Ballad and Dagger: Part Three

During battle, the high commander’s word is law, no matter what, and any questioning of it is punishable by death. And look, I get it: no one wants to be mid-charge with bullets and cannonades exploding around them and suddenly stop and have a referendum on whether to outflank the enemy on the left or right.

People who had seemed not to give a damn about anything but sports yesterday suddenly have a political science degree and strong opinions about everything from Gerval’s second album to criminal justice theory to procedural nuances.

I make my way through the classroom, skirting around arguments that wax toward fistfights.

lya Tamika is outside her botanika debating Fayin, the shoe seller; Simpatico and Pedro have opened their shops early for the sole purpose of lambasting each other, far as I can tell.

Ever since it appeared through the mist to those three enemies, lost at sea—or whatever it is that really happened that night—the place has been an enigma. The answer to so many prayers, made manifest in rocky cliffs and crumbling sea-stained facades.

Ever since it appeared through the mist to those three enemies, lost at sea—or whatever it is that really happened that night—the place has been an enigma. The answer to so many prayers, made manifest in rocky cliffs and crumbling sea-stained facades.

“How do you guys wanna play this?” Chela asks as we stroll down the main thoroughfare like we’re just some normal kids playing normal hooky.

I should be in the front, beside Gerval, chatting nonchalantly about our next album and where we’ll go on tour.

Old stuff, right? Like those antiquey leather-bound tomes he has in his office.

And I do—do want to talk about it—but instead I’m rendered momentarily speechless.

I do know—it’s because kama, the music of San Madrigal, in all its many forms, is a living thing. It’s meant to be heard in dim bars or wafting off rooftops, with a bunch of people crowded around and yelling the chorus and clapping impossible polyrhythms like it’s second nature.

And yeah, of course it doesn’t sound like that when it’s recorded in a sterile, soundproof studio like this. Sure, something’s lost. But new sounds can emerge when there’s time and silence at the musicians’ disposal.

Over the monitors, Gerval’s still warbling through his warmups.

So, I added some blue-note flourishes and got extra emo with it, you know, went to town, and when I looked up, everyone was staring at me, wide-eyed, and I thought I’d messed up at first—you never know—but then they all burst into cheers and applause like in a bad rom-com, and whew! I still remember the sense of relief I felt.

Still, she looks withdrawn and sullen, especially compared to how easygoing she seemed earlier.

Maza feigns being crestfallen, but you can tell they don’t really mind.

San Madrigal historical docs—everything from banal government ledgers to war poetry—are nothing if not self-referential.

Nothing stands alone. Whether it’s a cookbook referencing a collection of folktales from a century earlier or a Santero’s ceremony log that diverges into some Sefaradi bestiary—it’s like there was one large meta-mind behind it all, creating a huge web of knowledge and history and myth.

You were selected because we deemed you worthy. We believe in your abilities, discretion, and prowess.

Tams is outside talking to lya Lisa, a middle-aged woman with arresting eyes and a wide smile.

Still dapper to the bone, he’s all in white now, but it’s a full three-piece suit and a Stetson hat with a single red loro feather in the brim.

So everyone’s shooting quips and threats and zingers back and forth in homeroom, and laughing, sometimes yelling, and I just want to hide, disappear into the floor, or turn into fire and scream as I burst upward through the ceiling and into the sky.

I shake off my doldrums and find her a smile.

Even Tía Lucia made it, along with a whole crew of Santeros; and there’s Rabbi Hidalgo and his retinue.

“Shalom, mi gente! Alafia!” It sounds so forced coming from Anisette, but we’re all used to that. Pandering.

The second song doesn’t take much time to untangle now that I have the code: LA FRUTERA. The United Fruit Company, which every Galerano kid knows plundered Latin America with its steel grip on the banana trade for most of the twentieth century.

In another life, another world, Tolo could’ve been a rapper. He probably knows it, deep down, but either way, he uses that lyrical prowess to devastating effect.

It’s in the way he chokes up on the mic and struts across the stage like the world is being laid to waste around him, like he’s invincible, and the words fly out of his mouth in a furious torrent.

She breaks into a high-octane thrash beat with early ’90s hip-hop inflections, and I switch to a bass-heavy, static-laced setting and chime in with syncopated hits on a crude reggaeton rhythm.

The room seems unsure of what they’re supposed to say to that one. When half of us are dead isn’t really a talking point that people can get excited about, even in a derisive way.

Gone is the genial giant who invited me over for dinner the other day. This is the Rabbi Hidalgo who’s a grave pillar of his community, a warrior, his face stern and drawn.

Tolo Baracasa chose a lifestyle I neither agree with nor condone.

“It’s fitting that the once-divided Hidalgo-Baracasa clan has seen fit to close ranks yet again,” Gerval booms to a rapt audience.

“So you’ll understand, mi gente, my good people,” Gerval continues, “that I’m not being facetious or fantastical when I tell you that the being who roams among us disguised as a regular mortal girl is not simply the daughter of a goddess, not an initiate to our precious santo, no...”

“Oh, but it does,” Gerval snarls, a prosecutor coming to the crux of his closing argument.

“We
have voted! Twice already! The people have spoken. They reject the Destroyer and her dangerous family! A third vote is unprecedented.”

“Every pirate member of the Cabildo has been handpicked by their predecessor,” I say, now coming across at least a little smart.

“A secret group of pirates has been collaborating with various slave traders and agents of empires all along!” I say, finally spitting out the most inflammatory part.

“We deserve an answer!” I yell over the din.

Then, with words that have clearly been rehearsed time and time again in front of a mirror, Anisette declares, “In the absence of a new leader, I invoke the emergency combat powers of leadership and appoint Maestro Juan Grilo Gerval as my successor to the Cabildo, and ruler of Madrigal!”