Ballad & Dagger Page 2

  Of all the many words in all the different languages my aunt speaks, that’s gotta be her number one favorite. Escucha. I could be, as I am now, staring directly at her, at full attention, completely tuned in, all ears, and she will still command me to listen. “I’m listening, Tía.”

  She squints at me, because we go through this constantly. Then she softens. I notice the slightest tremble in her hands. Too much of that good strong Puerto Rican coffee, maybe. Or maybe it’s whatever those shells told her that has her shook, literally. “Be careful tonight, Mateo. A ver no te toquen a ti.”

  Predictably cryptic. Make sure they don’t pick you, or touch you, or that it’s not your turn, depending on who you ask and when. Typical tía-type messiness. She loves getting woo-woo after reading her shells. Plus, since I supposedly almost died as a baby, both my tías and my parents get a little extra precious with me sometimes. You can see it in their eyes, the sudden memory of whatever strange illness I had. No matter how much I’ve worked out, or how much taller I am than all of them (a lot), I just become this tiny, fragile thing again, their baby.

  Still, this one sounded more ominous than usual.

  “What do you mean, Tía?”

  She nods at the bookshelf, where various soup tureens and vases house her spirits. “Dobale, m’ijo.” Doh-bah-ley—it means salute.

  And yeah, the whole setup is beautiful, don’t get me wrong. She has me wrap them in colorful, silky fabrics every year on the anniversary of her initiation as a Santera (which is coming up, actually), and each is adorned with sacred implements, ceremonial blades, and tacky porcelain animals.

  The three original spirits of San Madrigal—the ones that, according to myth, emerged from the ether when our island rose from the sea—glare from paintings on the wall around the altar. There’s the island’s namesake, Madrigal herself, majestic and radiant over the sea in her shimmering, gold-lined magenta robes. Beside her is Okanla, the Destroyer, a badass warrior woman, her face covered by chains dangling from her elaborate silver headgear, and each hand holding a machete—one large, the other shorter. And then there’s Galanika, a stern and ridiculously buff older guy with a scar running down one side of his face and a frown to match it.

  I’ll be honest: it’s been about a year since my parents and I agreed it was time for them to stop taking me along to disaster areas all over the world—in part so I could finish high school in Brooklyn—and I’ve been with my aunt here in Little Madrigal that whole time, but I’m still not totally used to all this spirit stuff she’s got going on. Mom and Dad are doctors, science people. They love data, facts, things that can be proven. We always dipped in and out of the neighborhood throughout my childhood. Usually just long enough for me to take some music lessons and, later, play some events. Then we’d be off again, to some new catastrophe. It sounds exciting, but mostly it meant me studying music in a hotel room while they risked their lives at some run-down clinic.

  But Tía Lucia’s santos (or orishas, they’re also called)—I don’t really go in for all that stuff. And I know what you’re thinking: Mateo, you literally live with a dead woman. But the dead are one thing, and santos are a whole other. They’re like supercharged spirits, got all kinds of powers and complicated backstories and intertwined connections and stuff. It’s beyond me.

  I just play my music, drink lots of water, and mind my business.

  I do go through the motions, though, mostly so I don’t get in trouble. But that’s all it is: going through the motions.

  My hand taps the wicker mat in front of the altar, and I kiss my fingers. It’s not a full salute, just enough to appease my tía. I blow an air smooch to my dead aunt, nod once more at my living one, and head for the door.

  Sea espíritu, Aunt Miriam calls after me, and I know she’s winking because Galeranos can never let something have just one meaning; every possible pun must be mined, and get it? She’s a spirit. I just shake my head with a chuckle.

  There’s a little wooden doohickey on the wall, and I tap that, too—yes, it’s called a mezuzah, not a doohickey—and kiss my hand. Then I do a little two-step in front of the small stone head with cowrie-shell eyes that’s glaring up at me from the floor—he’s Elegguá, the santo who makes mischief at the crossroads. And finally, that’s it! I’m done! I’m practically out…

  …until I almost trip over a tiny, furry lump sleeping on the doormat. After running the gauntlet of tías and spirits and sacred doohickies, there’s one final boss who must be defeated in order to escape the Medina house. Fwezeeeeeeeeblorppp! comes the only warning I get, and that would be Farts the Chihuahua. Well, his name is Dash, but no one calls him that. We call him his favorite thing to do. “Later, Farts,” I say as I step over him, close the door, then pause in the dim exterior hallway to catch my breath.

  Through the thin door, I hear the flick flick and then fizz of Tía Lucia’s lighter.

  That musty fall smell fills the crisp air—but it’s still just hoodie weather, not too cold—and everybody’s out and about.

  In these moments, sometimes I think I have taken sea espíritu a little too much to heart. This place, it’s my home and not my home. I grew up coming and going, endlessly in and out, and those hotel rooms in Karachi, Djibouti, Caracas—the stale air, the ugly carpet patterns and mirror frames, the dullness and aggressively neutral decor—that was home, too. The man at home in every house is never home, one of our old ballads says, and man, I swear it was written about me. Always Home, Never Home: the Mateo Matisse Story.

  Usually, learning all the intricacies of our songs, that was how I found home. Even if I wasn’t here physically, I could play the melodies and chords on my little keyboard, and each memory, fantasy, and idea would rise within me, a thread I could pull to find my way back.

  And now I am back, and all I want to do is disappear. Because I know my culture, my music, my history, my people…but do they know me? Hardly. To almost everyone besides Tams and my tía, I’m just that weird music kid, the one who was gone a lot, the one who doesn’t talk. Stuck somewhere in between, neither here nor there. A ghost.

  The train rumbles overhead, and its clanks and growls and squeaks join the chatter of ladies waiting to get their hair done outside the peluquería, which gives way to an old drunk guy humming to himself as cars whoosh past, and a bodega owner yelling about how fresh his mangos are.

  It’s so alive, my little corner of Brooklyn, and while I wish Tía Lucia had come along tonight, being alone for the walk gives me a moment to do my favorite thing: listen. This isn’t what my aunt means when she says escucha. She’s talking about doing whatever she tells me, being careful or whatever. This is a different kind of listening—listening to the world. It’s what every kamero, every musician, really, has to learn. That’s what the old maestros teach.

  Everyone’s getting ready; the whole neighborhood jitters and banters with the excitement of the night ahead. You can hear it in the squeals of kids in the park running around the much-graffitied statue of some colonizer, and you can smell it in the mix of freshly baked bread, perfume, and coffee. A little farther down, Tortuga Mariscos, the best seafood spot this side of Atlantic Ave., must be making a special enormous platter for tonight, because you can smell that spicy goodness from blocks away.

  Little Elegguás peer out from every storefront, and I know there’s a mezuzah fastened on the inner slat of each doorframe.

  Neighbors chatter and debate, pray and guffaw. I let their voices slide into the mash-up of sound and add it to the growing tapestry of song inside me.

  We’re a messy, upside-down people, the San Madrigaleros. We each hold a hundred contradictions, but we wear them proudly. Our genesis sounds more like a bad joke than the actual founding of a nation: One stormy night centuries ago, a pirate, a rabbi, and a Santero escaped some battle together and watched in awe as the island of San Madrigal arose from the Caribbean Sea. This ridiculous trinity settled on it, and soon more escapees and outlaws showed up—they brought their hopes and
fears, gods and demons. They made new ones. They fell in love and fought wars, and managed to stay out of the vengeful, gluttonous glare of empire for ages. Then, fifteen years ago, that island sank beneath the waves during a hurricane, and we migrated here, where we’ve been in a spiritual crisis and state of constant yearning ever since.

  No one really knew about San Madrigal when it existed. It was the stuff of legends, sailors’ delirium, and the dreams of pirates and revolutionaries—a hideaway. But not one that many people found or even believed in. So when it was gone, there was no one to notice except the people who lived there. My people.

  But at least most of them have memories to cling to.

  Me, I have nothing; don’t remember my birthplace. And because I was gone from Little Madrigal for so much of my childhood, mine feels like a double diaspora, my own personal haunting.

  And now a whole new form of diaspora is opening up, as the first generation born here in the States comes of age. They have real documents, unlike their parents, who had to rely on Si Baracasa’s extensive false paperwork hookups. The kids born after the sinking of San Madrigal have never even seen the island we all called home, and they never will, because it’s gone forever.

  Yet it’s all around us still.

  San Madrigal sings and saunters and simmers through these Brooklyn streets. I can feel that place rattling and clacking all around me as I cross Fulton and head toward Tolo’s club. A tinny old-timey shanty streams out of Barbudo’s Barbershop, and the clack of the clave tack-tacks along beneath it in a series of off-kilter exclamation points while the accordions wail out the harmonies. A rumba sounds from a rooftop nearby, the breezy lows and highs of those congas, voices blending with acoustic guitars and a hoarse wail over the muddled traffic.

  I take it all in as I stroll, and a melody forms, just like it always does. Some kind of rising, falling blend of these different worlds that smashed together so long ago, made us what we are, and led us to this weird exile world a thousand miles away.

  The melody is just getting going when I stop in my tracks and everything seems to snap into silence around me.

  Tolo’s club is just ahead, across the next street. It’s all decked out in Christmas lights and tacky pirate-themed decorations, and the words san madrigal grande fete tonight!! proclaim what’s happening across a bright marquee. Tonight’s a big deal for all of us, and for Tolo Baracasa more than anyone. The guy’s been waiting his whole life to take over his rightful role as pirate leader.

  As lit up as the event hall is, though, it’s the figure standing in the alley behind it who stops me cold. He’s tall and bulky, and the orange streetlights glint off the face shield of his helmet.

  Trucks. Which means Gerval is somewhere nearby.

  Look, I’m not good at the whole talking-to-people thing—just give me a keyboard, you know? But I’m especially not good at talking to people I look up to. Usually, all the words I’ve planned out and practiced mysteriously evaporate the second I open my mouth, so I just end up making gurgley noises instead.

  And then puking. Ha-ha, just kidding. Usually.

  Point is, if I could get the awkward talking-to-Gerval part out of the way before the performance, I’d actually enjoy the night instead of stressing out, and I’d play better, and then I’d definitely get hired as his new pianist and tour the world!

  So I take one step into the street and open my mouth to say Hey (or, more realistically, just to gurgle), when something moves through the shadows toward Trucks. It’s so fast, I just catch a flicker against the darkness as the slight form launches into the air.

  “Oh, ah, um…” I say, my eyes wide, and Trucks looks up at me, then spins suddenly, swings one burly arm out, and smashes the figure hurtling at him.

  Who appears to be a girl about my age.

  I can’t make out her face as she grunts and lands in the shadows. It all happens so fast, and Trucks’s bulky frame blocks my view.

  I’m not sure whether to run toward them or away; none of this makes sense.

  She’s already leaped back up to her feet as he swings again, this time with one of those extendable batons that dudes like Trucks buy online to feel more like cops.

  The girl slides nimbly out of the way and then—bap, bap!—I hear the sharp thunks of fists finding their mark, and Trucks stumbles back a step, arms flailing.

  It all seems to slow as a rare, trembly music opens up inside me. Songs just come when they feel like it—there’s no logic to it. This music, the music of their fight, is like nothing I’ve ever heard: shrill and melodic, with a splatter of snare hits beneath and a thunderous bellow throughout.

  She’s on him in seconds, climbing his body like a tree. Then Trucks lets out a guttural kind of burp that’s cut off suddenly and becomes more of a whistle. He drops to his knees and keels forward, cracking his face shield on the pavement.

  He’s dead. He’s definitely dead.

  She stands over him, panting, a blade in one hand. As she looks down at what she’s done, her slim shoulders rise and fall. Her thick red hair is pulled back in two afropuffs, and her face is a few shades darker than mine. Above her round glasses, her brow is creased with fury.

  I know her.

  That’s Chela Hidalgo.

  I grew up with Chela. She’s Rabbi Hidalgo’s daughter, and Tolo Baracasa’s cousin. We don’t know each other that well ’cause she’s super quiet and minds her business even more than I do.

  Well, I thought she did, anyway.

  She just murdered a man. Right in front of my eyes.

  And then, because I’m the biggest schmo in the universe and because, let’s be honest, I’m in shock, I go, “Ahm…urg?”

  I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. It’s just a useless sound I let escape from my useless mouth, which is hanging open uselessly.

  Now we’re staring at each other, ten feet apart with a dead body between us. She’s still out of breath, but her expression is firm, not surprised. It says I will kill again if I have to. And mine probably says about what I’m thinking: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD WHAT DID I JUST SEE WHAT THE OHMYGOD HELP.

  She takes one step toward me, her eyes narrowing, and then a strange blue light erupts in the air like a slo-mo lightning flash, and suddenly standing between us is a shimmering form in a hooded robe looking like Death himself.

  Both Chela and I take a step back, our mouths open, our faces lit with that blue glow. I can’t see under the hood.

  I’m not sure who to be more afraid of.

  And I don’t have time to decide, because with a flash and fizzle, the figure vanishes. I wouldn’t believe it really happened except Chela clearly saw it, too.

  Very slowly, very deliberately, she looks at me. Then she turns and walks away, vanishing like a phantom into the shadows of the alley.

  As soon as she’s gone, I lean over and puke my guts out.

  I’M STILL WIPING SNOT AND puke off my face when a black suv with tinted windows rolls up between me and Trucks’s body.

  The shimmering form is gone. So is Chela.

  It’s just me and the dead guy. And then the door on the far side opens and I hear the clomping of boots. A few seconds later, the SUV screeches off and the body is gone. And then it’s just me.

  A man just died. I saw him die.

  I’ve seen dead bodies before—plenty, thanks to playing music for all those funerals. But that’s a whole other thing from watching someone go from person to corpse in the span of a few seconds. Another wave of nausea rises in me, but there’s nothing left in me to hurl. I don’t know if Trucks had a family, people who would miss him.…I barely know anything about the guy except that he’s been hanging around Gerval like a bodyguard ever since Gerval got big.

  A man just died, and a girl I know killed him. Right there across the street.

  The way his body went loose as his life left…it keeps hammering through me.

  For a few more moments, I just stand there, trying to catch my breath, failing mise
rably.

  Let me tell you something about us Galeranos: we don’t call the cops. It’s just not done. That’s what happens when an island is full of pirates and people escaping either slavery or the Inquisition—a healthy distrust of authority figures settles in. It’s canon, and that’s carried on to our diaspora here in Brooklyn unabated. Plus, we’re mostly one shade of brown or another. So, it’s only when an NYPD cruiser glides quietly past that I realize calling 9-1-1 is technically what you’re supposed to do when you witness a murder.

  Two pairs of eyes glare out at me from the front seat as the squad car rolls by. I stand perfectly still, but I’m sweating from my puke party and breathing all heavy. Also, I’m tall for my age and just brown enough to makes cops unsure which box to profile you into (and non-cops ask all kinds of probey questions about where you’re from).

  Those glares make me feel like I did something wrong even though I definitely didn’t.

  Well, maybe I aided and abetted? Or something? I have no idea. I just know I’m terrified and confused, and also, why are there cops cruising around Little Madrigal right now? They tend to stay out of our way, especially on the night of the Grande Fete. That was the whispered understanding Si Baracasa brokered with some on-the-take brass at the local precinct, back when he was running these streets, scaring away well-to-do college students to make room for a migration he assumed would be coming anytime. And when our diaspora went from a trickle to a flood (probably much more dramatically than Si could’ve imagined), Anisette Bisconte solidified that loose working arrangement into a firm understanding with the NYPD: no guns in Little Madrigal means no cops in Little Madrigal. We can stab and beat one another into bloody pulps, but as long as no shots ring out, the cops will keep clear of this whole district.