Total Consciousness

Chapter-1: The Old Business of Men

     Diego glared at the cross and wiped sweat from his forehead. The image looked at him, silent and unmoving. He listened a bit more. Still, no response whispered or moved or sparkled down. A horrible quiet with no answer endured.

     Only Diego’s silver pocket watch ticked away, heavy and solid in his hand. Another sigh and he adjusted his brown business coat, black tie, and wiggled his hot toes in his mid-shin black boots. He cleared his throat and looked at the nailed feet and hands, and at the bloody gash on the side.

     “What am I to do, Señor?” asked Diego. “I don’t understand what any of it means.” He looked at the flickering candles to the side of the hanging cross. “What foolish business it must seem to you?” He chuckled with a red face as he turned to leave. 

     Diego squinted at the light entering from the exit of the cathedral. He moved toward it and lifted his left arm as a shield, while he walked with unsteady steps down the aisle. The bright light blanketed the small statues, oil paintings and onyx pearl tiles of the church interior. All a blur within the light.

     Diego reached the exit and paused for a deep breath. He still had no answer as he consumed the aroma of red roses and incense, and jasmine perfume that attacked him. He frowned with weariness in his heart and continued, stepping out of the old church and into the scalding heat. A cold shiver spread within his body—he resisted it, fought against it and lost. He sneezed a few times and bowed his head in repentance. His right hand rose up quickly and shielded his eyes from the strong light.

     He looked up at the stone ledges and found a bronze winged gargoyle frozen in laughter. The beast mocked him and reached out and judged him where he stood: a middle-aged man, tall, wealthy, athletic, handsome and unsettled by his dreams.

     “God bless, honey,” said a woman. “That was me thinking of you.”

     Diego lowered his gaze. “Oh … Esmeh.” He resisted his urge to remember, fought against it for another blink and lost. Memories raced up with each savoring detail he observed: thick legs, wide hips, slender waist, teardrop breasts and an enchanting milk white face. Deadly of all, her curly black hair draped over her soft shoulders, reaching down her mid back in a thick mane.

     She tugged at her indigo dress again, lifting her alabaster white breasts and bouncing them into proper place, and smiled.

     “Honey,” she said, “you’re such a tease. What a dirty trick you played, leaving us after such an active year. My ladies missed you.”

     “They missed something else, Esmeh—not me,” said Diego.

     Esmehraude laughed and blew him a loud kiss. She moved in closer, crossed her arms in a self-hug and said: “Come now, mi Guerrero, you’re special. Don’t sell yourself so low.”

     “Special?” asked Diego. “No. Just another trick of your trade.”  

     Esmehraude’s smile cracked a bit. Still, she continued with her attack. She pushed her alabasters up with a deep inhale, stretched up for a breath and glided her arms down to her sides.  

     “A year later,” she said, “I found you in the market. You were lost in your own world among the bananas, peaches and cantaloupes of the shops. Seeing you there lifted my aching spirit from a dry spell … oh, it hurt to see you alive and well.”

     “Far from lost,” said Diego. “Merely on a different path.”

     Esmehraude sighed and looked up at the throbbing sun, its light exposing her smooth throat to the world. She teased him with another inhale, swallowed his image twice and looked back at Diego. No luck. She smelled no bite in his eyes, no rumbling in his chest and no thrust in his hips.

     “Honey,” she said, “I thought of approaching you that day; but it was a silly idea for a foolish little girl. A woman knows better. One night you’re the best club de caballeros in Mexico City; and the next day, you’re an empty glass of dried-up pleasures. God, how many years has it been, since we …?” She licked her lips at him and drifted in to caress his arm.

     Diego side stepped her touch, pivoted and stepped farther away. He said: “Since 1855, about six years, now, mujer. Excuse me. It was pleasant seeing you again. Take care, Esmehraude.”

     “Oh, come, come, honey,” she said with a smirk. “That’s not the kind of stiffness I’m interested in. Relax, we aren’t complete strangers. I know you and you know every part of me too. Say, what has you so troubled that it brings you to church on a Friday afternoon?”  

     Diego flinched and held his breath for a pause. He relaxed.

     “Business,” he said. “The priest and I had an old business matter to discuss.”

     Esmehraude glared at Diego playfully and tucked her chin, and said: “Oh, honey, I understand business too. Come here.” She placed her hands over her breasts, cupping them. “There’s no need to worry. The business we share together stays between us, just like a confession or a doctor’s visit.” She laughed, adjusted her dress slowly, staring into Diego’s eyes all the while.

     “I know your business,” said Diego. “I don’t need it anymore.”

     “Aha, there it is, there she is. If not from us, then from whom do you drink? Honey, I’m not the jealous type. A wealthy man like you needs more than one in his life. It’s only natural.”

     Diego looked back at the church with a puzzled expression. He squinted and side glanced at Esmeh, and said, “I didn’t think you were much of a church going woman. Why are you here?”

     “Oh, I’m not, honey.” Esmehraude popped a peppermint into her mouth from her blue purse. “Every other Friday I visit the priest for an hour. It tickles me wet to see him squirm. He gets all red faced and sweaty when I tell him about my heated adventures.” She applied fresh lipstick and continued, “You know, he really likes my stories. He tries to hide it behind all this church stuff. Does a poor job at it, I can tell …. All men desire women in their own peculiar way.”

     “Nothing’s changed with you,” said Diego. “A true woman of chaos.” He gave a brief smile with a nod and walked away. A few steps and he turned and looked back one more time. An old thrill soared from below as he watched her walk away.

     Esmehraude extended her arms wide, searching for a hug as she entered the old cathedral. In her laughter she spun around and blew a kiss at Diego, and offered one last courtesy, and failed. Satisfied, she turned back and continued deeper into the church.

     The clap of her heels echoed all around with each deliberate step down the aisle. She reached the altar and knelt on her left side. And she blessed herself with the sign of the cross. All set, she rose, pushed up her cleavage and headed to Father Philippe’s office.

     Diego shook away his memories of their old business together, and headed to the open market, Mercado Principal.

     His routine for today required him to purchase a few items to snack on during his 1:00 pm consultation. Within a short walk, Diego arrived at the market and explored his usual stalls. He purchased plump purple higos, fresh baked pan dulces and other essential items.

     Finished with the market, Diego wiped his forehead and walked the remaining blocks to his bank at a brisk pace. The heat of the afternoon burned his head and neck, and shoulders.

     Despite the stickiness under his brown business suit, Diego moved faster. He crossed Guadalupe Road with long steps, maneuvering around horses, side stepping carts and smiling at unfamiliar faces that eyed him with curiosity.

     Diego arrived at a quarter past twelve to his favorite bench. It rested within a wide shadow, beneath his favorite oak tree. The cool shade relaxed his muscles as he eased into another routine. He sat and observed the bank’s fountain in action.

     In the middle of the fountain, a three-tiered simple structure overflowed and created three waves of careless falls. On occasion, a light mist reached Diego from the seven spouts of the fountain. His face cooled with tiny dew drops that tickled his mood.

     Mocking birds, blue jays and golondrinas raced about the fountain, climbing and diving, unencumbered and free. Diego smiled.

     The muggy heat of the day lifted from Diego. Even his thoughts released their tight grip over his perplexing dreams. He felt better, all calm. He breathed in deep and slow, and let it all go, allowing more of his tension to melt away.   

     Wind chimes, two buildings north of Diego, broke the tranquil scene he relaxed in. The door to the barber shop slammed. It rattled him. The surging shock forced his eyes wide open.

     A little boy raced in front of Diego. The four-year-old moved with urgency to play on the fountain. The boy reeked of pure joy, even as he struggled up onto the ledge and scraped his knees. The little one yelled at the birds; and he scampered along the edge with playful imitation. A step more and the boy held his arms out to the side. He laughed into a tightrope along the fountain’s edge. 

      Diego’s heart pounded faster at the sight of the little boy. He straightened up on his bench and stared with a strained look at the animated child. The little boy skipped and jumped and laughed far too much.

     All around, Diego searched for relief. He found no one to aide him: parents, gone; other people, far and away. The wind chimes settled down, and he expected someone to appear. But no one moved to help his tension as he stood. The furnace carried on.

     Diego scratched at his soaked collar and returned his sight back onto the little boy. His legs quivered with the two half steps he took forward. Decades as a banker flowed up with risk analysis.

     The water level of the fountain reached high enough to cover the boy’s nose: the child could drown easily. On the outer side of the fountain, the height of the edge dropped low enough: the child could crack his skull open and bleed to death.

     Diego witnessed it all as he struggled to breathe. His dry mouth opened with hot air. But, no words, no sounds and no ideas flowed out. And, the boy moved and played, happy with the day. 

     In stealth swiftness the father of the child came into view. Diego’s heart caught its beat, thumping slower into a relieved rhythm. The father picked the child up by surprise and spun him around, lifting him and spinning him through the air like a light little bird. Giggles and laughter let loose from both father and son. And they carried on with their day.  

     Diego followed the father and the child with his twitching eyes, half listening to the birds and to the heat. Water fired out from the fountain spouts in a steady gush and crash landed. The fountain created a rumbling sound, like a river rapid at the bottom of a great canyon.

     The afternoon sweated Diego in place. His damp white shirt clung to his chest while heat trickled down the side of his neck.

     One tight breath at a time and the details of Diego’s surroundings released their heaviness. His rigid jaw loosened in waves, relaxing his mouth wide open. And he crashed backward onto his bench.

     Intermingled in this symphony, an image of Father Philippe flashed into Diego’s mind, followed by the candles and the altar of the old church. Off in the distance, Diego stared with unease at the young boy in his father’s arms. The child continued to laugh and to giggle under his easy light of the sun.

     “Dios Te Ama Asi,” said Diego. He glanced at his pocket watch, “you foolish child.”

     Ten minutes of rest passed away at a tense and rapid pace. At 12:25 p.m, Diego ended his lunch break five minutes early. And he returned to his work, to be safe within the thick and heavy walls of Banco De La Republica.

     Friday afternoon roasted away at a slow even pace. Diego expected Amado Aguilar to arrive on time for his 1:00 pm appointment. He didn’t. Two and a half hours after lunch, Diego still waited for his afternoon meeting to begin.

     At present, Diego walked in straight lines. He paced in the main lobby of the bank searching for relief. His attention shifted from the honey marbled floor, the lacquered mahogany interior and to his clerks and to his customers. None of this helped. The tightness on his neck and chest remained, making it more difficult to ignore his dreams.

     Diego reached the main glass doors to the bank and stepped outside into an oven. Tremendous heat slapped him in the face, forcing him to shield his eyes from the deep blue sea and infernal sun above Mexico City. He squinted and searched the main road.  

     Jacaranda, poinsettia and oak trees around the bank provided some shade from the power of the sun. While inward curved palm trees leading up to the bank, bowed and swayed, mocking Diego’s continued search. Young women walked and laughed with opened umbrellas. He frowned as they went about their shopping.  

     Still, Amado Aguilar appeared nowhere in sight.

     “He’s two hours late,” said Diego as his silver pocket watch cradled him in minimal comfort. The man he waited for had massive wealth. Amado Aguilar owned too many profitable businesses to ignore or reprimand. Especially since the bank lusted over each gold and silver piece he gained. 

     The heat and the wait gave Diego a poking headache. In his discomfort, he considered his troubling dreams again, the scorch of the day and even the child. In the end, he couldn’t decide on which one to blame for his current plight. 

     The slaps from the sun’s rays boiled his memories loose. Diego remembered his meeting in the church with Father Philippe. In their brief talk, he neglected to mention an accurate time frame of his personal matter. His confusing and persistent dreams extended back at least five months, not one or two, like he had approximated to the priest.

     There was another detail Diego neglected to mention: a heavy memory from eight years ago. It squeezed at his heart at the worst possible moments.

     He shook his personal thoughts away, and stepped back, and entered the bank. All safe, he walked back to his office. Business procedures repeated in Diego’s mind. He thought:

     The bank’s policy for regular clients indicates rescheduling on the next available business day. No exceptions. Once fifteen minutes have passed over the allotted time, the bank must move on with the money.

     Diego slowed his pace. He stopped in front of his office and stared at his leather chair and oak desk. He stood in a rigid stance and ignored his headache, the growing sickness in his stomach and his cold flustered face. He continued to think, 

     But, for big-money clients, such as Amado Aguilar, there is a modified policy. In this case, I must send a courtesy messenger to his point of contact location after business hours at 5:00p.m. In Amado’s case, that’s ten kilometers away. Meaning, I wait for him to show; or, I wait for his word to return by messenger. 

     A cold shudder ran up Diego’s spine, as he entered his office and placed his attention on other bank business matters. First, he approved a request from a struggling farmer; and then he rejected two other loan requests. On occasion, he looked up at his grandfather clock and thought, any minute, now, any minute.

     An hour later, one of Diego’s assistants knocked on his door. He asked, “Señor Diego, should I prepare a messenger for Don Amado?”

     Diego looked up from the letter he worked on, and said: “Money as usual, Patricio. Make ready for the messenger to depart at five with this letter. Another thing, we’re going to run a skeleton crew starting at four thirty. Begin the preparations and send most of our personnel home. At most, I need one courier and either you or Marco to stay behind. All else may leave.”  

     Patricio thought for a quick breath and replied: “Yes, sir; and, if it’s fine with you, señor, I volunteer to stay behind. Marco assisted you with Doña Lupe’s avocado and livestock contracts … two weeks ago.”

     Diego checked his grandfather clock once more. “It would be unfair to single out Marco again. I appreciate you staying.”

     Patricio smiled and looked at the loosely folded newspaper on Diego’s desk.

     “My pleasure, señor,” said Patricio. “You were right. For the past two years, you were right. The United States of America entered civil war this year, as you predicted.”

     Diego reached for a folder and looked up and shook his head at the grandfather clock in his office, and said, “Not much of a prediction, Patricio. All human beings have a weakness for war, more so when money enters a riskier divided state of being. One month ago, Lincoln and the Americans reached their limits of uncertain risk. Of course they leaned into war.”

     “Do you agree,” asked Patricio, “with the author of the article in that newspaper, Nuestra Palabra? He believes their war to be a conflict of morality and of consciousness.”    

     “A fragmented union means more competition,” said Diego, “more laws, more contracts and more agreements to manage.” He sighed and straightened up in his chair and pushed the newspaper aside with a smirk. “All that combined leads to less centralized business, less money and less certainty of control. It’s too risky. Consciousness, morality … that’s not even close. The true reason for any war remains unchanged throughout history—greed, money and control.”

     Patricio tapped on the doorframe with his left hand. “Greed, money and control, señor … what about the other article on the front page?”

     Diego secured his letter in the folder and placed everything in a leather satchel. He said, “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that other country; at least, not this year. Mexico still has time to iron out any disagreements and avoid another war. There is still time for peaceful business.” 

     The bank closed at 5:00 p.m. And Amado Aguilar didn’t show. For Diego, it was a poor start for the weekend. In contrast, thirty minutes prior: five clerks, two couriers, two guards and one assistant bank manager left early with a much better start.  

     Outside, the sun worked on bringing the day to a close. It cast long shadows on the wooden walkways, cobblestone roads and side dirt paths of Mexico City.

     Most businesses closed for the evening, while other establishments were just getting started for a night of excitement. Still, other shops continued working past their approximate closing hours.

     At 5:01 p.m Diego handed the leather satchel, with Amado’s letter, to his best courier, Juan Delgado: a seasoned man, strong, hard working and with an above average appearance. And, typical of his dress, Juan’s uniform for today: black boots, tanned pants, cream colored shirt, walnut coat and a black cattleman hat.

     At 5:02 p.m, Juan galloped away on one of the bank’s horses: a deep brown Arabian horse that enjoyed side stepping, if it remained stationary for too long.

     Juan and his horse picked up speed and headed up Guadalupe Road. Diego waved and waited, expecting Juan to turn right at the intersection, and head toward Amado’s hacienda. Instead, goose flesh rippled across Diego’s body.

     Juan reached the intersection of Guadalupe and Santos, stopped, and shook his head. He circled about on his horse a few times, leaned back in his saddle and rode back toward the bank.

     Diego moved forward with slow steps to meet his courier. He stopped next to the fountain, lifting his palms up at Juan.

     “Unbelievable, Señor,” said Juan, “Don Amado is riding up this way.”

     Diego looked up the road and glared at an approaching rider. Amado Aguilar rode his favorite horse, Caprichosa.

     The beautiful appaloosa horse made its way to the bank, walking at a smooth pace. Diego shook his head at the horse. The back half of Caprichosa shined fudge brown, while the front half of the horse had dark mud-colored spots. Under the stretched spots, a bright white coat spread across the front half of the horse and into the front legs. It is a nice horse, thought Diego. He grimaced and faced his courier.

     “Thank you, Juan,” said Diego. He reached for his pocket watch and rubbed it with his thumb. “Please wait around back until our business with Don Amado is finished.”

     A flinched expression spread across Juan’s face. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching rider and replied with noticeable annoyance. “Not a problem, Señor Diego, I’ll be in the back with the horses. I suppose I could clean the horse stalls and the rifle or pistol range.”

     Diego waved and nodded, as Juan passed him to his right.

     Other horses clicked and clacked and whinnied around Diego. He ignored them and tried to search for a bit of relief. He took deep breaths and exhaled slowly and rubbed his pocket watch. Calm down, he thought as he flipped open his pocket watch, 5:05p.m.

     Caprichosa bobbed her head and snorted as she approached.

     Diego wiped sweat from his forehead, glaring at his late appointment and trying his best not to judge.

     Amado Aguilar wore: a white eggshell gambler hat; a burgundy ornate business coat with matching vest; a pearl white collared shirt; black dress pants and pearl white ankle high boots, with silver spurs.

     At a ripe old age of sixty-five, Amado’s frosty blue eyes complemented his husky build. Most of Amado’s hair still grew black, except for his mustache that connected to his white beard. And, though he spent most of his days in the sun, his skin had an even light tan.

     Diego rubbed his nape and tried not to judge Amado more. Aside from arrogant business practices, Amado possessed an incredible amount of strength in his grip, always ripping a stack of fifty-two at the end of business meetings.  

     Caprichosa whinnied to a halt.

     Amado Aguilar arrived four hours late to his 1:00p.m meeting.

     Diego’s face strained to force a smile. He waved and greeted the biggest money client of his bank, mustering all the professionalism he could manage.

     “Good evening, Señor Aguilar,” said Diego without too much resentment. “I was beginning to think a band of bandidos killed you; and left you in the open sierra, near a dried bush or a Joshua tree.” The congenial expression on Diego’s face reached its limits. His smile fell apart, and he stood with an expressionless face.

     Amado noticed the irritation. He stared at Diego with a concentrated hellish look. Even a passerby that glimpsed Amado’s face, along with Diego, shivered with goose bumps.

     In a flash, Amado smiled, dismounted and patted Caprichosa. He glanced at Diego, and smirked.

     “Buenas tardes,” said Amado, “you’re such a comical man, Diego. The sun is plenty high for hard afternoon work, hombre. Que Bandidos? Nonsense, I am not that kind of man. Bandidos wouldn’t make an easy target of my will … no, señor.”

     Amado smacked his chest with his left hand and laughed much too loud. Swift in his movements, he tied the reins of his horse to a post under the full shade of an elm tree.

     “See,” said Amado. He pointed to his Spencer rifles on his horse, “I always travel with two beautiful prudent ladies; and I never hesitate to put them to work. No man can resist their beauty at four hundred meters or less. These women demand attention; and they always get it with their precise charm.”

     Caprichosa whinnied as Don Amado opened a small bag behind his saddle and removed a green sour apple. He fed it to his horse and patted her with his free hand.

     “Tranquila, Caprichosa,” said Amado, “I’ll return in a short while. Don’t let any man or beast mount you in my absence. You know how jealous I am.” Caprichosa ate the green apple in three quick chomps, whinnied and side stepped left and then right. Amado patted her a few more times and air kissed her twice.

     “Here,” said Amado. He handed his black leather satchel to Diego, turned back and removed his two rifles from his horse.  

     The two men walked side by side to the bank. But Amado stepped faster and advanced ahead. He stared at the bank’s entrance, nodded and grinned. Patricio held the door open to the bank.

     Amado’s pearl boots sent a heavy clanging and thumping sound into the late afternoon. He moved with the bravado of an elite bandido, tasting victory with each step closer to the threshold of the bank.

     Diego walked a breath behind his customer, his face tight and serious. The swagger of Don Amado irked him. But he held his tongue and watched Amado Aguilar strut into his very own sanctuary, Banco De La Republica.

     Amado entered the bank with an overflow of confidence, believing himself: an expert king on women, worship and wealth. Or, as Amado preferred to call his expertise over the whole wide world: the old business of men.

Thank you

     I appreciate your time in reading this blog post. Next Saturday I will upload the first part of Chapter Two: The Bird and The Cat, from my first novel: Guerrero of Passions.