The Toltec Art of Life and Death

“Yes, soon,” she whispered. This fledgling student, with his innocent and tender eyes, would someday become the master. It was time for her to shift the dream to her will. This was her chance to move memory’s current. Nothing was inevitable, she assured herself, and this dance was far from over.

Don Eziquio was on his third plate of food when Miguel Ruiz sat beside him on the divan, his own plate in his hand. Still wearing the hospital gown, he looked more out of place than ever. He was drawn to this time and this place, however. He had noticed his older brothers talking with a few of their cousins in the pebbled driveway, and he was curious to know them again as children; but by sitting here in the crowded living room, he had a view of himself as a child. He smiled at the sight of the boy, sitting there all alone, and remembered the curious feeling of shock he’d felt when he saw the human drama for the first time. As a boy he had envied adults—not just for their knowledge, but for the spectacular way they generated drama. The adult world had seemed like a soap opera set within a mental ward, and he wanted to discover ways to make it sane again. He had looked for solutions all his life, and at forty-nine years old, he felt he was making progress.

He could see Lala lounging there beside the boy, watching, and casually guiding his thoughts. Would she try to woo him with a story? A revelation?

With any intuitive feeling, there comes the temptation to tell a story . . . to think. While the boy sat there, following the tangible traces of life, she would offer him a story about life. Her stories would seem new, not like the ones he’d heard before, and they would appeal to a little boy’s vanity. It would be many more years before Miguel, the man, could appreciate any of her stories for what they were.

Miguel finally took his eyes off the boy and plunged his fork into a dish piled high with food. The two men sat there, side by side, enjoying their home-cooked meal in silence. Neither of them acknowledged the other. Glancing out the window, Miguel saw don Leonardo standing alone in the street, his creamy suit catching the pink light of the evening sky. His grandfather looked like a high-born angel, patiently waiting to see what revelations the moment would bring.

Finishing his third helping of food, don Eziquio finally looked at the man sitting beside him. “Good day to you, sir,” he offered grandly. “You are hungry, too, I see.”

“Mmm, yes. It’s been weeks,” answered Miguel through a mouthful of food.

“For me, it has been decades. It seems that nothing ever tasted so good!” Eziquio slapped his thigh enthusiastically with one gnarled hand, causing a cloud of dust to rise into the air. The dust was quickly lured away by the opening of a door, and a wisp of cigar smoke stealthily took its place. He said nothing for a moment, surveying the room, and then he turned to Miguel again and gave him a steady look. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Your great-grandson, who is not really here,” Miguel answered. “Just as you, sir, are not really here.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “Yes, but who, among all the legions of men, was ever really here, my dear compadre?”

“You make a valid point,” Miguel said, smiling, and they sat in silence again, watching people come and go and listening to the melodic buzz of conversation.

“So, you are celebrating the short life of your brother, I suppose.”

Miguel shook his head congenially. “This memory is for my mother, not for me. I’m here to show support.”

“That, good man, is not all you are showing,” said Eziquio, looking at Miguel’s naked legs. “May I inquire, sir, are you in need of clothes?”

“No, I’m fine,” replied Miguel, smoothing the gown over his knees and dabbing a spot of blood with his napkin. “I’m in a coma, so it would make no practical sense to get dressed.”

“I see,” said the old gentleman. “Well, have no fear. Should you eventually die, they will dress you up quite nicely. Look at me,” he said, lifting his skinny arms. “I made my exit in theatrical style, would you not agree?” He swept up the sombrero and plunked it on his bony head, sending up another cloud of dust.

“Very striking,” said Miguel. He glanced around the room again. This day’s memories were about to end, he thought, but the stories would survive to entertain generations. Peering through the crowd, he noticed that the boy was now alone, and he wondered where Lala had gone.

“So many children, all harvested from the rich soil of my loins,” the old man commented, nudging Miguel with a bony elbow. “I have done my part for humanity, verdad?” he added with a wink. “Who is the little one?”

“That’s me,” Miguel answered, edging his plate away from the old man’s elbow. “This was a significant day for me. Very significant.”

“What? Oh, I see . . . significant,” the old man said, comprehension shooting across his weathered face. “Significant, yes.” He sat quietly for another long moment, frowning slightly as if studying a chess board. There were thousands of memorable moments that comprise a man’s life, but only a few that could be called significant. Significant memories were the best foundation for a new and enlightened dream, as both men knew. He looked at his great-grandson with admiration. “You are playing an intriguing game, my boy.”

Miguel said nothing.

The crowd was thinning, and there was a hush in the room. Daylight had yielded to dusk, and the illusory landscape had dimmed. Eziquio, the trickster, lifted a withered hand and rubbed his earlobe. Miguel, the dreamer, laid down his empty plate and gave his great-grandfather a look of unreserved affection. Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. The elderly man started to speak, then pressed his thin lips together. A crooked finger scratched at the white stubble on his chin. He tilted his head slightly, pondering. How he had got here, he could not say. Why anything