Ghost Radio (12 page)
Authors: Leopoldo Gout
They continued with “Death Concealed Among the Civilians,” a fusion of Afro-Caribbean elements with scratchy, aggressive vocals that gradually formed a counterpoint to synthesized string attacks inspired by Mahler. By then, both Joaquin and Gabriel had entered a trancelike state, playing as if possessed by the spirits of fallen warriors.
A group of
around a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty youths had gathered in a small plaza. They had an old Mazda car radio connected to an amplifier. Some had been there since midnight. The locals couldn't figure out what they were waiting for. There were about ten cops anxious to intervene, but with orders not to. It was clear that those attending this mysterious, improvised meeting were consuming alcoholic beverages and a wide variety of drugs. The cops could have started arresting people whenever they wanted.
Suddenly someone jumped up on the roof of the Mazda and yelled:
“They're on, motherfuckers!”
As soon as the first chords were heard, all hell broke loose. An enraged, delirious mosh pit started vibrating to the music exploding from the speakers. It was so powerful that the cops were frozen with dread. They could only stand aside, contemplating the crowd as if they were watching a UFO landing. The mob was like a rhythmic, hungry beast threatening to attack the handful of pedestrians looking on from the streets nearby. Someone threw a bottle. It was followed by several more, then a rock went through a shop window. That was when the cops took action.
The same scene played out in other cities. Some said ten. Others, over a hundred. It would be difficult to know for sure. What's certain is that the energy unleashed in those few minutes of the Deathmuertoz concert via Radio Mexico left an indelible mark. Politicians, activists, parents, and commentators all condemned the delirious outbreaks of violence. But no one who was there that night could deny that they'd remember those minutes of complete euphoria, mayhem, and release for the rest of their lives.
Colett was livid.
“The cops are outside. We've gotta leg it. Now!”
“Sister, this jam is too hot. I ain't going anywhere.”
“I'm staying too,” Joaquin said. “But you should go. Shove a couple of those cabinets against the door. Then climb out the bathroom window.”
Joaquin watched Colett, her eyes wide with fear and confusion.
“Go,” he said calmly, as he pounded out another power chord.
Colett moved to the double doors, pushing a couple of cabinets in front of them.
“Enough?” she asked.
Joaquin gestured to a large wooden shelf unit. Colett nodded and pushed it toward the doors. It squeaked and barked on its journey. Joaquin liked the sound. He hoped the mikes were catching it.
Colett tipped the unit over; it smashed against the doors loudly. The mikes certainly picked that up.
Colett shot Joaquin another questioning look. He nodded and watched her run toward the bathroom, its tiny window, and freedom.
Now alone, Joaquin and Gabriel played “Chismes y Deadly Legends,” using a collection of noises that sounded like a funeral procession to add texture to the already vertigo-inducing 180-beat-per-minute composition. Their music had never sounded so vital and powerful.
At 2:00
A.M.
, a surge in the electric system blew out their equipment. Joaquin had already felt several minor shocks that night, but this time his arms, then his back and neck, tensed up till all his muscles were hard
as a rock. He saw smoke rise from his flesh, and a burst of flame emerge from his mouth, and then a blow to the abdomen and he was airborne. A moment of floating silence, thenâ¦WHAMâ¦down onto the wet floor, the wind knocked out of him. Slowly, his vision blurred. The world faded, until he was left in darkness.
He heard the mastiffs enter the studio and sniff at him. Then he heard something elseâ¦distantâ¦indistinct. Voices? Music? As he struggled to make it out, he felt his body rising toward the ceiling. He looked down, and saw Gabriel, supine on the floor. The dogs bit at his chest, tore at his face and crotch.
He also saw his own body lying on the floorâ¦immobile.
The police burst into the studio. When they saw Joaquin and Gabriel on the ground, they called for paramedics.
Joaquin was strangely calm as he watched the scene below. Suddenly everything around him shifted. The damp station evaporated, replaced by a vast arctic landscape. Joaquin felt the snow crunch under his feet. In the distance, jagged glaciers stretched skyward.
Without knowing why, he began to climb the nearest snowdrift.
He shivered as he trudged forward, each step harder than the last. He'd barely made it twenty yards before he found himself sinking into the snow. First to his ankles, then to his knees, then it almost reached his waist. He pushed on, unsure where he was going, or why he found it imperative to continue. The snow was up to his chest now, and movement had become virtually impossible. He was using all his might to inch his way forward.
A loud crack filled the air, and snow tumbled down on top of him. He felt like hundreds of icy blankets were being hurled on top of him. A suffocating fear gripped him as he struggled to break out.
Suddenly he was free.
The snow beneath him gave way and he felt himself falling. He fell and he fell. And while he fell, he heard Gabriel's voice:
“Why do you always fuck everything up, Joaquin? This isn't your place. You're not meant to be here. You're not meant to see this.”
He continued falling, and music replaced Gabriel's voice; a strange booming music that reminded him of pistons and steam engines. It clanked and hissed and pounded and screeched.
Then he hit the ground, hard.
He looked up and saw a paramedic crouched over him, defibrillator paddles in each hand. The paramedic said some calming words that he couldn't make out, and then he lost consciousness.
During the following week, a rumor circulated among their fans: Los Deathmuertoz would never play again.
“My name is Yang,
but call me Joe.”
“Hi, Yang-Joe. What do you have for
Ghost Radio
today?”
“Well, I know some people.”
“And which people would those be?”
“Not, you know, good people. They're people who trade with the dead.”
“What do you mean, trade with the dead?”
“I mean that they, um, provide some special needs for some dead people.”
“Yang, or Joe, you lost me there. What needs? What are you talking about?”
“See, in western China, in the Shaanxi province, there's a very old custom that says when a young man dies unmarried, he should be buried with a bride, a dead bride. You've heard of it?”
“Now we have,” said Joaquin.
“So these people, they provide womenâ¦umâ¦female corpses for ghost weddings.”
“Uh-huh.”
“When an unmarried woman dies at the same time as an unmarried man, they speak to her family, offer them a small sum, and they bury the bodies together after a ceremony.”
“And if there isn't some conveniently dead woman?”
“Then there are other options: They go to villages and buy young women or girls, claiming that they are preparing an arranged marriage.”
“And?”
“They kill them.”
“That might be a scary story, but it sounds like more of a matter for Human Rights Watch than
Ghost Radio,
” said Alondra.
“Well, here's the thing. A man that I know was in this business. He was doing nicely, providing brides all over the yellow-earth highlands and keeping the tradition alive by any and all means. He would buy a young woman for ten to twelve thousand yuan, that is, around thirteen hundred to two thousand dollars, and sell her dead body for double. Or even better, he and his associates would kidnap prostitutes and girls from other provinces and kill them. When the demand for corpses was low, they would take care of a few young bachelors, and later provide the ghost brides for the poor fellows.
“So, this man called me at home in San Francisco. I needed money, and he offered me lots of it. I accepted, so he flew me to China, my ancestors' homeland, to help him.”
“How do you know this guy?”
He's my uncle. Anyways
,
last summer was busy for us. I mostly took care of the business side
;
he and his associates would deal with the brides. On one occasion
,
though
,
my uncle asked me to go to a remote farm in Inner Mongolia to buy a girl named Li. He explained what I should do
,
and soon I found myself in a hut making a deal with the girl's father. I told him I would marry his daughter
;
finally
,
we reached an agreement. I paid eleven thousand yuan and took her with me. From our first meeting
,
I'd been noticing a disgusting smell of yak's milk.
As soon as we started the long trip back
,
she said
,
“I know what you're going to do with me.” I tried to be like my uncle and ignore her
,
but I felt uncomfortable. When we got home I tied Li up and called my uncle to come take care of her
,
but he told me he was too busy and ordered me to do it myself. I felt queasy
,
but I gathered my courage and strangled her. They preferred that method of killing because it didn't damage the body. I put her in a big icebox,
and the next day she was buried with her ghost groom. Usually that was the end of the story. That night
,
though
,
I heard strange noises coming from the icebox. I grabbed a stick and walked over to it
,
thinking that a rat or something might have crawled inside. But as soon as I opened it
,
Li popped up like a jack-in-the-box. I fell back
,
terrified. Her ghost stood before me and spoke
:
“I reject my groom
;
I have already chosen a different one.” She approached me. “I choose you.” The smell of fermented yak's milk coming from her mouth was unbearable. I stood up and ran from the house screaming
,
but the aroma stuck to me. It followed me on the buses and trains I took to get to Beijing
,
and on the plane back to San Francisco. The passenger sitting in the seat next to me asked the stewardess to move him because of the stench. By then, I didn't care what people said
,
because my body was slowly rotting
,
my flesh was decomposing
,
my organs turning to mush. I am only thirty-two
,
but by the time I arrived in the United States, I looked sixty. I could hardly see and my hands were trembling uncontrollably. Every time I turned my head
,
I saw Li out of the corner of my eye. I went home
,
but I was too scared to be alone. I don't know why
,
but with my remaining money I took a room in a hotel. I turned on all the lights
,
the TV
,
and a radio that I bought at a drugstore. I sat on a chair with my back against the wall hoping against hope I would be safe from Li.
But it didn't work. I realized Li was in the bed
,
lying there stiffly. I was terrified
,
but I didn't move. All she said was “I will be waiting here for you.” I was so exhausted and miserable and hopeless that I just sat there
,
looking at her
,
knowing that eventually I would have to join her in a deathly embrace.
“And how did you get away, Joe?”
“I didn't. I'm still in the chair looking at Li. I just wanted to tell someone.”
The line went dead.