The Day of the Moon (3 page)

Anastasio's voice was challenging, almost sarcastic. The bodyguard behind him put his hand on his shoulder, trying to convince him to stop, to leave the place. Anastasio shrugged off the hand as he glared at Betancourt. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a document.

“It's the deed to my ranch. It includes my wife and four children. I bet all of it against that money that's in front of you.”

Now it was Celestino who grabbed Flavio's shoulder as he whispered:

“Don't! You've won more money than you could make in five years. Don't risk it, Flavio. Besides, it will be the whole Ortega clan that you'll have to face if you win. Take your money and walk away from this.”

“The hacienda? Your wife and children? Don Anastasio, you're trying to make a fool of me. You don't mean what you're saying.” Flavio stood abruptly ready to leave, but Anastasio lunged from his
chair, clamping Flavio back into the chair. The two men glared at one another.

“Have you never heard of such a bet? It happens frequently. Here it is, Betancourt, the opportunity of your life. Did you think that you would ever be in the position to own a ranch such as mine? Now
you
can be
Patrón
. Think of it! You make yourself the fool if you refuse.”

Flavio relaxed in the seat. He had dreamed of being a land owner, he had secretly wished to be of the privileged few of these parts. Staring at the man who was his boss, he saw the mockery in his eyes. He pushed the pesos back toward the center of the table.

“A new deck!”

Anastasio's order to the dealer was crisp, urgent. The man silently went to a cabinet. The two gamblers glared at one another as the dealer removed the deck from its box, shuffled the cards, and indicated he was ready.

“Un albur.”

Celestino began to breathe through his mouth when he heard Anastasio call for the play that narrowed the possibilities for the players. With
el albur,
the dealer cut the deck and dealt each gambler one card. The highest card won the bet. One card apiece, that was all; there were no discards, no fresh possibilities.

Flavio's mouth went dry. There was still time to decline, to take his money and return to work for Anastasio Ortega as if nothing had happened. Gambling was an everyday occurrence in Creel and the surrounding haciendas. But when he looked at his opponent, he deciphered fear in his eyes, and this made the difference for Flavio.

“De acuerdo. Un albur.”

He agreed, thinking that his voice sounded thin, different. The dealer shuffled and reshuffled the cards. When it was time to cut the deck, he asked if both men agreed that he should do it. They nodded their permission. Anastasio got the first card, Betancourt the next one.

“Señor
Ortega, please show your card.”

The dealer's voice was taut, nervous. Anastasio turned over his card. It was the ten of spades.

“Señor
Betancourt, please show your card.”

The dealer's voice had escalated in pitch. Flavio's fingers trembled as he flipped over the card. It was
el comodín,
the joker again flashing its demonic grin. Anastasio's cheeks began to quiver as he rose to his feet. His voice now cracked under the weight of the insult he hurled at the winner.

“¡Eres el patrón, hijo de tu chingada madre!”

Flavio chose to respond calmly, and the tone of his voice startled even him: Although quiet, it was charged with haughtiness. He could now give orders to the man who, seconds before, had been his superior. Flavio liked his words and what he was feeling.

“The ranch and everything on it is now mine, but take your wife and children. I don't consider them part of the bet.”

Flavio and Celestino walked out onto the muddy streets of Ciudad Creel in a deep silence which lasted for almost an hour. Each man cradled his thoughts as if they had been cards still clutched close to the chest. Celestino understood that they were no longer equal. Until then, they had been
compañeros,
taming horses, living in the common house shared by the Mestizos and Rarámuris. Now Flavio was
Patrón
.

On the next day, when he arrived at the hacienda to make sure that Anastasio Ortega had taken his wife and children off the property, Flavio had prepared himself to be hard. When he saw the woman and the children crying, he felt pity. He was almost ashamed of himself, but he pushed away his sentiments. He had won without cheating, without betrayal. It was legal and he had nothing to regret. He turned his back while Anastasio Ortega loaded his family onto a carriage and he did not look back. He never saw Anastasio Ortega again.

After winning the hacienda, Flavio concentrated on the house and its lands. Repairs were needed, additions had to be made. Mexico also was changing. The copper miners' uprising at Cananea
was put down, but not forgotten. Don Porfirio,
el Presidente,
was in trouble. Everyone knew it. Those who clung to the old ways were going to be left behind.

Later on, when the war began, he was cautious. He sniffed the air and when the revolutionaries were on top, he was a revolutionary. When the
Federales
took the lead, he was a
Federal
. When the Zapatistas clamored for land for their Indians and
peones,
Flavio agreed, but he never said when he would give up the land. Depending upon who was victorious, Flavio was Carrancista, or Villista, or Obregonista. It did not matter. As long as they were on top, he was with them.

In the growing shadows of his room the old man wagged his head, approving of that distant memory, trying to convince his daughter of the righteousness of his actions. He knew that she was not in the room with him. Nonetheless, he saw her. The mass of golden curls formed an aura around Isadora's face, carving her out of the darkness. Don Flavio inhaled the damp air of Chihuahua and he reminded his daughter that it was a time when men seized and lost fortunes on a wager, at the whim of a Joker's grin. He wrinkled his brow as he held his gnarled hands over his puffy abdomen, hoping that she would understand his side of the story.

Five years after Flavio gained ownership of the hacienda, Brígida Betancourt stepped off the train in Ciudad Creel to find her brother waiting for her. She had not seen him in nearly ten years. She was fatigued by the long trip. Even traveling with a woman companion, the distance between Jalisco and Chihuahua had seemed endless.

Don Porfirio Díaz had resigned the presidency in May of that year after the younger Francisco I Madero had captured Ciudad Juárez. In June his forces marched into Mexico City, and Emiliano Zapata's army was organizing to formulate a plan at the end of that month. Brígida's train had run into stoppages and interruptions. The coaches were packed beyond capacity. Hordes of
peones,
most of them armed, clung to the roofs of the wagons, lugging their possessions and even their women and children.

“Welcome to Chihuahua. I hope your trip was not too unpleasant.” Flavio's voice was low, and his smile told her that he knew what she had experienced.

“It was not too difficult.”

As usual, Brígida found herself short of words; it always was a hardship for her to speak more than she thought necessary. She examined her brother and saw that he had grown taller since she had last seen him. His body had become muscular and his skin, naturally as white as hers, was tanned by the northern sun. When he removed his hat, she saw that his hair was blonder than she remembered, as was the handlebar mustache that shadowed his full upper lip.

Flavio also took time to inspect his sister. Her blue eyes sparkled as they had when she was a girl. The features of her face
were elegant, finely chiseled, and when he slid his gaze down from her throat, he thought that she was somewhat tall for a woman.

“I know you'll be happy here.”

Flavio bent over as he brushed her cheek with a kiss. She smiled in return, and he saw that her teeth were even and white. He was pleased because he intended that Brígida be the center of his hacienda until his marriage with Velia Carmelita Urrutia. After that, he would acquire a husband for her. It was encouraging to see that she was attractive, despite her having somewhat passed marriageable age.

The driver and two Rarámuri natives loaded the luggage and parcels onto a wagon while she and Flavio waited under a shaded porch. When the men were finished, the driver signaled that they were ready to leave. Flavio took his sister by the arm and helped her into a carriage. They rode in silence until they reached the gates of the hacienda. Flavio Betancourt had prospered over the past five years. He had expanded the horse ranch into a vast hacienda that spread out toward the skirts of the Sierra Madre on the west and downward along the Sierra Tarahumara. His land covered territory north almost to Ciudad Chihuahua and south nearly reaching Ciudad Creel. The Urique River watered the flat parts of Hacienda Miraflores before it disappeared into Urique Canyon.

The herds that Anastasio Ortega had gambled away had, under their new owner, multiplied into thousands of saddle horses and pack mules. Flavio Betancourt now socialized and did business with powerful families—the likes of the Terrazas, the Urrutias, the Reynosos, and even the Manriques. His stock was traded in markets and auctions reaching north as far as the copper mines of Cananea in Sonora and south to the silver mines of San Luis Potosí and Guanajuato. His
peones,
horsebreakers, and Rarámuri natives numbered in the scores. They were all his. He had made them grow. He had known how to deal with the armies of the Revolution that came and went through Chihuahua.

He looked at his sister out of the corner of his eye. Telling the driver to stop, Flavio stretched his arms wide, pointing to the buildings that loomed in front of them.

“This is your home. I've called it Casa Miraflores.”

He jutted his chin in the direction of a mansion surrounded by an arched cloister. Other sheds and huts, some small, others larger, circled it, clinging to the pink residence like flowers under the shade of a huge tree. But Flavio's cocky gesture was cut off when he turned to face Brígida. She looked at him, and the boldness of her stare startled him; his self-confidence began to erode. He realized that she was not awed by him, nor by what she was seeing.

“You haven't asked about our father. Aren't you curious about him?” Brígida's tone of voice caught him off guard. It was cold, threatening, and he did not like it. He had grown used to being the only one to speak in such a tone.

“He's dead. What else do I need to know.” It was Flavio's turn to be overbearing, his voice filled with ice. He frowned, disliking the direction their conversation was taking.

“You need to know that he took his life because we had fallen into poverty. You could have prevented that from happening.”

He glared at his sister, realizing that he disliked her intensely at that moment. He wanted to tell her that she was there only because he needed the legitimacy of family. He resented Brígida's tone, her manner, and most of all the haughty look in her eyes. He decided that he would marry her off as soon as possible.

Flavio signaled the driver to head for the entrance. They fell into sullen silence until the carriage halted and he jumped from the vehicle without using the steps. Then he turned and extended his hand to Brígida, who stepped down with an affectation of aristocracy which surprised Flavio but which he calculated would be on his side in his negotiations for her marriage. That night as Flavio and Brígida were being served dinner, he went directly to the point.

“I'm to marry next month.” He was peeling a pear. As he sliced off a wedge, he put it into his mouth with the blade of the knife. He waited until Brígida said something.

“Married? To whom?”

Her eyebrows had arched. Her expression said that she now understood why he had dragged her across hundreds of miles to his hacienda.

“Her name is Velia Carmelita Urrutia. Her family is influential in these parts.”

“I see.” Brígida was not eating; she was rubbing a water glass between her hands. “Do you love her?”

Again, the blunt way in which his sister probed into the privacy of his life irritated Flavio. He found being scrutinized by Brígida repugnant. He disliked being asked such questions, especially when they came from a woman, and that woman his sister.

“Don't you think that's my business?”

“You've answered my question. I supposed a more important question would be to wonder if she loves you. Eh?”

Brígida smiled, sarcasm stamped on her face. She looked as if she might burst out laughing. This was not the way Flavio had imagined his sister. He had assumed that she would be filled with gratitude and admiration for him. Instead he was faced with rudeness and impertinence. The young woman's face was a mask; something hard lurked behind it.

He fought the impulse to stand up and slap Brígida. Instead, he re-filled his wine glass and gulped it down. He knew now that her being in the same house with him would not work. He had thought that having her might bring to Casa Miraflores the civility and respectability demanded by a family such as the Urrutias. To the contrary, his sister would be nothing less than a constant annoyance, a disadvantage. Flavio understood that he had made a mistake. He glared at his sister through half-closed eyes, deciding to put her in place without losing time.

“I didn't bring you from Arandas so that you could mock me. I want you to understand that immediately.”

He sat rigidly in the high-backed chair and pressed his body against it with such force that he heard the wooden frame squeak. He saw, however, that the look of sarcasm had only deepened around her eyes and mouth. His mind searched for a way to crush her boldness. “It's my intention that you marry as soon after me as possible. I—”

Flavio's words were cut off by his sister's laughter. Loud, cackling, vulgar, it came from the center of her body and echoed off the high ceiling of the chamber. She went on giggling until her face turned red and tears ran down her cheeks. He felt his nerves beginning to unravel.
She was laughing at him.
Flavio knew that he was losing control when he tasted a bitterness on his tongue.