***The Madonna Of The Clouds

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

This is the way Peter Paul Markin heard the story one sweaty, sultry night over cerveza and tequila down in Mexico City in the old El Dorado Cantina long since torn down to make way for high-rises:    

The viejo, the old man sat in the Por Supuesto Cantina down on one of the side streets, Calle del Pueblo, off the main road through Sonora, drinking his usually lonely table shots of tequila, raw tequila not the high-shelf stuff Norte Americanos get and think they are drinking hellfire and damnation but the stuff almost right for the cactus like it should be. Like many old men, sitting alone in some stinking sink hole of a bar gathering dust, the old men and the bar, the old man was thinking long ago thoughts, thoughts of his young manhood and naturally for a mal hombre with the women thoughts of his various long lost conquers. But no matter how much tequila he drank, no matter how much dust gathered around him, no matter how many inconsequential affairs he dredged up, it always came back to the fate of Juanita, Juanita, the Madonna of the Clouds. And then he would take another shot of that raw tequila, the stuff could never drown out that last image of Juanita, and play back in his mind the details of that seemingly hundred score years ago time.     

The viejo back then like a lot of young men was restless, too restless to stay put in Tio Taco Sonora and so one day he just up and left his hump of a squatter village on the outskirts of town and hit the road, knapsack on his back, new sandals on his feet, and gone, south, east, west he hit them all but this one centers on the hills, the small villages outside Cuernavaca just south of Mexico City. Places where the fog, or smog, of Mexico City would hover for much of the day until some fair winds blew them out and the heat and humidity took over. As he headed into the center of one such dusty town, Los Cruces, (hell, they were all dusty towns just the names changes every few kilometers) looking for a cantina to curb his thirst with some cerveza he spied this senorita working away doing laundry, probably the family laundry from the look of it, in the communal brook running down one side of the street.

Just another young senorita wasting away in the drudgery of village life, and ever it would be, amen. But there was something in the way she washed those clothes, something in the way she carried herself as she went from the brook to a makeshift clothes line, something in her profile against the drifting fog that intrigued him and so he stopped. Juanita stopped. It wasn’t that she was muy bonita, although she was no plain jane either. She had the look of the map of Mexico though, female version, long black hair, brown eyes, dark from the sun skin (and maybe from long ago mixing and  matching with los indios, the conquistadores and whoever else there was to mix with), big ruby red lips, natural, dressed in the workaday peasant woman modest blouse and long skirt. Except when he looked at her, and she look back, back with those laughing brown eyes and that hint of something in the air smile he was hooked. Being young, being a man, and being not too bad looking himself especially when he found himself in the smaller villages and made comparisons he began his talk, his corazon talk.

She listened, listened quietly, listened a little coquettishly although maybe at first that was his thought and she just might have just been humoring him. He described to her that he had a great mission in the world, the nature of it still unfurled, still plagued with mystery although he had a sign that it would be big, and soon. She was, whether she believed half the stuff he said, wide-eyed, kind of entranced at what he had to say. Wondered as well since she herself had had sense signs before and at his approach whether there was more to what he had to say. Then he put his best move on, asked her to meet him later at the cantina, or some other public place in town to talk, talk man to woman he said boldly. She said no, flat out no, that she could not be seen in those places, even public places, alone with a man, and moreover a stranger no matter how handsome. Then she suggested they meet outside of town, along a broken path that she gave him the directions to, and that was that.

Later that afternoon toward dusk he walked up that broken path and she was there, there in what must have been her best dress on and smelling, oh, smelling of every kind of sweet flower. And they talked, that was all, talked about how her mother had been sent out of the town when she was five for betraying her husband with another man, a man from el cuidad, a fast-talking man, and so she had been, since her father had died a few years after that of a broken heart according to the town gossip, mainly raised by her abuela, her grandmother, and so it was. He told her of his very similar life in the back roads of Sonora although he swore, swore on seven bibles, that he was meant for some greater purpose. After a couple of hours of talk he got a sense that something would happen between them before too many days passed. They agreed to meet again the next night. He had a fitful night trying to figure out if she was the one to share his destiny, to make a big splash in the world, to make a difference. All he knew was that he had an unexplained hunger for her, an eternal hunger that would not quit him and he believed that meant that the work of the world that he was to perform involved her. He resolved to take her, to make her his.                          

Of course thinking about having sex with a village senorita out in the hills and actually doing it are two different things, especially as he sensed that whatever her mother might or might not have been Juanita was a virgin. So he decided to aid his cause by picking up some loco weed, some marijuana, that he had used before to loosen up more than one senorita. That substance practically grew out in the fields wherever you looked so he knew he would have no trouble scoring some potent stuff. The next day was cloudy, foggy all day although when the sun came blazing through it was hotter than hell. He made his connection in town and was ready when Juanita appeared at their spot just before dusk, clouds kind of hanging low.

He offered some weed to Juanita, she said no, she didn’t do such things, but he kept coaxing her and coaxing her and finally she took a hit. After the cough that almost inevitably happens the first time one smokes some weed it made her giddy, and she asked for another hit. He knew it was time to make his move. Then while she was disarmed he told his story. He said that he had received a sign during the night, his restless night, and that sign said he was to be the vehicle for the birth of a child, was to impregnate a virgin, who would still be a virgin afterward and then he said the sign kind of faded after that. She looked at him wide-eyed although she did not flee at his approach but rather just kind of anticipated what he might do. And so he did, fumbling, rumbling, and stumbling at first and then she seemed more willing. Yes, she was a virgin although she didn’t have too much trouble that night. She had asked for another hit to calm her nerves. She asked him, asked him straight up, if he thought she was her mother’s daughter, a whore. He laughed, said no, and held her tight for a while and then she left for home agreeing to meet the next night. He was sure their destinies were now welded together.       

The next night though, and the next few nights after that, were different, different in that was no coyness in her, or him. She asked him to light a joint and took big draughts of the stuff, and then she was ready, ready to do whatever he wanted. And he did. About the third night, once they had gotten used to each other (and as she told him she wasn’t as sore when he put his thing in her) they went about their routine except when they were at a point of climax there was a world eruption in their passion. Both felt it, both mentioned it, and both were happy and scared. Both knew that they had done something more than making love, they had created something. Still they persisted for a couple more days of passion and the same eruptions occurred. They might not know nada about the consequences of sex, they might know nothing about the Catholic Church-imposed monthly cycles rhythm methods of contraception but they knew she was with child, a world historic child.  

The viejo panicked , panicked not at just what he had done, about his world eruptions, but that no way in this great green earth could he take responsibility for fathering a baby, not in that village , not in his village, nowhere. He had to move on or he was finished.  And so he proposed a plan to Juanita, a hard-nosed plan but a plan. She had mentioned to him one night that a village man, an older man, Pepe, had taken an interest in her, had been around her grandmother’s house asking for permission to speak to her, had told the grandmother that he would marry her. Pepe had some money, some way of supporting her, and of getting her out of town fast and so he proposed that she feel him out, get him to marry her, and flee making up whatever excuse she had to, but flee.

And so the plan went into operation. Pepe bought her story like a lap dog, was ready to do anything, including move, to be with her. They were married a couple of weeks later and Juanita was able to get Pepe drunk enough not to notice she was not a virgin. More importantly they headed to Cuernavaca a few weeks after that. The afternoon before the day they left the viejo and Juanita had once last tryst off that broken path hideaway and as they parted he swore, swore on seven bibles that he would keep in touch, and would call for her when he got steady work, and could take care of her himself. That was the last day he saw her, although he followed her doings for about a year or so after that.                 

Juanita and Pepe tried to settle in Cuernavaca but things were tough there, they were not welcomed as there was little work and so they tried Mexico City where they found some shelter and Pepe found work as a carpenter in the booming construction trade. As time went on Juanita grew big, made Pepe happy with the prospect of fatherhood, and so it happened that a hijo, a son was born to them. A son that the viejo heard looked very much like him. He desperately tried put his life together seeking work, trying to make enough dinero to claim Juanita and the boy and what wondrous things were in store, what big event was in store, as a result of their  love-making. Alas he lost contact although a couple years later he heard talk around Sonora that a woman from the hills of Cuernavaca claimed that she was the mother of the new messiah, the mother of god. But he never could pin that down. Many years later he heard that a young man, a young man from around Cuernavaca was proclaiming himself the new messiah but again he could never quite catch up to the details. Then nothing.

The viejo lifted another tequila to his long lost youth, to his brazenness and to the woman that he had wronged, Juanita, the Madonna of the Clouds.