The Ascension
 of Raul Martinez

The Ascension
 of Raul Martinez

Small dark hands wring blood from a white worn handkerchief now stained red. Tears drop into the mix as he almost blindly looks to the outer door, expecting it to burst its hinges, the wood splintering from the force of Justice come to claim him. Through his tears, the tulip wall lamps create the illusion of streaming shafts of light as if angels fill his vision. He believes this is so.

Raul Martinez looks to his wife sprawled on the floor and feels she should not be seen this way – one leg twisted up underneath her from the fall and her dress half off. In the moments he has before they are lost to each other, he kneels to her, setting the once-white cloth down in the growing pool of blood and gently brings her leg down to the other. He avoids her eyes as he straightens her dress and culpably notes the time on the wall clock.

In a breathless rasp, Alicia Martinez whispers his name. He looks to her and is greeted by the countenance of Life Everlasting. She is the crucified Jesus; the lamb at slaughter; the Madonna, the Virgin, the Hope of Mankind with the left rear of her skull collapsed.

Raul Martinez reverently places his wife’s folded hands over her heart with his own and kneels, praying to her - oblivious to the pounding on the outside door of the small brownstone apartment tucked away on the lower east side.

His pants knees soak up Alicia’s life as the outer door explodes inward. Alicia parts her lips in an enraptured smile, at once absolving Raul of all past, present and future.

The police stream out of the apartment, some glancing in through the window of the next apartment where a man watches them exit on the six o’clock news in black and white.

As the man reflexively cleans under his fingernails, a close-up is shown of the large brass crucifix being put into the plastic evidence bag, smearing the clear sides with blood. A slack-faced Raul Martinez is led handcuffed down the steps where he once knelt before his wife, singing the Mexican song his own father had sung to his mother, as she sat on the stoop, his head in her lap and she stroking his black hair.

There is no one to translate for Raul as the detectives attempt their mock-Spanish, gesturing like monkeys in the fluorescent-lit, yellow-walled room. One detective - a brusque man of Greek tracings - takes Raul’s silence as an affront and paces the floor, castigating him. Raul turns to peer calmly over the edge of the table and the man looks in succession down at the speckled twelve-inch square linoleum tiles beneath his feet. 

   Observing the worn tread in the tiles that Raul has led him to, he looks back up at Raul in terror and says, “Te amo mucho, me amor.”

The Greek’s face turns ashen and he mumbles an excuse to the other detective, rushing out without another word. Raul’s vacant stare shifts into slight contentment for a passing moment as he whispers in Spanish, “I love you, too.”

The other detective, unsettled by his partner’s departure, rises slightly from his chair to bring it forward toward Raul. He picks up the pen from the table and shoves it violently at Raul, commanding him to sign. Raul complies, signing his name to the confession with a minimum of hand movements, laying the pen down quietly to then look up at the man across the table from him.

The man’s focus narrows as he looks into Raul’s vitreous eyes, considering what it might take for a mind to justify the eradication of another’s life. His discovery is reflected in Raul’s eyes and he rises up, pulling his balled fist back to strike Raul. He stops, and speaks to Raul instead.

The words lilt across the room with no echo, “Este no Silencio, no...” (“There is no Silence, no sounds that are not meant for God’s ears, and the words that you and I now hear are only the calming waters singing to us from our family’s fountain. It nourishes us with its bountiful flow.”)

Raul replies, “Si, ...” (“Yes, I understand.”), as the detective snatches up the pen and paper like a greedy Baron collecting his tax from a peasant, leaving Raul to sit in the room for another six hours by himself.

Throughout the trial of Raul Martinez, the press characterizes Raul as “detached” and “Godless”.

After the verdict is read, the presiding Judge delivers his ruling, ready to condemn the man who has been reckoned to have murdered his own beloved. He asks Raul if there is anything to be said on his behalf. The public defender manages a few words in Spanish but Raul is motionless and unresponsive as he stands before the court until the Judge rises, outraged, his robes fluttering, to shake a finger at Raul and speak.

“Raul Martinez,” he begins, “Este no separacion...” (“There is no separation between you and I. No judgment exists that can be levied on you now. You are beyond that. When you and I meet again in ethereal presence, you will shed no more tears for this tragedy.”)

Raul smiles as he gazes at the Judge lovingly. His attorney turns to Raul with suspicion when the Judge abruptly stops, weariness and anger turning his eyes to the rinds of blood oranges, his gavel fracturing the pedestal with the force of his adjudication.

Later, after Raul Martinez is led from the metal bed he has used as his prayer altar and down through the prison’s corridors in el Procession de Muerte to the gas chamber, the Jailer secures Raul for his ending. As he closes the door, the man hesitates, turning to Raul to whisper, “Nosotros...” (“We are as One, you and I”).

The door is sealed and the gas pellets drop, but there is no one in the chamber to breathe in the fumes.