The Day of the Moon (2 page)

“Alondra
is in the kitchen.” She resented his not uttering the name. “Do you want me to call her?”

“Yes. Tell her to come for a moment.”

Ursula looked at the man she had served since she was seventeen. Once she had been in awe of him, but the years had wasted him, snatched away his arrogance, leaving only the shell that now sat in front of her. When he and his sister, Brígida, had fled Mexico with Samuel and Alondra, Ursula followed as well because she had made a promise. She had spent the rest of her life fulfilling that vow.

“Wait! Tell my sister that I want to speak to her, too.”

“Don Flavio, you've forgotten. Doña Brígida is dead.”

“Ha! What does it matter? I don't speak to crazy women anyway!”

Ursula snorted through her nose, thinking that Doña Brígida had not been crazy, that she had been understandable most times, even though she had her moments at the end of her life. When that happened, everyone smiled or giggled, knowing that her mind had wandered again. Ursula shrugged her shoulders and left the room, closing the door softly. Don Flavio waited, refusing to look at the window. In a few minutes, he heard the rap on the door.

“Come in.”

He did not look up. He knew who stood in front of him, and he kept quiet for a long while.

“Don Flavio. I'm here.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Do you want me to turn on the
lámpara?”

“No. And don't mix languages!”

Again he fell into silence, hunched deep into the armchair thinking of how much her way of speaking annoyed him. He finally sucked in air through his mouth as he looked up at the young woman. He first saw the feet, shod in worn tennis shoes. Then he scanned the legs, thighs, hips; they were clad in faded jeans. His eyes moved up, covering the abdomen, breasts, shoulders, neck. He noted the cotton shirt tucked in, accentuating the slim waistline. She was tall, lean, well shaped.

At last, he focused on Alondra's face: It was oval-shaped, almost long; it was highlighted by hair that hung below her shoulders. Darkness had crept into the room, but he knew that her hair was raven-colored. Don Flavio looked at the young woman's skin, olive-colored with dark brown tones around her temples and beneath the long, straight nose. Her mouth was like that of all of them, he thought: wide, thin-lipped, sensuous. Then he did what he feared he would do. He looked into Alondra's eyes: black, deeply set, almond-shaped, with long straight lashes. Suddenly, they became his own mother's eyes. Unable to sustain Alondra's gaze, the old man turned away. When he looked again, her eyes had become those of the hated Rarámuri who haunted Don Flavio. The stare was riveted on the old man accusingly, and he shut his eyes.

“Leave the room!”

His voice was a mix of rage and anguish. Alondra was not surprised nor offended; this scene had been repeated frequently during the last months. She had come to him only because Ursula, her grandmother, told her to do so. She left the room without speaking.

Don Flavio tried to control the tremor that had overtaken him. He stared at the pitcher on the tray for a long time before attempting to serve himself. When he did, his hand trembled as he poured the hot liquid, forcing him to take the mug in both hands. The steamy chocolate fragrance calmed him, and he glanced at the ceiling, following the coiling vapor. Suddenly he sat up. He bent his head, cocking his ear, straining to hear. In the beginning it was distant,
an echo, barely audible, intensifying, growing louder, more powerful. Don Flavio then felt the thundering vibration as it pounded against the hardwood floor beneath him, and he recognized the dull clatter of hooves as a horse raced at full gallop on the packed earth of his hacienda.

The old man held his breath, and then he saw her. Isadora, his daughter, rode bareback at breakneck speed across the
llano.
Her hands clutched the beast's mane, her legs wrapped around its sides. The white cotton dress she wore clung to her body, swept up above her knees, exposing her legs and the boots he had given her. She was laughing in defiance of the wind that whipped her face. Her golden hair, the sun's rays trapped in the ringlets of its curls, swept around her head like an aura.

Don Flavio smiled, exposing yellowed, worn-out teeth. The trembling had left him and he felt serene. He loved conjuring the image of his daughter, especially as she rode the high-spirited mare he had given her when she had become eighteen. He sighed, reliving that day when she first rode the horse. Isadora could ride better than any of his ranch hands; she could become one with the animal.

Don Flavio closed his eyes, listening to the cascading music of her laughter and her call to him. On that morning, he had leapt on his horse and galloped to her side. Together they raced across the meadow until they reached the slope that marked the beginning of the Sierra Madre. He loved Isadora above all others, more than anything he possessed, more than himself. On that day, when they rode toward the sierra, he loved Isadora so much that his heart filled with joy.

The pounding hooves receded into the past but the old man kept his eyes closed. It had grown dark outside, and he could hear the soft rain against the windowpane. He sat in the gloom, mumbling to his daughter, trying to explain what he had done. His memories again took flight, soaring across the rainy Los Angeles sky, heading for Mexico. His life had two parts: before Isadora, and after her.

In the beginning he was an ordinary boy. His father, Edmundo Betancourt, was a grocer who had settled in Arandas, Jalisco, having immigrated from somewhere in Spain. He never spoke of himself. As Flavio grew older, he heard others say that they suspected that his father was a deserter.

Flavio had a sister, Brígida, who was six years younger. Both had inherited their father's fair skin and blue eyes. His mother, on the other hand, was very dark. She was a native, and Flavio did not know why his father had married her. As he remembered it, his father hardly spoke to her. But her image clung to Flavio. Her face was long, her skin the color of mahogany, and her eyes oval-shaped with straight, long eyelashes. She always wore her hair, which was black and thick, in a braid tied at the nape of her neck.

Flavio could not remember her ever speaking, and she hardly came near her own children because their father had instructed her to tend to the chores of the house; he would be in charge of the boy and girl. Flavio had only two memories of his mother. The first was of once when he crept into the kitchen, where he watched her for a long time. She moved silently, first stoking the stove and then washing pots in the stone sink. Even though the place was gloomy with smoke, she was aware that the boy was there. He knew it because as she worked she looked over to the corner where he stood. She smiled at him. He remembered that clearly.

The second memory he had of his mother was of another time, when he was at his place waiting for breakfast. Brígida was sitting across from him, and their father had not yet come to the table. Flavio's mother came in to serve their milk. She was pouring his glass when suddenly she stopped, put down the pitcher, and took the boy's face in her hands. She held it so that he looked into her eyes. They were so black they glowed like silver, but they were not hard, they were soft. Her gesture lasted only a short while. The children's father came into the room, and she let go of Flavio's face.

Flavio always thought it strange that both Brígida and he came from a body that was so dark. Sometimes he wondered if she really was their mother. He did not want an Indian woman for a
mother. But the servants would not let him forget who she was; even his father admitted that she was Flavio's mother. But he knew that he never loved the woman who bore him and that he never wanted to speak to her.

She died when Flavio was fifteen years old. By that time he had almost forgotten her. Flavio often thought that the beginning of his story was when he chose to blot his mother out of his memory. He told himself that there was nothing wrong in this, because even though he did not love his mother, he loved his sister. Years later he discovered that he was wrong: The only person he ever loved was his dear daughter.

Flavio left his father's home when he was eighteen because he did not want to be a grocer. He made his way north; if a man was to be successful, it had to be to the north. Finding the place in which he wanted to stay took several years. He worked on farms, on ranches, in towns, all the time getting farther away from the ordinary boy he once was.

When he got work at Hacienda Miraflores he felt lucky because the owner, Anastasio Ortega, was of a powerful family. Flavio liked to watch how the
Patrón
walked and wore his hat; and, without anyone noticing, Flavio began to imitate him. This went on until the day he beat Anastasio Ortega at cards.

Sitting in his armchair, old Don Flavio stared through the window reliving those moments. Even the smell of alcohol and rancid cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. On that night every sound had stopped in the cantina. The tinkling notes of the piano next to the bar dropped off. Loud laughter and horseplay abruptly stopped. Women, brightly painted and corseted, moved cautiously toward the card table. Men, sweaty and unwashed, turned away from half-empty shot glasses. One man stood up so unexpectedly that the woman sitting on his lap fell to the floor.

Ciudad Creel, Chihuahua, 1906

“Amigo, cuidado.
Be careful. Don Anastasio knows what he's doing. You might lose the whole thing, even your wages.”

Celestino Santiago stooped over his friend's shoulder as he whispered, trying to counsel him against making the next move. Twenty-six-year old Flavio Betancourt knew what Celestino was talking about; the man sitting across the table was the
Patrón,
the ranch owner who paid him for breaking horses. He had a reputation for winning at cards.

Without responding, Flavio gazed into Celestino's face for a few seconds, as if his next move might be reflected in his eyes. Flavio scanned the copper-colored face, its long, beaked nose, the black, slanted eyes, broad cheekbones and protruding upper lip, the slack, drooping mustache that coiled nearly to his chin. Flavio then looked over to the dealer, scrutinizing him. The man's thin face betrayed nothing. He sat poised, holding the deck of cards securely between his hands. His eyes were so narrow that Flavio could barely make out the tiny pupils.

Shifting his attention, Flavio scanned the table, taking in the pile of silver pesos, ashtrays heaped with cigarette and cigar butts, empty beer and tequila bottles. The air was heavy with the blue haze of smoke. Part of the money piled in front of him came from five years of working and saving, and some of it had been won that night, but this was his entire holding. If he lost, he would have nothing; he would have to begin all over again.

Anastasio Ortega tried to smile at his ranch hand, but it was instead a sneer that spread out under his thick mustache. He was an
experienced gambler, but he had been losing badly all night. As he waited, Anastasio reminded himself that he was a son of the landed gentry of Chihuahua. If he lost everything, there would still be more waiting for him at his father's door.

Ortega became aware, in the silence, that the table was now surrounded by the men who worked for him and by the women who slept with them. He thought of vultures. He looked over his left shoulder to make sure that his bodyguard stood behind him.

Flavio was taking time to place his bet, and for Anastasio the minutes dragged. Anastasio looked at his hand again and thought that it was almost unbeatable. He had been foolish to even think that his losing streak would hold. At any rate, he had made his move. Anastasio sniffed the air confidently when he sensed Flavio's hesitation. He tried to smile, but again it was only a grimace.

“I'll call. A thousand pesos. Everything.”

As Flavio slid his coins towards the center of the table, he tipped over a glass; its contents dripped, spilling onto the floor. Anastasio was motionless.

“I've paid to see.” Flavio's voice was steady, almost demanding. “What do you have?”

“Three queens and a pair of tens.”

Anastasio spread his cards on the soiled green felt. The bright colors of profiled, flat-eyed queens, spades, diamonds, tens flashed through the haze. A hiss—half-whistle, half sigh—rolled off the lips of the curious spectators.

Without saying anything, Flavio put his cards on the table. Everyone shuffled forward, craning their necks, squeezing in as much as they could. Celestino closed his eyes, certain that Flavio's hand would not match Anastasio's, but he opened them when he heard a gasp. He gaped at the blues and blacks of four aces that seemed to leap from the table, alongside the devilish grin of the joker,
el comodín,
which mocked Anastasio Ortega.

There was silence for a few moments. What if Anastasio Ortega was armed? What if someone pulled a knife? Quietly, the onlookers began to creep for the doors, for the stairs, for anywhere that
would remove them from risk. Only Celestino Santiago remained standing by Flavio Betancourt, as did Anastasio's bodyguard.

Neither man spoke; they seemed lashed onto the chairs that held them. It was Anastasio who moved first. He reached over and pushed the pile of coins toward Flavio, trying to make his voice calm, matter-of-fact.

“It's yours. You've won it.”

This unexpected manner perplexed Flavio because he, too, was expecting a confrontation. He felt a growing suspicion as he cautiously pulled the money towards his chest. The pile of silver was more money than he had ever seen or possessed.

“You're a good loser?”

Anastasio smiled sardonically at Flavio but he kept silent for a long while.

“No, I'm not a good loser, and I take back what I just said. I haven't lost because I'm going to win it back. I have one more bet, and this time you're the one who will lose. Are you willing to play one more hand?”