The Day of the Moon (13 page)

“At school, some girls slept together, they touched each other and kissed. I have not done that, but I don't know what will happen in my life.”

She turned, leaped on the horse, and left Flavio, still squatting on the ground, glaring at her as she rode away. She was trembling, and the sensation in her throat intensified so much that later at dinner she hardly spoke.

On the night of her wedding, as the dancing was at its peak, Don Flavio tapped Eloy on the shoulder, took Isadora by the hand and escorted them toward the corridor. There he raised his hand in blessing and signaled that it was time for them to go to their chamber. Eloy bowed his head, as expected, but Isadora glared at her father. She looked into his eyes with such intensity that he had to look away, unable to sustain the emotion in her eyes.

She walked rapidly, almost tripping on the hem of her gown; Eloy nearly had to run to keep up with her. When he closed the door, he clicked on a lamp and gawked at her.

“Turn off the light.”

“No light?”

“No.”

Eloy did as Isadora wanted. He turned off the light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadows. He was shocked when he made out that she was taking off her clothes. Garment by garment, she shed everything until she stood in front of him completely naked.

“You do the same.”

Eloy was unprepared for this behavior from his bride. He had anticipated squeamishness, exaggerated modesty, even resistance—but now he was faced with her telling him to take off his clothes. He began with his white tie, then the cufflinks. He was slow; his fingers trembled and he could not manage the buttons.

Isadora stood looking at Eloy as he pulled off shoes and socks, shirt and trousers, and all the rest. She was shivering, not from cold but from a mix of disgust and fear. She was thinking of the stories her schoolmates had fabricated about this moment.

When Eloy penetrated Isadora, the pain was so excruciating for her that she let out a low moan despite her intention to not make a sound. His grunting, sweating, and especially the rancid smell that trickled from his body, sickened her. When he was finished, he rolled over and began to snore.

Weeks after that night, Isadora told her father that she was pregnant. He grinned and squared his shoulders as if it had been his own doing, and that night he got drunk with the ranch hands, dancing with every servant girl that he could reach. Eloy slept with Isadora every night until her abdomen began to swell. Afterward, he hardly appeared in her room, and soon it became the gossip of the hacienda that he was having relations with a woman who did the laundry. One day, Eloy disappeared without a word.

Locked in the isolation of the asylum, these recollections bore down on Isadora as she felt her back ache from the hardness of the slab on which she lay. Suddenly, a rough hand seized her chin. It
moved her face from one side to the other, as if examining it. She tried to open her eyes, but could not. Her eyelids, her lips, the tips of her fingers and toes, every part of her was heavy and beyond her strength to budge.

She had difficulty sorting her thoughts. Brígida's image blurred with the white of the uniforms that held her prisoner. Then she saw Ursula, arms outstretched, trying to reach her. After this, Isadora heard a voice droning, its slurred words penetrating the thick fog that had gripped her brain.
One more injection,
it said;
Just to placate her,
it insisted;
Just to be on the safe side,
it repeated.

Parts of Isadora's body were beginning to gain sensation and she could wiggle her toes, turn her feet from one side to the other, flex her knees and thighs. The rest of her body was stiff, unfeeling. She longed to scream out so that someone might come to help her.

She looked for Jerónimo, but remembered: He was dead. She called out to her children and thought that they, too, were dead. Then her mind turned, straightened, reminding her that they were not dead, that Ursula had sworn never to abandon them. She vowed to Isadora to die rather than leave them. This thought calmed her, and she told herself that soon she would leave the trap she was in. Soon she would return for her children.

Coarse hands were now propping her up. Isadora felt the cold plaster of the wall against her naked back. She discovered that she could now move her legs and her arms and even swivel her head from side to side. She heard voices. They mumbled, but she caught some of the words.

“She's coming out of it.”

“Don't be too sure. Hold her, she might bolt again.”

“Should I get another needle?”

“No. We've got the jacket.”

Isadora kept her eyes closed, fearing that anything she did might cause another injection to be plunged into her. She pretended not to hear or know what was happening to her. Instead she concentrated on her body. Pain streaked up and down her legs and
arms. Her back ached as if it had been wrenched, and her breasts throbbed painfully.

She was kept in a straitjacket for days, until the nurses were sure they had pacified her. After that, she was allowed to walk in the patio of the asylum, but only under close watch. Even after months had passed, the staff was still uneasy. They were cautious, remembering the problems she had caused when she arrived.

Isadora did not speak to anyone. She ate little, and whenever she could she sat on a stone bench in a corner of the cloister to stare at the fountain that she remembered from the first night. Her mind filled with thoughts and memories. Her father's image drifted in and out of her consciousness, but as soon as it appeared, she pushed it away. She thought of Eloy and she again experienced the relief she had felt when told that he was gone. She conjured Ursula's face and the feeling of safety she had always given her. Brígida sat on the edge of her bed, motionless, an enigma, surrounded by photographs and memories. Then the cycle of Isadora's memories made a full turn when her thoughts returned to that day when Jerónimo had come back into her life.

When Eloy deserted her, Isadora was relieved. She was glad not to have him near. Her life became flat and routine; nonetheless, the dullness of it brought her peace. She moved back into her father's house, where she ate and spoke to him, but never talked about herself or her feelings. The rift between them that had taken shape before her marriage had widened and not even the birth of Samuel helped.

Jerónimo had vanished at the time of her wedding, and Celestino would say nothing about his son. Isadora thought often of them and Narcisa, and at times wanted to go up to the
barranca.
She never did. She lost touch with the Santiago family.

When Samuel was five years old, Jerónimo returned to Hacienda Miraflores. Isadora, in the kitchen, overheard two of the servant girls giggling. She thought that she heard his name mentioned, but the place was so large that she could not be sure. When Ursula returned from the rear of the house, arms loaded with onions, Isadora went to her. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“What are those two girls talking about?”

Ursula, taken by surprise, dropped the onions on the cutting board, wiped her hands on her apron and looked over at the two women standing near the stove, gossiping. She turned to Isadora, puzzled and impatient.

“I don't know,
niña
. I've been outside.”

Ursula pointed with her chin. She was grumpy and showed even more irritation when Isadora put her finger to her lips, letting her know that she should lower her voice.

“Go ask them,” Isadora ordered.

“What?”

“
Go ask them.
”

“
Niña
…”

“Go!”

Ursula shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, but she shuffled to the other side of the kitchen and, unnoticed, edged her way closer to the girls, pretending to check the contents of a pot. She fussed with the lid, then stirred the coals as if making sure there was enough wood to finish cooking what was simmering, then with a rag wiped a wet spot off the counter. When she returned to where Isadora was waiting, Ursula's face was stamped with a smug expression.

“Niña,
El Rarámuri is back! They're saying that he went as far north as Texas, where he's been these past few years; that he worked there; that he made a lot of money; that he learned their language and even how to drive an automobile; that he made many friends, especially women. They say he picked up strange customs. He's returned to visit Narcisa. She is sick.”

Isadora's eyes widened silently as Ursula breathlessly rattled off what she had heard. Yet she was not sure that she believed her. She frowned, trying to imagine Jerónimo among the gringos, talking like them and even thinking like them. When she saw that Ursula was about to move on to her next chore, she grabbed her arm. Isadora's voice was low, husky. Her eyes had narrowed to slits.

“Ursula, are you telling me the truth?”

“Niña!”

“How could those girls have said so much in so little time?”

Offended by Isadora's distrust, Ursula puckered her lips and looked down at the onions without answering. Isadora realized that she had hurt her, but she repeated her question. This time her tone was softened.

“I didn't mean to say that I don't believe you, Ursula. It's just so much information, and you were close to them for only a few moments.”

“Bueno, niña.
All I can say is that these modern girls talk very fast.”

Ursula smiled broadly, showing that the offense had melted away. She moved over to where the onions were and began to peel and dice them. Isadora went to a window, sat on the sill and reflected on what she had just heard.

After that day, she made sure to ride out to the stables, to the
llano,
and even to where the sierra slopes toward the
barranca.
She did this every day, uncertain of exactly why she was doing it. All she knew was that she was driven by a nervous, unsettled feeling. On one of her visits to Brígida, Isadora told her of her daily rides.

“Has he returned?”

Her aunt's question jarred Isadora, although it did not surprise her. She had long before grown used to her aunt's ways. When she answered, she heard her own voice; it was soft, almost a whisper.

“Yes.”

Brígida continued to silently gaze at her hands, which she held in her lap. Isadora took the moment to look around at the dozens of photographs. She smiled, remembering her first impression of her aunt's bedroom. Then she looked at her again. Brígida had aged. Her face had become more angular than ever, and it had a pinched expression. She still wore turn-of-the-century dresses, always black.

“Tía,
I want to see him.”

When Isadora heard herself, she unthinkingly put her hand to her mouth. But after a few moments, she thought that it was good to be honest with Brígida. Why else had she come to see her that evening? Isadora took a deep breath. “Yes. I want to see him. I hear that he's been in the United States, and people are saying that he's changed.”

Brígida shifted in her chair and let out a sigh; it was frail, like her. Head cocked, she looked at Isadora, questioning, wondering.

“I'm sure he's met many women,” Isadora said, then paused as she rubbed her fingers against the armrest of the chair. “Maybe he's even married. What do you think?”

Finally, Brígida chose to speak. She pursed her lips as if gathering saliva or clearing something off her teeth. “How can I think
anything about Jerónimo? I haven't seen him in years. If you need to know this about him, Isadora, you'll have to ask him yourself. Also, you should not depend on gossip. It's hardly ever the truth.”

“Do you think it's wrong to look for him?”

“Only if it's so in your heart.”

“I'm still married and—”

“There's something more important than being married.”

Brígida cut off Isadora, leaving her not knowing what to say. She frowned, inwardly repeating what her aunt had just said, turning it over in her mind. She remembered one of their conversations years before, when she was still a child.

“The forbidden?”

“Yes.”

Isadora leaned her head against the back of the chair. She thought that she understood Brígida's meaning, but something made her unsure.

“If I were not married, Jerónimo would still be forbidden to me?”

“Yes.”

Closing her eyes, Isadora was now certain that she understood. It was not because she was married, and therefore bound by the laws of God and by everything that surrounded her. Jerónimo was forbidden because he was a Rarámuri. She sat up in the chair, stiff and tense.

“Tía,
have you ever done what was forbidden?”

“When you were a little girl, you asked me that question, and I answered that yes, I had done what was forbidden.”

“I remember.”

“And now you want to know what that was.”

“Yes.”

“I loved your mother.”

Isadora looked at her aunt with disappointment. Brígida was merely telling her what she had known for years, and she did not see what could be forbidden about such an affection. Her aunt let minutes pass before she spoke again.

“Fuimos amantes.”

Now Isadora did sit up, eyebrows raised, eyes rounded and bright with emotion.
We were lovers.
As Brígida's words seeped into her brain, they drew forth in reply an echo: the question Don Flavio had asked Isadora before her wedding.
Have you ever had relations with another woman?
In a few moments, it came together: her father's hatred of his sister, his disdain for her mother's memory, his possessive care of her every move.

Isadora's mind moved from thought to thought. She wondered if at the center of her father's torment was a void, an anguish over something he had never had. This made her realize that she, too, had never been loved as Brígida must have loved her mother. Eloy had not loved her, and Isadora had not loved him either. She pondered all of this for a long while. Her eyes roamed the room, its walls, its pictures, the fading light filtering through the window. Then she relaxed into the chair and looked into Brígida's eyes.