of his life was gone, that now they would be demigods together.
The room became more crowded and grew warmer. Paz was given a glass and told to drink it: it was a guardiente, Oshosi’s drink. The sweat popped out on his upper lip. The drummers arrived, three very black men, and greeted the santero, and set up their instruments on a wooden platform built on one side of the room: the iya, the great mother drum, the smaller itotele, and the little okonkolo. As usual, in the casual African way, the thing began. The sharp penetrating crack of the iya rang out, and the chatter of the other drums and the gourd rattle in the hands of the santero, weaving the ancient and intricate sounds, music as the language of the santos. The ile took up the song to Eshu-Eleggua, the guardian of the gates,ago ago ago ile ago: open up, open up.
Paz sat on his throne-stool thinking about his mother and about someone he seemed to have heard of long ago named Jimmy Paz, who had a kid and who was married to a doctor, nice enough guy, something of a wiseass, and wondered if what he was now could ever be fitted back into that container.
People swayed to the rhythm, and an elderly woman made to Eshu danced in front of Paz. The chanting grew louder, more insistent. The people sang for Oshosi to come down to take his new bride. Paz blinked sweat from his eyes; the shapes of people and objects were starting to get weird and shaky. And there was a little inquiring voice in his mind, and Paz had to admit that yes, he’d gone through this somewhat tedious ritual, and he understood the benefits of purification, and he recognized it as a symbol of some kind of coming-of-age, some kind of making peace with the Afro-Cuban part of his background, and yes, it had changed him, he was really a better person for it, and he even imagined himself explaining all of this in a rational voice to his wife. But in the midst of this pleasant notional conversation (itself born of a terror that Paz was yet unwilling to own), Oshosi, Lord of Beasts, stepped through the gate from the unseen world and into Paz’s head.
So now Paz understood that there is a virginity much deeper than the sexual one about which people make so much fuss, the basic bedrock understanding of physical being we bring from earliest childhood that nearly everyone in the modern world carries intact to their graves: that the world is as it is represented by our senses; that we sit permanently within our own heads, all alone in there; that belief is a choice we make with our minds. All this vanished in the first seconds, as the orisha penetrated his body, and here he understood that calling the person in this situation a bride was no mere figure of speech; he was being fucked by a god, not unwillingly it seemed, but undeniably possessed, never again to be the same.
Paz has seen people ridden by the orishas before this and had supposed that while the orisha was in charge the people were unconscious, but now he finds that this is not so. He is now outside his body, a disembodied spirit containing nothing but a benign interest in what his body is doing. It is down there dancing in front of the throne while the drums sing. It goes on for a long time, this dance; Paz sees his body do things it cannot normally do.
Then he is back in the flesh, with people helping him to stand. His legs barely support him, and he is covered with sweat. There was a warmth in his groin and his joints, as if he has just made love for hours. They sat him on his throne, and Julia and themadrinas and the santero spoke to him about his new life, and of the ewos, the ritual tasks and prohibitions that came with it. Thus passed el dia de la coronacion. The next day was el dia del medio, devoted to feasting and visits of congratulation by Miami’s Santeria world. People prostrated themselves in front of Oshosi as Paz. Paz found he enjoyed being a god. His mother came by, and they had a long conversation about this, during which Paz was able to admit cheerfully that he’d been wrong about nearly everything, and his mother was able to do the same about all her mistakes in raising him, and they had a good laugh about it.
The next day was el dia del Ita. A man, the italero, very old and brown and dressed in immaculate white, came in and threw cowrie shells on a mat and from the fall predicted the remainder of Paz’s life, its dangers, failures, and triumphs. Paz was surprised at some of it, but the rest seemed a reasonable projection from his current state.
He asked the italero about jaguars and daughters and got the usual oracular answer. Apparently it was all up to Paz, either he’d make the right decision or not. He should depend on his orisha. Having now met this entity, Paz thought this was pretty good advice.
Nineteen
While Paz is becoming a god, Moie appears in the bedroom of Felipe Ibanez, slipping unseen past the guards Ibanez has hired. Moie has prepared for Jaguar to come, but Jaguar does not. In this case it proves unnecessary. Ibanez wakes from his usual nightmare, sees the small Indian, understands what he represents, and recalls what has been done to his colleagues. Wetting himself in terror, the businessman promises to dissolve the Consuela Company, to stop all cutting of trees in the Puxto reserve. He speaks in Spanish, and Moie understands. Moie starts to leave, but the man wants to keep talking. Moie has noticed this about the dead people, that they want to fill the air with words even when everything necessary has been said. Ibanez says that because Consuela will not cut the Puxto, it doesn’t mean that others won’t. There are many other timber operations. It’s Hurtado who is making the whole thing move, Hurtado with the contacts in the Colombian government, Hurtado who bribes the guerrillas and the paramilitaries who fight the guerrillas, Hurtado who wants the Puxto cleared so he can plant coca in the virgin territory and also for another reason that he now tells to Moie. “You have to kill Hurtado,” Ibanez shouts as the Indian departs. Then he presses the alarm button. In the ensuing melee one of the hired guards shoots another one, not seriously. No one sees the Indian, and the guards privately agree that the old fart was dreaming. Ibanez is already on the phone to his subsidiary in Cali.
While Paz is becoming a god, Hurtado stays in a mediocre residence hotel in North Miami. When he heard the news that Ibanez had pulled out of the Puxto operation, he summoned El Silencio to his room. “See, you didn’t believe me, but this is the proof. He’s behind this whole thing, Ibanez, that chingada, one of the others must have got to him.”
“Are you sure? He was okay on the first shipment. It got to Miami with no problem.”
“To put me off my guard! He was very smart, smarter than I thought. Some of these old Cubans…this is a good lesson, Ramon, never underestimate the intelligence of your enemies, especially when they’re your friends.”
El Silencio studied his employer as the man paced back and forth in front of the blaring television. It was unlikely that anyone knew they were staying in this particular shithole, but Hurtado had the TV on whenever he said anything out loud. The boss did not look good. It had been a long time since Hurtado had been on the run, thought El Silencio, and even longer since he was afraid of anything. The arrests and losing those three men had got to him. He kept asking where was Martinez, as if he had the kind of instant information system here that he had back home. Who knew where the cabron had run off to? Clearly he disappeared after the two men were killed and the girl escaped, and that was enough to get Hurtado upset all by itself. People did not run out on Hurtado. It had made the man twitchy.
“Do we know where Ibanez’s granddaughter is?”
“Yeah, somebody called and said she’s staying at that place with the fish pool, where the other girl was staying.”
“Go there. Get her. Cut off her tit and send it to Ibanez. And kill anyone else in that fucking house, all of them.”
El Silencio didn’t move. Hurtado glared at him. “Well?”
“Boss, you know, maybe this isn’t such a great idea. At home, sure, no problem. But there’s something going on here I don’t like. I don’t like it when I don’t understand what I’m up against…”
“It’s Indians. Ibanez and whoever he’s with-Equitos or the Pastorans, or somebody from Medellin-brought down a crew of Indians. You’ll see, we grab up his girl and he’ll give us the fucking Indians. We should’ve done it first thing, but how could you figure…?”
“I don’t know, boss, I think there’s something else…”
“Ramon, you’re thinking again,” said Hurtado sharply. “Stop thinking and go do what I said!”
El Silencio left the room without another word. After almost twenty years of working for Hurtado, he was about as independent as a toaster oven, but he could not entirely suppress the feeling that the organization was out of its depth for the first time. At home, for example, there would be no problem with the police. They owned the police, and the army, and the special incorruptible drug police who worked with the Americans, and should anyone
