, for this is how they allowed their love to grow, unhurried, mature in each others’ ways, caressing each other as doors of light opened unto a holy path, illuminations of a lost heaven where once Adam and Eve cavorted.
Their loving would last long into the cotidal night, bringing in spring the way the ancient Druid priests must have celebrated, with orgiastic, dome-shaped pleasures in the light of the moon. Here, the granite face of Sandia Mountain looked down and blessed the lovers, as the giant monoliths of Stonehenge blessed the ritual dances of the Druids long ago, a celebration of love lasting all night and into the new day.
Under the pale moon the trees of the valley glowed blue.
“En el tiempo del hilo azul,” he said, remembering his grandmother used to put añil, bluing, in the rinse water to make his abuelo’s shirts shine.
“Yes,” she replied, for the evening had turned a pale indigo.
A frosty hue clung to bare branches and their buds, but the warmth of spring would soon flood into the valley. It would not freeze, and tomorrow a summer-like day would draw everyone outdoors.
Rita rested her head on Sonny’s shoulder.
“Today I wrote in my journal, everything has a character of its own. Every single living organism, and rocks and things we think are not alive, each develops a character and a destiny unlike any other. Up in the Jemez there are a million pine trees, and each one unique. I could plant a hundred marigolds in my garden, and each plant and leaf and petal would develop its own character.”
It was always like this, in the evenings she shared what revelations the day had brought, insights into the worlds of her mind, a true sybil. He loved that about her, her insights into nature, love, the mystery of life.
Her flesh satisfied him beyond any celestial promise the priests might offer, beyond any dream he might enter in his shaman robes, beyond the words the prophets might take from God’s mouth, but just as important as satisfying his flesh were the words she spoke of life and its fantastic offerings.
This woman who fed the hungry throngs by day took from its hours a spiritual message, its noumenon, its soul, for every day came with its own character, as she said, there wasn’t a single fish, fowl or vegetable, add
rocks, planets, suns, and whirling galaxies that did not evolve their own unique character. Knowing the daimon of each thing was God’s reward to those who listened and peered into the unfolding of the universe, realm of Light.
But here’s the catch, the real mystery. Though each thing sang its uniqueness, beneath the web everything vibrated to harmonic strings pulsing with the same universal energy. There was a sameness in everything.
For her wisdom, he loved her and listened to her wise counsel. This true Sofia.
And she spoke of the everyday. “Diego and I had to get under the sink and unplug the drain. The plumber got drunk when his cell phone went out. I dropped my car off at Leyba’s Garage to have the oil changed. Ordered enough food for the week, including extra tortillas. Talked to the accountant and paid my taxes. Called city hall, before it closed, and settled the water account. Water is getting expensive. We need a mayor who can do something about the price of water. Talked to your mom, kept assuring her all day things were all right. Bought lingerie at that little shop Teresa opened recently, a really sexy, silky—well, you’ll see, I promise.”
“You did all this today and still fed those cabrones hanging around the cafe,” Sonny said. Her energy constantly surprised him.
“You did the really dangerous stuff, amor. Suppressing Raven.”
Sonny marveled at her words. Suppressing Raven was correct. The sonofabitch wouldn’t be gone for long. Bear would hold tight and drown Raven, his revenge for Naomi’s death, and the two would dissolve into a soggy mess in the river’s pools, sodden bones mixing into the mud, but eventually the river would give up their spirits, as it had since the waters first flowed from Eden’s rivers.
“The late news said there was no radioactive core in the bomb he planted on the Jemez. He was playing games with the Los Alamos scientists.”
Sonny nodded. Raven still held a trump, a plutonium pit, and he wasn’t going to give it up that easily. What he had put in the bomb was radioactive waste material, enough to set off the sensors, enough to make the lab boys think there was something hot in the belly of the beast. Fake wires and timers, enough junk to give him time to get to the river where he waited for Sonny.
He told her what happened at the river.
“Why the river?” she asked.
“Water. Dissolution. Water melts everything away, sooner or later. He thought if he could control the water he could control me. Raven’s message repeats itself. Men want control. Over oil, gold, governments, corporations, land, water—”
“Women.”
“Yes, women. Those who control enslave.”
“I’m glad you’re a feminist man,” she said, and Sonny blushed. Well, he was trying, but what would the guys at Sal’s Bar say? Lordy, Lordy, machismo dies hard.
They arrived home and Rita carried Chica while Sonny took the turtle from the back of the truck.
“A gift.”
“Oh, a tortuguita. We’ll feed it lettuce.”
“Raven said I was obsessed,” he blurted.
She squeezed his hand. “You keep right on dreaming, Sonny. To hell with Raven.”
So who was obsessed in the end? Can only the dark shadow be blamed for the obsessions of the world, uncontrollable desires that drive one crazy? Isn’t the waking mind also full of needs it rationalizes in the name of its progress? Why do religious zealots seek control by imposing their faith? In the end, can anyone control the dark gods within?
“Yes,” Sonny whispered as they entered.
“What?”
“I’m glad to be home. Here is where it starts. Your love.”
She hugged him. “Go shower.”
He took off his boots and the wet, soggy pants in the utility room, took off his splattered jacket and looked at it. It would clean, but the day’s memory would live in its threads, as memory lives in the threads of every man’s DNA.
He stood in the hot shower a long time, thinking of the day’s events that held no quick answer. The privatization of water would continue, the rivers would be bought and sold, the great squeeze was on. The silvery minnow was on the verge of losing its habitat, as were the people of the valley.
But tomorrow was another day, and if enough like-minded people got together they could protect the environment in which they lived. The earth, the air, the water, it’s all they had. Those elements were what every person held as faith in life, as had been recorded in all the myths of the past. It was only recently that a transcendent force descended from the heart of the sky; for thousands of years before that the gods sprang from the earth and its elements.
In a warm robe Sonny sat at the table while Rita washed the bruise over his eye with warm osha water. Then they ate, a hot meal of chicken enchiladas smothered in red chile, beans, tortillas, coffee, he gazing at her and she looking into his eyes and realizing how much he had suffered.
Later, as the days went by, the details of what he had learned would emerge as they discussed the politics of the state with friends who came to the cafe. They, the city, and the entire region were caught up in a battle that affected them and generations to come. It wasn’t just the war on terrorists, Iraq, or Korea’s threat, it was the need to feed starving children all over the world, the need to save the dying cultures. Their own backyard needed saving, for what does a man profit if he topples a dictator only to find the shadow of the dictator in his own heart.
The minnows of the river were as important as corn nourished by water. Enough people coming together could get it right.
But the spring night was for love and the muses of love. She lay in his arms, cradled in his warmth, and he could hear her steady, comfortable breathing. He knew she was in a dream, perhaps in Jemez watering the apple trees while Chica chased the robins that scampered about.
Spring had returned to her dreams, and the love they shared was itself the promise of spring.
There is a footnote that must be added, if the mystery of the life force is to be fully appreciated. It happened the following morning. Sonny awakened to Chica barking outside. He rose quietly and went to the window. In the dazzling sunlight he saw don Eliseo standing by the compost pile. Perhaps the old man was thinking back to his life on earth and all the times he fertilized his cornfield and his wife’s flowerbeds. The old man looked at Sonny and winked.
Sonny blinked and rubbed his eyes.
On the lawn Rita’s daughters ran and chased Chica. They laughed and cried in joy as the small dog ran back and forth. Their bonnets flew away, exposing long, streaming hair that sparkled like angel hair in the morning light.
They stopped for a moment and looked at him, warm quizzical expressions on their faces, as if to say, What did you expect? We belong to you.
Chica agreed, barking at her master, her bright eyes exclaiming, This is the life!
Then the girls waved and they were off again, running round in a circle with Chica happily chasing them.
Sonny smiled. He waved back, then he closed his eyes, faced the sun, and felt its warmth on his face. He held out his hands to cup the light of the sun, and as the Lords and Ladies of the Light came streaming to earth he prayed, a blessing for all of life, in this dimension and in the others.
His prayer blended the essence of light into the essence of his soul, and he felt peace and harmony within.
He opened his eyes, both eyes, fully awakened into the miracle of the new day. Still smiling he returned to the bed and slipped under the covers. Rita turned to receive him.
A Biography of Rudolfo Anaya
An acclaimed Chicano writer, Rudolfo Anaya (b. 1937) has become best known for his award-winning novels, such as Bless Me, Ultima (1972), Tortuga (1979), and Alburquerque (1992). Anaya, who taught at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque for nineteen years before retiring in 1993, has also published epic poems, short stories, nonfiction, plays, and children’s books. He has been credited as a leader in the Latino literary community for his groundbreaking style and his success in writing stories that capture the essence of
the Chicano experience.
He was born Rudolfo Alfonso Anaya on October 30, 1937, in the small town of Pastura, New Mexico, to Martín and Rafaelita (Mares) Anaya. Anaya’s father, who came from a family of cattle workers and shepherds, was a vaquero, a horseman who worked on the ranches surrounding Pastura, and his mother came from a family of poor farmers, who were devoted Catholics. Anaya, who was the fifth of seven children, saw his parents as the two halves of his life—the wildness and uncertainty of the windswept plains of east-central New Mexico and the stable domesticity of farm life. Soon after he was born, Anaya’s family moved to Santa Rosa, New Mexico, where he spent the next fourteen years. Later, his writings would be filled with images and memories of the people who affected his childhood. His fiction draws heavily on the superstitions and myths of the Mexican American culture that comingled with the traditions of the Roman Catholic faith. In the community’s rich storytelling tradition, legend and history blended together to create stories filled with mystery and revelation.
Anaya spent his childhood on the llano, the plains, roaming the countryside with his friends, hunting, fishing, and swimming in the Pecos River. He was taught the catechism in Spanish, often asking the priest and his older sisters difficult questions about their faith. His family spoke Spanish at home, and Anaya was not introduced to English until he went to school. Despite the shock of changing languages, Anaya’s mother, who held education in high regard, encouraged him to excel in his studies. For Anaya, life was filled with unanswered questions, but he knew that he had a place within the very mystery that escaped his understanding.
Life in the small, close-knit community of Santa Rosa gave Anaya a sense of security and belonging that was torn from him when his family moved to Albuquerque in 1952. In Albuquerque, Anaya was introduced to a cultural and ethnic diversity he had not previously experienced, as well as the harsh reality of racism and prejudice aimed at Latinos. Nonetheless, Anaya’s teenage years were in many ways typical. He played football and baseball and spent a significant amount of time with his friends discussing cars, girls, and music. In school, he maintained good grades and avoided the troubles and dangers of gang life.