CITY OF HAMMERS

A Short Story by Cory Zimmerman

I awake again to her voice this morning. She is so tender, so soft, and elegant, yet it is difficult for me to guess her age. Young, tender, but mature, an ageless woman. A woman with dreams in her eyes, dreams in her chest. My ears fall in love, and I fear my heart beating in my chest as I have exerted no energy other than to throw off the blankets and make my way to the window yet again, where the morning breeze carries her melody, and the same old folk song, a song I never heard, but for a week ago.

She sounded like the tiniest bird; I remember her voice, so tender, so soft, and elegant I could not release my grip from the ledge. I leaned further and further, searching for her, looking upward. The room above me, I decided, though I saw nothing but blue sky tainted by smog. Learning more now, further outward, my hand slipped, and I almost fell to my death. It all felt so romantic, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, the melody through my ear canal; it was so heavenly, this angelic sound in this city of hammers.

You see, the hammering never stops in this city of chaos, this city of noise, of constant destruction and construction, this city that shakes, shivers, vibrates, known for the howling and cries of vendors and street merchants. Since the day Hernán Cortés first hopped off his Iberian horse in Tenochtitlán over five hundred years ago, little has changed but the volume and amplification.

“EL GAASS, GAASSS, GAASSSS!”

The obnoxious brass handbell at six a.m., “LA BASURA!” Time to sort through trash on the corner.

The camote guy and his ear-piercing steam whistle as he pushes his cart through the city streets night and day. The myriad of old beat-up pickup trucks lurking on the side streets, with a megaphone, catcalling old stoves, and mattresses, “SE COMPRAN COLCHONES, REFRIGERADORES, ESTUFAS, LAVADORAS, O COSAS DE FIERRO VIEJO QUE VENDAN!”

The tamale guy, “TAMALES, OAXAQUEÑOS, ROJOS, VERDES Y TAMBIEŃ DE DULCE!”

The music plays on, mariachi, reggaeton. The show goes scroll that is a blind man’s Ciudad de México rolls on, unrolling, unraveling, before reuniting and braiding in and out of the subtle buzz and electric hum of bare cornea burning bulbs. The blast of vocho and combi horns lined up and down the avenue, on every avenue, every which way, this web, this maze, trumpets on every corner. This orchestra of madness, of predictable unpredictability, where sleep is worth more than its weight in gold and better not looked forward to, as one listens in the lightest sleep for the sismo alarm. Shake, rattle, and roll.

I have learned to consider tossing and turning in frustration to be restful and normal, and finally fade off into sweet dreams, dulces sueños, just before the sunrise, as the quietest hour arrives just before the beast awakens and roars. Yet, for the past week, I have awoken to the sweetest melody. The most gentle breeze of sound to ever have graced the bruised drums of my ears, and I feared her voice, so tender, so soft, and elegant, may make its way for my pounding heart as I leaned further and further out the window, hoping if I fall, her angelic melody will catch me and lift me to her window, where I may see her beautiful brown eyes, her hair in shiny braids falling down her chest, down her thin flowered dress. Her lips were so soft, so full, forming the words of the same old folk song. A song I had never heard, but for a week ago. Leaning out the window, I offer my ear to her as my hands grasp the ledge. She holds me prisoner, for she is the most beautiful thing I have never seen but rather heard. I think I might love her.

This morning I awake to her again, and I rush to the window, again leaning out, oblivious of death, for she brings me life; she brings me heaven in this hell, in this city of hammers. I do not even notice the pounding in my chest. All I sense is the soft skin of her face beneath the back of my fingers; all I sense is the syrupy scent of her long beautiful hair, dulce; all I sense is wonder, passion, seduction, innocence, and love. I am happy, féliz.

Today I decided to go up a flight of stairs to find her room. The door was closed, but I could hear her singing, though muffled, and I knew she was but on the other side, singing so tender, so soft, and elegantly, as she went about her household chores. For surely, she was traditional, shy, and beautiful. A Mexican woman preserved in time, uninfluenced by modernization or the homogenization of American influence south of the border, the bland corporate culture of which I have fled in search of authenticity, which is fading even here, even in the belly of old México.

I thought to knock and then asked myself aloud, “Are you out of my mind? What will I say?”

I know so little Spanish, and surely she knows but a word or two in English, maybe hello, but then what? What conversation do we share? For surely, she’d look at me with a timid grin, eyes to her tiny feet, knowing certainly I’d knocked on the wrong door, this güero, this light-eyed stranger from the north. A stranger in too many ways. A stranger to custom, culture, community, a stranger to time, and tradition. Now I sit here wondering, wishing. I sit here by the window, empty and hollow, yearning for her voice in the silence, in the noise, in the chaotic orchestra of this city of hammers.

“Maybe she is out shopping, maybe for tortillas.” I thought aloud, startled by my own horse voice.

A fresh scent from the tortilleria down the block, sweet like the scent of her hair, dulce, filled the air in my otherwise stale room.

I stand by the window this morning, and her voice, so tender, so soft, and elegant, fills my void. Oh, how I missed her so. I wonder what her name is, Maria, Ana, or Francisca, surely something elegant and traditional. A name to sing about. Later today, I will go back to her door, but I will not knock. I only hope to catch the sweetness in the air from under her door.

I froze as her door was open, her beautiful voice wafting out into the hall, my heart thumped against the inside of my rib cage, and my breath became shallow, my palms sweaty, yet I continued on casually, as though I lived upstairs, strolling, slow enough to take a look inside. There I saw a girl by the window’s ledge; as she sang, she looked up into the blue sky, tarnished by smog. I saw her lips move but could no longer hear her tender, soft, elegant tone. I only saw the sheen of the cold hard metal of the wheelchair in which she sat. I turned and ran back down the stairs to my room, and I shut my window, and I heard only hammering.

I awake this morning in wet sheets; it’s hot. Yet, I will not open the window. It is so stifling, I feel I can not breathe; maybe I’ll open it but a crack. Oh, her voice fills my ears; it sends chills and goose pimples down my damp arms. I walk to my cocina. I have nothing to cook for breakfast, I must go outside into the chaos. I dread it so. I will leave the window open while I am gone to freshen the stale room. I notice a woman on the rooftop across the way. She is hanging clothes to dry. She wears a thin flowered dress, her long braids sheen in the sunlight. The singing fades as I shut the door and make my way down the stairs.

Walking down the sidewalk with huevos, queso, and chorizo and a can of fideos for later, the closest thing I could find to chicken noodle soup at the tienda; I think of Maria, Ana, Francesca, her voice haunts me. “How can I say such a thing? How can I be so cruel?” I ask aloud.

Flowers. They are beautiful, bright yellow, they remind me of her, so elegant. I grab them from the stand.

“Cincuenta pesos!” The hombre says, reading his paper upon a stool.

I smell them; they smell sweet, dulce. I stick my hand in my pocket, I pull out twenty-two pesos. I put the flowers back, and I continue along my way. The camote guy unleashes the hellish blast from the bowls of his steam whistle, and I cover my ears. A bird flies away.

Cory ZimmermanMay 25, 2020Comment