The Day of the Moon (28 page)

“Madre,
my mother was put in that place as a punishment by her father; she was not insane. He's dead now, so unfortunately
he's escaped what he deserves. But if she's still alive, nothing will keep me from taking her away with me.”

“It's late,” Sister consuelo said gently, “and I'm sure you're tired after your journey. Sister Sarita will show you to your room. I'll see you tomorrow morning at mass. By the way, what is your mother's name?”

“Isadora Betancourt.”

Alondra and Ursula's room was small but comfortable; it had a large window through which early sunlight flooded. Alondra rose early after a fitful sleep. After she and Ursula dressed, they stepped out to the patio and into an old garden, filled with potted flowers and ferns. In the center was a weather-beaten stone fountain, where water spurted from the open mouth of a sculpted carp. Ursula drifted to one side of the garden while Alondra looked around, seeing that someone had already uncovered the bird cages. She leaned against a pillar and listened to the singing of canaries and
zenzontles.

She looked at her watch and realized that it was still too early for mass. For a moment she considered going back to the room, but the morning was so beautiful that she decided instead to stroll through the porticos and courtyards of the convent grounds. Sister Sarita had pointed out the chapel the evening before, saying that she would be welcome there at any time. Alondra turned away from the garden alone and walked over to take her seat before the nuns began to chant their prayers. When she went into the small church, she found several nuns already praying. Fearing her footsteps would disturb them, she was about to turn away from the doorway when she bumped into Sister Consuelo, who nudged her toward the benches, smiled, and silently led her to a side pew. She handed Alondra a thin, black book, then went to her place at the rear of the chapel.

The paintings on the walls were all large, dark representations of saints and madonnas, most of them mounted in ornate, gilded frames. A statue of the Virgin Mary, garbed in a light blue gown, stood near the altar. Alondra noticed with surprise that the altar was strangely bare, in contrast to the intricate paintings surrounding it.
All that she could make out on it were the tabernacle and two bronze candlesticks.

Alondra leaned back, absorbing the peacefulness of the chapel. She listened to the soft treading of the nuns as they arrived and seated themselves at their place; a clock striking seven, its chimes filling the high vaults of the place with their silvery tinkle; the echo reverberating off the statues and stained-glass windows. She turned in the pew and saw that Ursula had taken a place a few benches behind her. Suddenly, the silence of the chapel was ended by a startling, high pitched note.

¡Ave María!

The phrase had been chanted out by a single voice, and even though it went unanswered for the moment, Alondra saw that all the nuns rose to their feet and began to chant the prayers.

Deus, in adjutorium meum intende.

Alondra did not understand the words, but after a moment she remembered the book that Sister Consuelo handed her, and she opened it to find that it showed the Spanish text alongside the Latin. As she became more engrossed in the meaning of the chanting, she felt her spirit moved by the cadenced verses and rhythmic responses. The ritualistic standing, bowing, and sitting of the nuns gripped her imagination, slowly mesmerizing her with every verse, and she followed their movements, captivated by the spiraling voices:

I was exalted like a cedar in Lebanon, and as a cypress tree on Mount Sion. Like a palm tree in Cades, and as a rose plant in Jericho was I exalted. I gave forth a sweet fragrance like cinnamon and aromatic balm. I yielded a sweet smell like choicest myrrh. I am black, but comely, O daughters of Jerusalem.

Alondra felt her breath catch in her throat because she had never heard such words before. Her mind raced. She was copal. She was mahogany. She was cacao. She was peyote.

Nigra sum, sed formosa, filiae Jerusalem:
I am black, but comely, O daughters of Jerusalem.

The verse was again intoned by the lead chanter. The words swelled over Alondra, and she closed her eyes. These were just prayers, she told herself, nothing that should move her so profoundly.

Surge, amica mea, et veni. Iam hiems transit, imber abiit et recessit. Flores apparuerunt in terra nostra. Tempus putationes advenit.

Rise up, my beloved, and come away; for the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; flowers appear on our land; the time of renewal is come.

Alondra listened to the canticle, clinging to it. She was listening to her mother's words, inviting her to come to her. The winter of despair and emptiness was over. Lost in the thoughts and sensations she had just experienced, Alondra remained in her seat long after mass ended.

Afterward, she had breakfast with Ursula. She sipped hot chocolate and munched on sweet rolls brought to her by a nun who smiled as she silently handed over the dishes. Later, they left the convent and began to make their way to the basilica, passing the open market with its vegetable and meat stands, fruit vendors, shoe peddlers, stray dogs, and bawling children. When they reached the church, Alondra and Ursula stepped out onto the cobblestone street and began to make their way down the incline toward the brick buildings surrounded by austere walls. All the while, Alondra pondered on her experience in the chapel. Words swirled in her mind as she walked by Ursula's side, and she repeated the chant because it gave her comfort.
I am black, but comely, O daughters of Jerusalem.

The next day, Alondra and Ursula sat in the library waiting for Sister Consuelo. They expected that she had news from Doctor
Lozano. Now and then the splashing in the fountain and the chirping of birds penetrated the walls, soothing their anxiety.

“Buenos días, Doña Ursula. Buenos días, Alondra.”

“Buenos días, Madre.”

The nun took the same chair she had sat in during their first meeting, taking time to arrange her habit around her arms and wrists. After she did this, she looked first at Ursula, then at Alondra.

“I have news for you. Doctor Lozano has agreed to meet with you.”

“When,
Madre?”
Alondra was sitting on the edge of her chair, trying to get closer to the nun. She was tense and what Sister Consuelo had just said had a strange effect on her. It filled her with fear but at the same time with excitement and joy. The memory of the transport she had experienced during the chanted prayers returned to her.

“Tomorrow.”

“She's alive!” Alondra nearly shouted that her mother was alive, just as she had thought from the beginning. Ursula put her hands to her face. Her body rocked back and forth on the chair. When she pulled her hands away, she was mouthing prayers to Tata Hakuli and the Virgin Mary.

Sister Consuelo, jarred, did not know what to say. After a few seconds she picked up where she had broken off, her voice betraying uncertainty.

“He didn't say that, Alondra. As I explained yesterday, Doctor Lozano is relatively new to the position, and the number of patients in the sanitarium is considerable. He said only that he would meet with you and your grandmother.”

“We're very grateful for your assistance. I'm sure that without you this would not be happening.”

“Thank you, Alondra but I'm certain that my intervention was not absolutely necessary. Things happen because they must.”

Alondra, still nervous and agitated, went on to relate to the nun as much as she knew of her mother. Ursula piped in many times, filling in gaps left by Alondra's account.

“I don't know what to say except that, unfortunately, this story is like some others. Not many, but it is not the only time that a father has done such a thing. I'm sorry, Alondra.”

Alondra explained that she and Ursula had tried to go into the asylum the day before, but had gotten only as far as the lobby before being stopped and told to leave the premises.

“They did?”

“¡Sí, Madre!
They were quite rude.”

Sister Consuelo turned to look at Ursula, startled by the sentiment in her words. She listened attentively as Ursula went on speaking.

“But that did not stop us. I said to Alondra,
‘Niña,
we haven't come this far to be thrown out as if we were beggars!' So, we left the building and made our way to its back. We did this by walking outside of those immense walls that circle to the rear. And what do you think we found,
Madre?”

“What?” Sister Consuelo had crossed her legs and removed her hands from under the scapular, clasping them on her knees as she leaned forward.

“There is a gate back there, and one can look inside through the iron bars. Alondra and I crept up, careful not to be seen, to where we could look at what was happening inside. There, in the light of the sun, we saw a large area with stairs leading up to an indoor patio, and because the entrance doors were open, we caught glimpses of people in white gowns. Isn't this what we saw,
niña?”

“Yes. We think that those people were patients. Last night we hardly slept, thinking that one of them could have been my mother.”

Sister Consuelo was fascinated. She had lived all of her life in Zapopan and had never seen that part of the asylum. Visitors were always shown to the more modern street entrance. However, she remembered seeing photographs of the original entrance with its iron gate and stairway leading to the central patio.

“Well! Maybe you're right, Alondra. Tomorrow will tell you much more, I assure you.”

“What time should we meet with Doctor Lozano?”

“He's expecting you in his office at two in the afternoon. One of the sisters will show you the way.”

The nun got to her feet and headed for the door. Before leaving, she turned to Alondra.

“I pray that you find what you desire, and that your mother is in good health. Be strong and prepare yourself for what you don't expect. Remember that we're in God's hands, and that certain events in our lives, good or evil, happen because they must happen. If my sisters and I can help you, please come to us.”

“Gracias, Madre.”

That day, the night, and the following morning were endless for Alondra and Ursula. They arrived at the front entrance of the asylum at the appointed hour and identified themselves, saying that they were expected. The receiving attendant checked the appointment roster, nodded, and, without uttering a word, showed them into Dr. Lozano's small office.

The room was filled with filing cabinets and piles of papers. The walls held frames with certificates, awards and diplomas. An electric clock hung crookedly on one of the walls, its cord dangling limply. Alondra stared at it, noting that it was a few minutes past two o'clock. She felt her hands growing clammy, and there was perspiration gathering on the small of her back.

“Abuela,
I'm afraid.”

Ursula, too, was scared. Twenty-seven years had passed since the day when she had sworn to Isadora that she would never separate herself from Alondra. She thought of the years that had intervened, years of doubt and fears and loss for Isadora, years during which the baby had grown to become a woman.

“Hija,
I'm scared just like you. But you'll see, everything will be alright after we meet with Doctor Lozano.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don't know. Let our spirits guide us.”

They were interrupted by the sound of the opening door, and a medium-sized man entered. He had a long, dark-complexioned face, graying hair, and myopic eyes. His rumpled linen suit was frayed, and his tie slightly askew.

“Señorita Santiago?”

“Sí, Doctor.
This is my grandmother, Ursula Santiago.”

“I'm happy to meet the both of you.”

The man's voice and expression were gentle. When he sat at the desk, he opened the first file; Alondra saw that it was stacked on top of several others, each one stuffed to capacity. Instead of speaking, the doctor shuffled pages, nervously turning and stacking them one on top of the other. After a while, Alondra realized that he was hesitating. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, and he did not look up.

“I regret to tell you that the patient is no longer here.”

“Not here? Then where is—”

“What I mean is that the patient died several years ago.”

Alondra and Ursula stared at the doctor. There was silence except for the sound of muffled conversations beyond the closed door. Ursula rose and embraced Alondra, hoping that her arms would soak up the sorrow. After a few minutes, Alondra spoke.

“When?

“The record shows that she died seven years ago.”

“Why wasn't her father informed?”

“I don't know, Señorita.”

“Why was the money not returned?”

“Because someone here is a thief.”

“Is there nothing left of her? A notebook? Letters? Anything?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Alondra got to her feet and put an arm around Ursula's shoulders, opened the door, and pressed her in the direction of the hallway. She felt as if there were two Alondras. One was the child who had wondered about her identity, the other one was the woman who had found her beginnings, despite having come too late to find her mother.

“Señorita, if there is anything I can do for you, I will do it.”

“No. Nothing. Except …” Alondra faced the doctor while she framed her words.

“Except?”

“Allow my grandmother and me to leave through the same doors my mother entered.”

Together, Alondra and Ursula walked down a path toward a man in uniform. He put his hand to his cap in greeting and turned to open the gate, but it took several twists before the lock snapped open. He pushed the iron grill until it moved, creaking on its rusty hinges and letting the two women pass through the gate which had opened to Isadora Betancourt's imprisonment twenty-seven years before.