“Who, Papá?”
Flavio saw that her eyes clouded for a second, and that she appeared to be overcome by emotion, but it was momentary. When he responded he tried to make his voice sound gentle.
“Suitors worthy of you.”
After this conversation, Isadora’s marriage became the focus of Don Flavio’s thoughts. He decided that her next birthday would be the time to gather potential suitors. Isadora’s eighteenth birthday was a celebration that Flavio had planned for two years. Now that his daughter’s future engrossed his thoughts, he plunged into organizing the fiesta. Despite his misgivings, Flavio had even approached Brígida to make her part of the festivities. He did this, not because he wanted it, but because he would have found it difficult to explain her absence to those who knew of her existence. There were too many embarrassing questions that would be asked. As always she cast a pall on his household at a time when he wanted, above all things, to have his family appear perfect. To his displeasure, however, Brígida refused to appear at the fiesta.
As had happened before, Flavio decided to forget about his sister and instead concentrate on his daughter. He was satisfied with Isadora, seeing that she had matured into a warm, intelligent woman. He was happy that she was beautiful: Her hair had retained its blond, golden highlights; her eyes sparkled as they had when she was a child; she was well shaped and healthy. The schooling, which she had in the beginning resisted, eventually took hold, transforming Isadora. She was a suitable match for any family in the region, Flavio told himself.
He had observed changes in her with each vacation period. As the years passed, she became interested in pastimes more suitable than climbing mountainsides and competing in foot races with native boys. Flavio was especially relieved when he became convinced that Isadora no longer showed interest in Jerónimo Santiago. In fact, he saw that by the time she was nearing the end of her studies, she hardly remembered the boy.
Early on the day of the fiesta, Flavio went to Isadora’s room. He had something special that he wanted to show her.
“Buenos días, hija.”
“Buenos, Papá.”
She was out of bed and about to dress. She appeared to be happy and ready for the celebrations.
“Put on something you can ride in. We’re going to do something special before breakfast.”
“What’s more important than your morning chocolate, Papá?”
“Hurry. Come. It can’t wait, and we have to be ahead of our guests. They’ll soon begin to arrive.”
Flavio straightened his bow tie as he gazed out the window, while Isadora went into the dressing room. He heard her moving shoes, lifting hangers, shaking out garments. He told himself that the day was perfect. As he craned his neck to look into the distance, he saw that the meadows were green from the last rain, and the far-off sierras were white with snow. Then, by a trick of the light, he caught his own reflection in the window. He had grown stout; his waistline had expanded. His face, no longer angular, was fleshy and puffy around the eyes. The blond tones of his hair had grayed, and the handlebar mustache he had worn for years was also gray, bushy; it hung over his lips, almost covering them.
“I’m ready.”
He looked at his daughter because doing so filled him with energy, and he took whatever opportunity he could. She had put on a long, white cotton dress, heavy enough to withstand the brisk air, and she wore the boots that he had ordered from Nuevo León. They were fashioned in the northern style: calf-length; one-inch heels; and engraved with elaborate designs. They were made of cordovan, her favorite leather.
Just before going into the stables, Flavio stopped and put his hand on Isadora’s shoulder, letting her know that she should wait. A few moments later he walked out leading his own horse alongside a mare which was a bridled chestnut-colored Arabian. Flavio’s smile told it all. Without speaking, Isadora embraced her father. He could feel her heart beating, which made him well up with joy, and the force with which she held him told him that she loved him above all people.
Several men stood by watching, smiling, and as one of them approached with the saddle for the mare, Isadora leapt onto the animal and galloped away at such a pace that the man was left in the dust, not knowing what to do. Whooping and hollering broke out when they saw her riding the barebacked horse. Flavio was so surprised that all he could do was open and close his mouth, as if gasping for air.
His daughter rode the horse across the plain at breakneck speed. Don Flavio saw how she clutched the beast’s mane, her legs pressed to the mare’s sides. The white cotton dress clung to Isadora’s body as the wind swept it up above her knees exposing her legs and the maroon boots. He saw her laughing in defiance of the current that whipped her face. Her hair, the sun’s rays trapped in the ringlets of its curls, swept around her head like an aura. Then she slowed down as if testing the mare. She cantered, circled, crisscrossed, moving her body in rhythm with that of the mare. She burst out laughing, and her laughter spiraled up above her head, cascading until it reached Flavio.
“Come, Papá! Come!”
He turned and grabbed the bridle of his horse, which was by now saddled, and sprang onto the animal. He galloped to her side, and together they raced across the meadow until they reached the slope that marked the beginning of the Sierra Madre. There they stopped, panting, gasping for air, laughing. Flavio looked at his daughter, knowing that he had done nothing in his life to deserve her.
Later on that day, the invited families arrived in canvas-topped touring cars, in Packards and other luxury vehicles. Knowing that many of the events would involve horses, some of the young men and women mounted thoroughbreds. As soon as Flavio and Isadora were able to greet as many guests as possible, the festivities began. There were competitions: roping calves, riding and fighting steers and young bulls. Because the fiesta had attracted dozens of people from the neighboring haciendas, and even from as far as the state capital, each of the games was a huge success. Waves of cheering and shouting filled the air. Food was served as well as drinks and sweets while they waited for the traditional high point of the fiesta, the foot race.
The competition was set to be run by ten Rarámuri men, aged fifteen and older, chosen from the neighboring haciendas. The prize for the winner was to be a horse, a gift from Isadora Betancourt’s father. The length of the course was approximately thirty kilometers beginning at the far side of the Betancourt lands and ending outside the entrance to the main house.
Flavio had arranged stations from where his guests could view the race at its different stages. The best vantage point was the one at the end where the winner would be determined. It was there that he, Isadora, and his closest friends and associates were provided with seats sheltered against the sun by a canvass awning. As they awaited the outcome of the race, they were treated with refreshments and more to eat.
Flavio and Celestino met with the team at the starting point; both men wished the runners good luck. Ordinarily, these men would have been dressed in khaki pants and shirts, boots, wide brimmed hats, scarves around their necks to absorb sweat. But to run, the racers did away with those clothes, wearing only what was necessary to keep ahead of the wind: huaraches, loin cloths, and a headband woven with the colors of the hacienda.
El Patrón looked at his team, knowing that the runners had prepared rigorously for the race during the preceding days. But he was unaware that the Santiago boys were among the runners and that they had been with the holy man of the tribe, el nahual, for hours on the previous day, when he had rubbed their bodies with flat stones and special herbs. The brothers had even slept together after the shaman’s blessing of the bones of a dead runner and after they had made signs of the cross, placing offerings of tesguino beer and peyote in front of the relic. The older married brothers had abstained from sex because of its weakening effects. None of them had taken food or drink from anyone except their families, fearing that an opponent might through such means cast an evil spirit on them.
Flavio finally focused
his eyes until he saw the older Santiago sons. Then he flashed Celestino a smile, letting him know that one of them was bound to win the prize. After that he took time to scrutinize each of the racers. As he did, his gaze fastened on one of them; it was Celestino’s third son, the youngest. He had forgotten his name by then, and knew only that he was known as El Rarámuri, because he was the fastest runner of his tribe.
Flavio had not seen him for some time, and he was startled to realize that he was no longer a boy; he had developed into a young man. Flavio narrowed his eyes as he studied El Rarámuri. His face was angular, and his eyes were slanted and accentuated by a beaked nose. His jaw had squared, and his mouth was wide and already shadowed by a thin, drooping mustache. Flavio lowered his eyes to examine the runner’s body. His neck was tapered; his shoulders, chest and belly were muscular; his legs were straight and powerfully built.
When he had finished his examination, Flavio backed away, feeling strangely apprehensive. But shrugging off these thoughts as foolish, he raised his voice so that everyone could hear him. The runners were ready, and they stood waiting for the signal.
“¡Muchachos! ¿Preparados?”
“Sí, patrón.”
Flavio whirled a white handkerchief above his head several times giving the runners a chance to take their place. When he was certain that they were ready, he slashed his arm downward.
“¡Empiecen!”
The racers sprang forward at the signal and disappeared into a cloud of dust. Leaving Celestino behind, Flavio jumped into a waiting car and had the driver take him to the next viewing station, where he waited for the team to arrive. Once the runners thundered by, he again took the car to the next place, and he did this until he arrived at the end of the course where he found Isadora and the rest of the laughing, jabbering, drinking, eating guests. This route had taken him nearly three hours.
When Flavio’s guests saw him they knew the race was ending, so they stopped whatever they were doing and concentrated on the place where the winner should appear; their silence made it possible to hear the runners approaching. In the beginning it was a dim sound, almost dull; it was the flapping of huaraches on clay. Then they began to feel a vibration beneath them, a tingling sensation that crept up their legs, coursed through their bodies, and compelled them to begin shouting. This coincided with the first glimpse of a cloud of dust, with one runner ahead of the others. As he came nearer, the crowd began shouting. It was an explosion of sound, filled with whistling and applause, because when the winner came close enough for them to see, they saw that he was one of the Santiago people.
Isadora was on her feet, cheering and waving a handkerchief. Her face was flushed with excitement. She stopped suddenly, however, when she saw that it was Jerónimo coming closer and closer. By the time he crossed the finishing line, she could only stare at him. She had not seen Jerónimo in years but she knew that it was the same boy who had played and climbed and run with her. She had not been prepared for the transformation. The hollering and cheering began to recede as she concentrated on him, feeling excitement overtake her. But she was shaken from her thoughts by her father, who had taken hold of her hand to get her attention.
“Hija, it’s up to you to hand the prize to the winner.”
Isadora laughed and followed her father to the winner, who stood waiting, sweating and still panting, trying to adjust to his normal breathing rhythm. When she got close to him, her eyes looked into his, but she saw that he had lowered his gaze to the ground. One of the helpers handed her the bridle, which she passed to Jerónimo.
Remembering that day made the old man squirm in his chair as he scanned the Los Angeles horizon. But he did not want to look out the window; he was afraid of the images he might see there. It made no difference. The ghost that haunted him had returned. Don Flavio heard the sound of huaraches flapping against dry canyon clay. It began remotely, then it came closer until it filled his room. His head jerked toward the window, to the apparition in the glass.
El Rarámuri, Jerónimo Santiago, was running toward him. The old man could see the rage stamped on the native’s face. He came closer, closer, and the speed with which his body moved took away the old man’s breath. Then Flavio, too, was in the race. He was running because the Indian was coming after him. Clinging to the armrests of the chair, his eyeballs on the verge of bursting, the old man panted, mouth wide open, gulping air so that his lungs would not collapse. He struggled to keep ahead of the long-distance runner, hoping to evade his grasp even if it meant that his heart would explode from the strain. Then the sound of huaraches stopped. Suddenly the chase was over. El Rarámuri had disappeared, but Don Flavio sat in the chair, sweating, trying to understand what had happened. He shook his head to clear his mind.
Ursula Santiago did not wait for a reply after rapping repeatedly at his door; she walked into the darkened room. This time she did not ask if he wanted light. She simply groped her way to the bed and turned on a lamp on the nightstand.
“It’s getting late, Don Flavio.”
Ursula spoke as she turned down the bedspread and blankets. She puffed up the pillows and straightened a small crucifix that hung on the wall above the metal railing of the bed.
“It’s still raining. It’s going to be very muddy tomorrow.”
She went on with her small talk, trying to draw the old man into conversation. After a while, she turned to look at him. He was deteriorating with each hour, she thought. His skin was turning yellow.
“Has Samuel come yet?” Don Flavio cut her short to ask for the grandson who had long since married and moved out of the house. His visits were not frequent, but still the old man asked for him.
“Not today, Don Flavio. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Call my sister. I need to speak with her.”
“Señor, remember that she’s not with us anymore.”
Ursula waited for a response, but the old man was quiet.
“Can I bring you something from the kitchen? Pan dulce? More chocolate?”
“No. Leave me.”
Alone, Don Flavio went on with his memories.
Chapter 8
The servants of Casa Miraflores went about their work as Don Flavio sat at his desk smoking a cigar. Don Angel Pardo sat facing him. There was a pause in their conversation as they sat thinking. It was mid-December and there was a slight chill in the room. Flavio’s eyes had narrowed and his mouth was pinched.
“It would be a good match, Don Flavio. I assure you. My son Eloy has expressed affection for your daughter, and I believe it has been returned.”
Flavio stared at Don Angel, taking in his fleshy body. He was not a tall man, and the years had taken their toll. It was known that he was not used to riding or hunting, much less showing his workers how to do a job. And there in front of Don Flavio was the result: a squat, overweight man. But he was fair-skinned, and in Flavio’s mind that compensated for Pardo’s other physical flaws.
He looked away from Don Angel as he gazed out the window. Flavio was visualizing Eloy, who was more or less Isadora’s age. He was dull and unattractive, Flavio admitted, but like everyone in the Pardo family, the young man was white. Isadora’s children would no doubt inherit her color as well as their father’s. Suddenly, Don Flavio tensed and frowned; his mother’s brown face had unexpectedly flashed through his memory. The image lasted only seconds before he brushed it aside.
“I would first have to speak to my daughter about this proposal, Don Angel. I wouldn’t force her into anything. And, I will add frankly, I haven’t heard her mention your son. Perhaps she’s not even noticed him.”
“Ah, but Don Flavio, don’t you remember how they danced without interruption at her birthday ball? Surely, you must have noticed. Everyone was gossiping about it, delighted at what a wonderful couple they made. Truly, there’s no doubt in my mind that the match was made, as the saying goes, in heaven.”
“Umm.”
Beyond this grunt, Flavio did not respond to what the other man had said. H
e had noticed that Isadora had danced mostly with Eloy Pardo that night; how could anything like that escape him? But Isadora had not mentioned the young man afterward.
Flavio studied his fingernails as he reflected. He had much more wealth than Pardo, so the reason for Don Angel’s enthusiasm for a match was obvious. On the other hand, the Pardos had lineage and family history, unlike the Betancourts, who were still considered outsiders by some families.
“I’ll speak to her,” Flavio said curtly. And when he saw that the other man was about to say something, he cut him off. “I have never forced my daughter to do anything. As I’ve said, I’ll speak to her, and if she accepts, well then, it’s her decision.”
“But Don Flavio, surely you must have influence over your daughter. What father doesn’t? I am here because I have already brought this issue to Eloy’s attention, and after—well … after much conversation and—well … persuasion, he agreed with me that it would be the match of the year.”
Flavio, who had begun to leave his chair, slumped back into it on hearing Don Angel’s words. He frowned, looking intensely at the other man.
“What do you mean? Do I understand you to say that you had to convince your son to marry my daughter? Is that it?” Flavio did not try to hide the irritation he felt at the thought of Don Angel even hinting that his son was doing Isadora a favor in marrying her. His daughter had much more money, more education, more elegance of person than the Pardo family could offer.
“Ah, no, no, Don Flavio! A thousand pardons if that is the impression I’ve given you. Eloy is in love with Isadora, believe me. He speaks of her constantly, he yearns for her, he hardly eats …”
Flavio held up his hand, palm turned toward the man, interrupting his chatter. He was incensed, and he wanted only to end the conversation. But something urged him to take hold of himself and explore the possibility of a union between the two families. There was much to gain from such a marriage.
The Day of the Moon Page 6
