Ballad and Dagger: Part Four

The fear was infectious. It lanced through us, sizzled, and broke us, a static that became a shock wave.

One of my first memories is clinging to my dad’s shoulders while he and my mom, both looking like big marshmallow people in their winter jackets, swung each other through the wild passes of a sultry mambo as snow fell all around a cheering crowd.

She’s come into the room, and now she’s staring at me with her hands on her hips and abject disappointment on her face.

Already Aunt Miriam has swept over and wrapped her eerie phosphorescence around Tía Lucia, who has put her head in her hands and let out the longest, saddest sigh of all time.

“...divulging the exact location, or, more specifically, how to get there, for obvious reasons,” Safiya explains sharply.

It’s strange how people commute through our weird, entrenched little universe every day and have no idea of all the myths and messes it holds.

The last shivering fragment inside of me—the part that would’ve splash-collapsed into a deluge of tears—hardens with resolve, and I turn to Rabbi Hidalgo, ready to tell him what happened, what I have to do.

“He wanted to meet,” says the rabbi, “to convince me he was doing what was best for Chela. Thought he could play my enmity with Tolo against my own daughter somehow.”

“Mimi may have been born into a religious Sefaradi household,” the rabbi continues, “but in her heart, she was always a pirate. No one was surprised when she married Si. So, I grew up dealing with her chaos and subterfuge.”

San Madrigal social media tends to be just various cold takes and pet videos ricocheting off each other ad infinitum. Same everywhere else, I guess, except for the requisite shoddy animations of the three peaks rising over the waves with some terrible inspirational quote scrolling by on a banner.

I’m not so sure it was the storm that killed her. She disappeared in the chaos, but you know, Mimi always had a hundred different ploys going at once. It seemed like there were a lot of secrets surrounding her at the end of her life—even more than usual.

I could be wrong—the network of alleys that crisscross Little Madrigal is a world unto itself, and I don’t know it as well as I should—but I think this is the back end of the block across from Tolo’s, where Baba Calvo’s atelier sits beside the Scuttleback Diner.

“Most of these pirates, they’re just playing dress-up at this point. I mean, they’re authentic in the traditions they honor, sure. And in the past few days, we’ve all learned what a sham that really is. But as far as the actual pirate life? Pirating itself? Well, Si Baracasa and his crew—Safiya, Big Moses, the rest—they were the only ones still upholding that part of things. The only real ones, as the kids say.”

He was so young. And Si was so determined to keep him close. Teach him the family business. At a certain point, it became clear that I was enabling the whole thing, giving tacit approval just by coming around at all. I couldn’t give my blessing to it.

The contours of his face and beard shine with the edges of the flashlight glare.

I can’t put my finger on what it is, some smell too subtle to name, perhaps, but everything about this now-cavernous hall reminds me of the club.

He nods his assent, breathing, I can now see, way too fast.

“What is it?” Tolo’s voice booms through my reverie. “What’s wrong?”
“Quiet, man,” Safiya insists. “Let the kid work.”

They were trading and cutting nasty deals with agents of various empires and slavers all along. Empire pirates. Seems I didn’t turn out the way they hoped—they could tell I wouldn’t be friendly to the cause, which is a compliment, I guess—so Bisconte had to pivot to someone more amenable to their machinations.

They were trading and cutting nasty deals with agents of various empires and slavers all along. Empire pirates. Seems I didn’t turn out the way they hoped—they could tell I wouldn’t be friendly to the cause, which is a compliment, I guess—so Bisconte had to pivot to someone more amenable to their machinations.

Rabbi Hidalgo is already making his way toward them, probably to help, and Arco takes one long step and swings. It’s haphazard and off-balance, but the rabbi catches it right on the side of his head and drops with just a whispered gasp.

“What happened up there?” he asks.
“You took a bat to the head,” I say, hedging. “One of the guys died in the scuffle.” I don’t say I killed one of them.

Farts appears in the doorway, then waddles ahead of me like an escort as I carry various dishes full of delicious spirit delicacies into the living room.

Tía Lucia stands in front of her shelf full of spirits, a steaming plate in each hand. “Ay, mi gente,” she sighs with gusto.

Then the doorbell rings and the first round of guests piles in with shrieks of excitement and even more food, and the party has begun in earnest.

They braved the hazardous streets to get here, and now they wonder in vivid whispers about the chilly silence that has come to rest in our little barrio, perhaps to stay, and what other curses these icy November winds will bring.

Holy Yoruba names of ancestors stream past amid exultations, gentle jokes, songs.

It’s a deep baritone tinged with a charred growl, and when he launches into an ancient Ladino lamentation for a lost homeland, I think we all feel it in the depths of who we are.

“I don’t like speeches,” she says with a slight, self-effacing smirk. “And my apologies to the lyalocha for taking center stage at her celebration.”

The thought I’ve been having on and off all week returns: Is Galanika the secret god of these fiends? Am I the sworn adherent of my own enemy?

And the people who brought this curse of demons to our homes—they are but flesh and blood, and flesh can be rended, blood spilled.

I feel like my face is on fire, but inside, it’s still all icicles and the cool zephyr of death.

She moves through the crowd, exchanging cordial, one-word greetings, and then stands in front of me.

You went to tell Gerval no. You didn’t realize how devious he could be.

We won’t sully your celebration with our planning, but we must meet.

Soon, the talking dwindles, and Rabbi Hidalgo and Tolo say their goodbyes.

Chela tells them she’s sticking around to finish the cleanup with us, and everyone hugs and then it’s just the few of us, and the vibe is gentle, a meandering song, as we let the hell of this past week seep away.

I can’t tell if there’s actually an ethereal glow to her or that’s just my own besotted brain coloring everything I see. How can she be so real and down-to-earth, and something so ancient and powerful, all at the same time?

“You’re not coming. Get back into bed.”
“Ay, pero, Mateo...” she starts, but I can tell I’m going to win this one.
“Lie down,” I order, imperious, ridiculous.

She smiles slyly without looking at me. “I figured we’d improvise.”
“Absolutely not! How are you so cavalier about this, Chela? It’s your life!”