The Day of the Moon (20 page)

And so we began the journey to this city. We came in a large automobile, bringing only what we wore and other necessities. I knew that Don Flavio had money packed into most of the suitcases he allowed in the car, as well as in belts that he wore under his shirt. I held Alondra all the way as we crossed a desert, then over a mountain that almost reached to the sky, and finally down to this flat city where he got this house where you and I now sit.

Well, I've been talking for a long time. I'm sure you're tired and …
¡Virgen del Cobre!
What more could you want to know? About Jerónimo's family? Narcisa? Celestino? Ah! Very well, but I'm hungry. Talking so much has emptied out my stomach. I'll
make a few
quesadillas.
No, please, you don't have to help. They're easy to make: a tortilla, a little cheese, a few drops of
chile,
then put it on the hot
comal,
turn it over a few times and it's ready. More than one pair of hands will only ruin what is so easy to make.

You would think that our people should be used to these things by now, but we are not. The
patrones
think that we're oxen, that we don't feel the humiliations, nor the pain, but we do. They think that because generations of us have endured the burden placed on our backs, we don't feel rage or the desire to take vengeance when we are wronged, but they're deluding themselves.

In our family, it was Narcisa who at first clamored for revenge after Jerónimo's murder. As soon as the funeral ritual was over, she gathered anyone who would listen, pressing, reminding, assuring that if we didn't do something, the lives of the Rarámuri would be like straw under a burro's hooves. Her sons, Jacobo and Justino, naturally, were with her. Remember, it was they who had been tied to trees so that they could not run to Miraflores and slay Don Flavio. At the same time, that strange spirit that I've already mentioned possessed my brother Celestino. He was a brave man, I assure you. No, fear wasn't the reason for the trance into which he fell, leaving him with a sadness that transformed him into a corpse.

After Jerónimo's voyage to the kingdom of the dead, Celestino crumpled over on his side, holding his knees to his chin, and he remained on the floor of his cave, unmoving and silent. No one could free him from the grip that held him. Narcisa, as well as her sons, along with other men, tried to straighten his body, but they could not. When the
nahual
tried to filter brews into Celestino's mouth and failed, Narcisa became filled with fear. Neither she nor the
huehues
had ever experienced such a thing.

By the time I left the village in search of
Niña
Isadora, the attention of the tribe was on Celestino. Everyone was convinced that he was under a spell,
embrujado,
another manifestation of the power which all
patrones
have. So when Narcisa and her sons demanded justice, they were reminded that it was the responsibility
of the
huehues
to determine if revenge should be taken. After they convened, the Elders decided that to seek justice would put the tribe in danger. When I returned to the
barranca
to get Alondra, I found that my brother had died.
De pura tristeza.
I believe that pure sadness took him and not witchcraft. Narcisa thought this way, too, and she decided to obey the
huehues
.

I'm tired now, but before we say
adiós,
I want to tell you about Doña Brígida. You must listen to what I have to say because you might hear more about her last days and you might be confused. You could be tempted to think that she was crazy and you might even dislike her, so I want to be the first to say that she was not
loca
. At the end of her life, maybe the same spirit of sadness that possessed Celestino also inhabited Doña Brígida, because if you ask me, I will tell you that it was pure sadness that drove her to say what she did when she was in one of those moments.

What disturbs me most of all was the change that overcame Doña Brígida just before she died. She rambled for hours about Don Flavio having two daughters, and even
you
know that this is not true. Her mouth filled with talk about good blood and bad blood. She made Alondra ashamed of her color by talking of superior and inferior people. And there was the story of the she-goat,
la cabra,
that hardly made sense to me. I don't know where such nonsense came from. It was as if the soul of Don Flavio had taken possession of her, weakened by years of sadness and solitude.

I think, too, that this city was a burden for Doña Brígida. Her bedroom was always locked. No one went in, and she came out only at certain times. At Casa Miraflores, she at least could speak with other people, hear her own language, enjoy the sierra, walk through the
llano,
or even stroll up and down the corridors of the hacienda. Here, that was no longer possible. But just before she died, she became herself again and she let Alondra know how much she loved her.

I told you about the photographs she kept in her bedroom in Casa Miraflores. What I didn't tell you was that when Don Flavio packed the automobile with suitcases filled with money, Doña
Brígida insisted on bringing several boxes of her own. They were filled not with her clothing or jewelry, but with her pictures. I think that one day someone will be able to put them together and discover the truth about her and her brother.

Doña Brígida died years ago. It was a lonely death. Only Alondra and I were with her, but she seemed content. It was on that night when she became herself again; her mind was very clear. As she lay in bed, she asked Alondra to take one of her hands and me to take the other. She smiled at us, and I saw a light in her eyes that I had never before seen. She asked us to forgive her for her ways, then she turned to Alondra and said,
Tu abuela fue mi alma.
Then she closed her eyes and drifted away. I had a difficult time later when Alondra wanted to know what Doña Brígida had meant when she said that her grandmother had been her soul. I explained that they must have been the words of a confused old woman, but I had to admit to myself that even I could not understand what she meant.

These are the most important things for you to know about
la familia.
As for the rest … Well, we're no different from most of our people who have been forced to leave our land. Don Flavio brought money with him. Over the years I've watched as people come to him with small envelopes in their hands. It must have been rent money, because he bought other houses soon after we arrived. How else could he have sent Samuel to a private school? That takes money. And you are wondering what became of Hacienda Miraflores. I know only what a
paisano
traveling through these parts a few years ago told me. He heard that the authorities had taken whatever was left on the place: some tools, old equipment, even the doors from their hinges.

For my part, Alondra has been my obligation. Don Flavio has allowed me and the girl to remain here in exchange for my service. Several years ago I did laundry and ironing to pay for Alondra's clothing and shoes. When my hands got so that I couldn't do that anymore, I set up a
tiendita,
a little store where I sold eggs and vegetables. Now that she's old enough, she works and pays for my
things. That is life, isn't it? The circle turns, and begins again, over and over. I took care of Isadora, then her daughter. Now she takes care of me, although I must tell you that at the moment she doesn't have work. But I'm not worried; she's intelligent, and Tata Dios will not let us starve. The only thing about her that worries me is her questions—about who she is and who she came from. I have never been able to dispel those questions from her mind.

I think that Don Flavio will die soon, so I should be prepared. I'm afraid. Well, because even though I've wanted to, I have never told Alondra the truth. Fear was my reason. Fear of Don Flavio and what he would do if I ever went against his command. You have no idea what he is capable of. Even though I don't know exactly what he did with
Niña
Isadora, I can imagine. And if he punished
her,
what wouldn't he do to me? And to Alondra? Ask yourself what would you have done in my place.

When he dies I'll be free to tell her the truth, but as I said, I'm more afraid now. Oh, I fear what Alondra will think of me when I tell her everything. She has suffered so much because of this, and now she'll know that I allowed it.
¡Ay, Dios!
I cannot live without her love; she is my other daughter, another
Niña
Isadora.

It is time for me to begin preparing dinner. I've asked Doctor Canseco to join us, so I want it to be a special meal. Won't you stay? Perhaps you will visit me again here in my kitchen. We can sip
cafecito
and talk.

Los Angeles, 1947

“My brother Flavio had two daughters: a good one, and a bad one.”

Nine-year-old Alondra dusted the table as she listened to Doña Brígida. She glanced over at Samuel. She smiled when she saw that he was making eyes at her as he snickered at his great aunt's story. The old woman had her thin, beaked face turned toward the window and was unaware of the boy's mocking.

The elderly Doña Brígida held herself erect as she sat stiffly in a high-backed chair. The porcelain-white skin of her face contrasted with the black dress she wore, its high collar wrapped snugly around her stringy neck. When she turned to look at Samuel, she held her long, bony arms against her stomach, accentuating spotted hands.

“The good daughter was your mother, Samuel. She was lovely, and she was as white and pure as a lily. No one but your father ever put a finger on her so she was like the finest crystal. She was flawless and chaste. But she died, and the bad one drifted away. Just like a—”

“She-goat!” Samuel blurted out. He could not help it; laughter spilled out of his mouth. His face was red from suppressed giggling, but he hardly had time to enjoy himself before Doña Brígida lashed out, whacking him on the top of his head.

“Have respect for your great aunt! I was speaking to you so that you'll never forget that it's possible to have bad blood, even if a child is the offspring of good people.”

“Sí, Tía Grande.”

The boy responded timidly as he wriggled under Doña Brígida's glare. He did not know which great aunt he liked best: the one who lingered in moody silence, or this one, who invented names and dates. He did know that he acted differently according to her swings in disposition. When he and his grandfather Flavio sat at the dinner table with her, she was almost mute, speaking only to ask for the salt or a glass of water. At those times, Samuel felt grown up, and he liked helping her. When Brígida was in one of her moments, he acted like a little boy despite his fourteen years, sometimes feeling even younger than Alondra.

“And you, Alondra, you have no right to smirk at the history of people far better than those who hatched
you
.”

Alondra felt shaken, as she always did whenever Doña Brígida reminded her that she was an orphan. But then the girl thought of what
Abuela
Ursula told her: This was not the real Doña Brígida. She had only fallen into one of her moments.

“As I was saying, the bad one drifted away. Just like the
cabra
that is pulled by evil desires up to the craggy mountain, where she can do the vile things that her condition demands of her.”

Alondra wondered what horrible things a she-goat could do. She had the feeling that Doña Brígida meant that she, Alondra, was like that perverted
cabra.
The girl looked up from the polished surface of the table to take a look at Samuel. His skin was as milky white as that of his great aunt. The only difference was that the boy's skin was smooth. Alondra glanced down at her own hands and arms, dark brown just like the hot chocolate they drank every morning at breakfast.

Samuel listened as intently as he could because he knew that if his great aunt even suspected that he was not paying attention, she would punish him. When Brígida was caught up in her imaginary world, the ritual of reciting the family history took place every afternoon, when she would repeat each episode with details and dates. The boy hated the long, tedious story. Nothing ever changed and he now knew it by memory.

The voice droned on, lulling the boy; he was getting sleepy. Suddenly, he began thinking of Alondra and how he wished he could be like her. Except—this thought jerked him out of his drowsiness—she, too, was forced by his great aunt to listen to the dreary story, as if part of the family.

Samuel was intrigued by this new realization. He looked up at his great aunt and saw that her eyes were riveted on the girl as she spoke. It was clear to Samuel that Doña Brígida was using her words to hurt Alondra.

“Why are you making faces, Samuel? You are hearing about your dead, saintly mother and I see you making the face of a bad, ungrateful boy.”

“Tía Grande,
I don't want to hear this part any more.”

Samuel looked over at Alondra, hoping that she would be relieved because of what he had just blurted out, but she went on polishing the table surface. She did not look up or even show that she had heard his words. Doña Brígida's shoulders creaked forward; and she stretched to take hold of her walking stick, from against the wall.

“What did you say?”

For the first time, Samuel did not cringe at the thin, imposing figure. When he answered his voice was soft but steady.
“Tía,
I don't want to hear about the she-goat anymore.”

“Samuel, I have no forgiveness for such disrespect. You will be punished, I assure you. And part of that punishment will be that you will not be allowed to play with that girl anymore.”

Doña Brígida pointed at Alondra, who was by now staring back at the old woman. Doña Brígida had never been so grumpy; this was one of her worst days.