lift her. She screams all the way to the bathroom, quiets when she sees the water running, laughs as she plays with the small bright water rings, screams again when I lift her from the tub, and I finish drenched and bitching. Then I remember to sing, Chabuca Granda, softly. At last Mariángel calms. I set her in the crib, bring her bottle. I watch until she closes her eyes, and return to the patio.
The sun strikes the water, the glare hits me full in the face, but there is something near the far wall, something shining, a tiny figure. And of course—the doll somehow upright in the shallow water. But in the instant before I knew this, it was something else: Punchao.
The doorbell rings. Whoever it is will leave soon enough if I make no sound but Sundays are bad days for doorbells. Punchao, Quechua for daybreak, the sun’s first ray striking in through Andean peaks. Punchao, God of Day. Punchao, a gold statue, the form of a ten-year-old boy but the size of Mariángel.
Again the doorbell and perhaps it is the man who collects empty bottles. He comes most Sundays and is at times insistent. Pachacutec expands the empire, revives the sun cult, claims a dream or vision: a shining child, Punchao. The statue’s sandals and circlet also gold. Sits within a silver pavilion. From the pavilion extends a cloud of gold medallions. When the sun strikes the medallions, the reflections are so bright that the figure can barely be seen.
Statue and pavilion rest on a cloth of iridescent feathers, this cloth on a golden disc six feet across, and the statue’s chest is hinged. Inside the chest cavity is a gold chalice. Inside the chalice are the rough-ground hearts of past emperors and again the motherfucking doorbell.
I go, look out the peephole, see no one. This means it is either children or Hugo, a deaf midget who holds a piece of paper saying, “I have nothing to eat, and one sol would be fine, or ten soles if you wish.” I open the door half an inch. The stoop is empty and I walk back to the patio.
For one hundred and thirty years each Inca seeks the Punchao’s guidance, claims to hear it speak. It is carried on a litter for all ceremonies. It sleeps in the company of princesses. Spread out before its altar are gold and silver vessels filled daily with maize and meat and chicha de jora and one morning the conquistadors arrive at the gates of the Coricancha. They push the Inca priests aside. They walk through the temple to the central garden: silver cornstalks, and the corn ears solid gold. Beyond is another room, the altar tended by mamaconas and here the cloud of medallions, the silver pavilion, Punchao.
The Spaniards post guards but somehow the statue is slipped out past them, borne first toward Chachapoyas and then to Vilcabamba. This final Inca fortress so distant, so nearly inaccessible, and the Spaniards come all the same. In the end it is Hurtado de Arbieto leading two-hundred fifty mounted soldiers, two thousand native auxiliaries. Battle at Coyao-chaca, battle at Huayna Pucará. Túpac Amaru and his retinue chased down into the Amazon basin. His son captured. His brothers, daughters, and now the Punchao is taken. Túpac Amaru and his wife still uncaught. Deeper and deeper into the jungle, they run and run but his wife, and a dog barks once, again, quiets.
Others who have not yet come but surely will: those seeking donations to help street-children return to school; to help the French Alliance arrange more and better concerts; to help feed the men and women at the Centro de Reposo San Juan de Dios, a lunatic asylum up the street whose acronym for unclear reasons is CREMPT. Some who come sell bittersweet candy at twice its true price. Some only hold out their hands.
The medallions are cut off, and the statue is shipped to the king as a gift for the Pope. It might still exist, hidden in some Vatican storeroom or palace vault. Hay limas hay papayas, plátanos piña naranjas, hay limas pepinos y plátanos. I dream the vendor
The sun strikes the water, the glare hits me full in the face, but there is something near the far wall, something shining, a tiny figure. And of course—the doll somehow upright in the shallow water. But in the instant before I knew this, it was something else: Punchao.
The doorbell rings. Whoever it is will leave soon enough if I make no sound but Sundays are bad days for doorbells. Punchao, Quechua for daybreak, the sun’s first ray striking in through Andean peaks. Punchao, God of Day. Punchao, a gold statue, the form of a ten-year-old boy but the size of Mariángel.
Again the doorbell and perhaps it is the man who collects empty bottles. He comes most Sundays and is at times insistent. Pachacutec expands the empire, revives the sun cult, claims a dream or vision: a shining child, Punchao. The statue’s sandals and circlet also gold. Sits within a silver pavilion. From the pavilion extends a cloud of gold medallions. When the sun strikes the medallions, the reflections are so bright that the figure can barely be seen.
Statue and pavilion rest on a cloth of iridescent feathers, this cloth on a golden disc six feet across, and the statue’s chest is hinged. Inside the chest cavity is a gold chalice. Inside the chalice are the rough-ground hearts of past emperors and again the motherfucking doorbell.
I go, look out the peephole, see no one. This means it is either children or Hugo, a deaf midget who holds a piece of paper saying, “I have nothing to eat, and one sol would be fine, or ten soles if you wish.” I open the door half an inch. The stoop is empty and I walk back to the patio.
For one hundred and thirty years each Inca seeks the Punchao’s guidance, claims to hear it speak. It is carried on a litter for all ceremonies. It sleeps in the company of princesses. Spread out before its altar are gold and silver vessels filled daily with maize and meat and chicha de jora and one morning the conquistadors arrive at the gates of the Coricancha. They push the Inca priests aside. They walk through the temple to the central garden: silver cornstalks, and the corn ears solid gold. Beyond is another room, the altar tended by mamaconas and here the cloud of medallions, the silver pavilion, Punchao.
The Spaniards post guards but somehow the statue is slipped out past them, borne first toward Chachapoyas and then to Vilcabamba. This final Inca fortress so distant, so nearly inaccessible, and the Spaniards come all the same. In the end it is Hurtado de Arbieto leading two-hundred fifty mounted soldiers, two thousand native auxiliaries. Battle at Coyao-chaca, battle at Huayna Pucará. Túpac Amaru and his retinue chased down into the Amazon basin. His son captured. His brothers, daughters, and now the Punchao is taken. Túpac Amaru and his wife still uncaught. Deeper and deeper into the jungle, they run and run but his wife, and a dog barks once, again, quiets.
Others who have not yet come but surely will: those seeking donations to help street-children return to school; to help the French Alliance arrange more and better concerts; to help feed the men and women at the Centro de Reposo San Juan de Dios, a lunatic asylum up the street whose acronym for unclear reasons is CREMPT. Some who come sell bittersweet candy at twice its true price. Some only hold out their hands.
The medallions are cut off, and the statue is shipped to the king as a gift for the Pope. It might still exist, hidden in some Vatican storeroom or palace vault. Hay limas hay papayas, plátanos piña naranjas, hay limas pepinos y plátanos. I dream the vendor
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