The Day of the Moon (19 page)

In all those years, she hardly spoke, but I learned about her by looking at her photographs. Like everybody else, I thought she was crazy. But after a while, when I started concentrating on the pictures that she had placed all around her, I realized that if you looked at them in a certain way, you would understand that they were telling a story—her story. One of those photographs has stayed in my memory. In it was a man dressed in a black suit. At his side were two children, a girl and a boy. The man was a stranger to me, but the children were Doña Brígida and Don Flavio. The most interesting part of that faded picture was that behind them, wearing an apron, just like the one I have on, was a young woman and, like me, she was an
india.
Anyone could tell from her face, hair and color, even though the photograph had yellowed.

As I was …
Sí,
I think you have reason to say that. For example, the story begins in Mexico, but here we sit in Los Angeles. Why did they abandon Hacienda Miraflores? Why did Don Flavio drag the children along with him? You were led to believe that he hated Alondra, and yet, here she is, as real as you and I.

¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay!
You ask many questions, and you say you have even more!
¡Dios Santo!
Very well. There is only one thing I cannot tell you: what happened to
Niña
Isadora. Let's go step by step with what I do know. If you get hungry, tell me; I'll make you some
quesadillas.
Bitterness slides down better with a bit of tortilla and
chile.

When
Niña
put Alondra in my charge and descended to the
llano
, I knew what for. I was afraid for her, because Don Flavio has always been a
zorro
… yes, yes … a fox. It's almost impossible to fool him. We knew that his not doing anything after his daughter
ran away was a trap. So after a few hours I decided to follow … No, I left Alondra with Narcisa.

Everything was in turmoil at Casa Miraflores. There was shouting, and people ran around getting hot water and bandages and medicines. I got there in time to see a
vaquero
mount his horse and gallop away as if a demon were pulling at his hair. He was on his way to get the doctor. Everyone was repeating the story:
Niña
Isadora had shot her father, but he was still alive. Like the wolf wounded by the hunter, he lived to strike back.

I made my way to the kitchen and stayed there, listening, looking. No one noticed me because they were all scared; all they could do was gossip about the
Patrón:
Would he live? What would happen to his daughter? What would happen to
them
? I decided to stay, and no one even asked why I was there. So I cooked and washed dishes and slept in the stables until I knew what was happening. After dark, I roamed the corridors, trying to find out about
Niña
Isadora.

I discovered that she was in her old bedroom and that she was a prisoner. As soon as the servants had lifted Don Flavio from the pool of blood that was drowning him, he spoke:
Put her in her room. A guard at the door. No food, only water, until I say so.
Those were his words. I know because that's all anyone could talk about for days.
¡Ay!
You can imagine. I wanted to help her, reach her, soothe her, but it was impossible. In the meantime, several doctors came to Don Flavio's bed, and they were able to save him.
El diablo guarda a los suyos
. What? Oh, excuse me. The devil takes care of his own.

As he recuperated, Don Flavio made
Niña
more of a prisoner. He had boards nailed over the windows of her room. No women were allowed to go near; only men guarded her and went in and out with food and water. Those of us in the kitchen saw that
Niña
hardly ate. He kept her that way until he got back on his feet. I don't remember how long that was, maybe weeks, maybe months.

One morning, before the sun was up, I walked into the kitchen to find everyone babbling.
Niña
Isadora had been
taken away
. Her room was empty, its door wide open, all the furniture taken out.
The boards had been pulled down from the windows. Not even curtains. I ran to see for myself. It must have happened during the night. I never saw
Niña
Isadora again. That terrible thing happened in December, when we should have been celebrating her twenty-seventh birthday.

Once, putting my fear to the side, I even asked the driver of Don Flavio's car where he had taken her, but he only stared at me. But I knew that he had been part of something terrible, because I saw him and the doctor whispering, wagging their heads, pointing fingers at each other.

Then one night I waited until it was completely dark, when only the light of the moon cut though the shadows. I crept into the main hall of Casa Miraflores and up the staircase. I didn't know what I was looking for, or what I expected to find. A force inside of me pressed me to move. I began to hear voices. The closer I got to Doña Brígida's room, the louder they became. I was afraid, but I
made
myself go to the door, and I pressed my ear to it.

The voices became clearer. They belonged to Don Flavio and Doña Brígida; they were shouting and screaming at one another. Oh! You cannot know the cruel things they said to one another. They hurled dirty words, such that the Devil himself would not use. There were accusations that made me ashamed and afraid for them. On and on, brother and sister hurled insults at one another, offenses that I will never forget. My knees shook and my body shuddered. I wanted to run away, but something, I don't know what, kept my ear pasted to that door. I think I wanted to know
why
they were pouring so much poison on each other.

Then it came out. Doña Brígida accused her brother of having
Niña
Isadora murdered, just as he had done to Jerónimo. She screamed that she would not be silent, that she would go to the magistrates. This finally silenced Don Flavio. After that neither one said anything. All I could hear before I crept away was the ticking of the clock in the corner of her room.

After that night, Don Flavio roamed the hacienda as if demons pulled him by the hair. He was a soul escaped from Hell, a man possessed.
He would not eat or sit still. He walked in and out of rooms; through the stables and work sheds. He mounted and dismounted his horse without reason. He gave orders and then contradicted or canceled them. He began to sell things: first equipment, then cattle and horses by the herd, after that parcels of the hacienda itself. He was a madman. His eyes were wild, and few of us had the courage to get near him.

Everyone gossiped about him. The mestizos said that
Satanás
was chastising him for whatever he had done to his daughter. The
indios
said that the gods of evil had been unleashed from the kingdom of the night for his having El Rarámuri murdered. Babble and
chisme
swirled over Hacienda Miraflores, expanding until it became a cyclone. People began to pack their
mochilas
and abandon the place that had once been a growing, fruitful garden. When the
huracán
was over, there was nothing left of the old hacienda. And that is when Don Flavio, dragging Doña Brígida and Samuel, began his sad way to this city.

You don't know how much it hurts me to recall those days. I loved
Niña
Isadora just as if she had been my own child. Could it really be, I asked myself, that a father could murder his own child?

I wept and did penance by crawling on my knees, by not eating food, or drinking water, hoping that she would return. I prayed novenas of rosaries to the Virgin of Guadalupe. I burnt
copal
and peyote to Tata Hakuli, but nothing brought her back. And I was not the only one.
Niña
Isadora was loved by many people among the mestizos as well as the Rarámuri. But something happened that gave me hope since those evil days. Listen to me, come closer, so that I can whisper this in your ear.
Niña
Isadora is alive! No, I don't know where she is, but my
heart
tells me that she lives, even after all these years.

It took many of us to run the kitchen of Casa Miraflores while people still lived there. How else could the
vaqueros
, croppers, milkers, harvesters, loggers, household servants, maids, and all the rest be fed? The place was run by teams of cooks, dishwashers, bakers and others, who were constantly providing food for the workers
from sunrise to sunset. Well, among the women in the kitchen there was a
torteadora
. Ah, a
torteadora
is the woman who makes tortillas, and believe me, it's probably the most difficult job of all because it never ends. No sooner does the tortilla come off the hot
comal
before it's gobbled up.

This
torteadora
was not a Rarámuri, but a woman from the south, from where the pyramids loom in the distance, and where, they say, the gods dwell. She was a Mexica and she always spoke of the days before the bearded captains came to the shores of her city; it was once built on a lake. She was a good woman. She had big, big hands, just like a pair of griddles, and they were almost as black. Everyone said that her hands were huge because of kneading and patting masa over so many years.

Anyway, that
india
saw that I grieved for
Niña
Isadora, that I wept so much that my eyes had nearly shut, that my face was always swollen. I was so changed that people hardly recognized me. One day she took my face in her big hands and held it close to her face. I want you to hear what she said to me, because her words changed everything for me:

Among my people, we believe in Xipe Totec, the goddess of healing and life. This is her story: One day an evil spirit of destruction skinned her alive. But Xipe Totec did not die. She put on her skin and was restored to life.

After that the
torteadora
looked into my eyes, nodded, and walked away. I understood! I saw that
Niña
Isadora was like that goddess. When Don Flavio killed Jerónimo, when he imprisoned her, when he sent her away from her children and us, it was as if her skin had been peeled off of her. She was supposed to die. But I believe that
Niña
has taken her skin, put it back on and lived. Yes! Of this I am sure, and I know that one day these eyes will see her again. Tata Dios will make sure of it.

Let me serve you another
cafecito
. Sugar? Well, after those days, Don Flavio again shut himself into his room, but after a while, he
came out. (This was when many people were leaving.)
¡Ay! ¡Santa Capulina!
He used to be handsome, but no more. Most of his hair had fallen out, and because he lost many
kilos,
skin hung on him like scales. He was wrapped in it from his head to his feet and he moved as if he had been one of those lizards that crawl the deserts.

Someone came looking for me, saying that the
Patrón
wanted to see me.
¡Ay! ¡Ay!
And I thought he had not noticed me! I was afraid, but I went to his room where he sat behind a desk. I can recite his words exactly as he uttered them, because they are burned into my heart.

Ursula, you see that everyone is abandoning Miraflores. Why not you?

Patrón, I … I don't know why,
I said.

I'm leaving as well. My sister and grandson will come with me. And …

¿Sí?

I'm taking the mestiza with me.

Who?

The one who proves to the world that my daughter sinned with El Rarámuri. Go to the tribe and tell them that my people are coming for the girl. If anyone interferes, there will be more suffering.

Let me come to care for her.

No. You will be a burden.

Patrón, I'll work for my keep as well as the child's.

If you come, you must never tell her the truth. You will say that she is your granddaughter. Do you understand? If you disobey me, you'll never see her again.

Although I did not want to be near him, I accepted. I knew he meant to kill Alondra, or to give her away, if there was no one to protect her. I had promised
Niña
Isadora that I would care for the child no matter what happened. I kept my promise and I came to this place with Don Flavio and Doña Brígida.

And now you want me to explain what made him do all these things? Well, I don't know the answer. Some people were whispering that
el Patrón
was being investigated for the disappearance of his daughter. That might have been true, because although he was a
powerful man, it was one thing to murder a nameless Indian, but another to tamper with someone like
Niña
Isadora. She was known by people in large cities. She had friends, other young women, who were anxious to know what had happened to her. I think that part of this is what forced him to sell everything he had and to abandon Casa Miraflores.

It's unreasonable, I know, but I have no other explanation. I tell you he was like a javelina, or a caged wolf. What reasons do such beasts have when they bite and claw and devour? Why did Don Flavio drag his sister along with him? He hated her and she hated him, we all knew it. I don't know what evil spirit prompted him to bring her with him—nor why she came, except to cling to him like a spine of the
maguey
cactus, piercing him.

It is easy to explain why he brought Samuel. But what about Alondra? He said he did it because she proved that her mother had sinned, but I did not believe that reason. I still don't. And why did he allow me to come? Such craziness! My head swam, and I could not understand what was happening. All I could do was listen to what my heart was telling me. If I did not follow him, he would murder the child. It would have been easy, like pouring water on a weak flame. So it was I who went up to the
barranca
to fetch Alondra. Narcisa did not resist. Her heart and spirit were broken because of the murder of her son and the bewitching of her husband.