The Day of the Moon (7 page)

Going through those brief lessons did not dispel his concerns about her schooling, and no matter how much he resisted his fears, he was forced to remember that soon she would have to marry. He knew, also, that to be considered suitable, she would have to learn more than just reading and writing. She would have to be polished, prepared, as was expected of a woman of her class.

Flavio admitted that instead of seeing to it that she be properly instructed, he was allowing Isadora to grow up among the natives, almost as wild as they. Her closest friends were people of the sierra—women who knew only how to grind maize, weave cotton, and raise children. What worried Flavio even more was Isadora's close friendship with Celestino's three sons.

Once, by chance, he happened to be at the spot that the Santiago boys had designated as the end of a foot race. He saw four runners bolt into a full gallop, accelerating, gaining speed, kicking up billows of yellow dust that rose high above them as they approached him. He was shocked when he realized that Isadora was one of the four. They ran abreast, locked into place, neck and neck as their legs blurred with speed. Each runner was so intent upon lurching out front that no one noticed Don Flavio standing up ahead of them. He gawked at them, wide-eyed at what seemed to be a machine, driven by spinning legs, coming straight at him. He barely had time to jump to the side before the runners thundered past him, heading for a tree.

It was Isadora and Jerónimo, arms outstretched, who first reached the mark. The other two runners were clearly the losers. When Isadora and Jerónimo realized that they had won the race, they hugged, faces squeezed cheek to cheek, gasping for air, sweating and shouting. Jerónimo lifted Isadora, swinging her around and around as she laughed, mouth wide open. She held onto him, obviously elated to be a winner and to be in his arms, and she was so happy that she did not see her father standing a few paces away, glaring at her and at Jerónimo.

When she did notice Flavio she became very still and began to pull away from Jerónimo's arms. The three boys followed her eyes and froze, stifling their panting, trying to control their pounding hearts. They had been caught playing while they were supposed to be working: This was the thought that crossed the mind of the Santiago boys. Jerónimo had his arms around her, and her father had seen it: This was the thought that paralyzed Isadora.

Don Flavio looked sternly at his daughter, his mouth pinched, but he did not speak. With his eyes he commanded her to return to the house. He had nothing to say to the boys, who turned away and disappeared behind the stable. He brooded silently over the incident for days and nights. In the late summer of 1926, he made certain arrangements, and then he had a conversation with Isadora.

“You're going to Chihuahua in September.”

Flavio was sitting at his place at the dinner table. He was dressed in a serge suit and wore the bow tie that by then had become his trademark. At the far end Brígida sat, dressed as always in a high-collared black dress. In the background, Ursula Santiago, Celestino's sister, silently moved about, seeing that plates were served and removed as necessary. Flavio was looking at his daughter, who was so busy eating that she did not realize that she was the person concerned. Ursula, who stood close by, nudged the girl.

“Chihuahua?
Me
?”

Isadora straightened her back and put down the fork that she had held in mid-air. Her mouth, cheeks puffed out, was filled with food.

“Yes. Chihuahua.”

Flavio put a piece of meat into his mouth and took a sip of wine, but he kept his eyes on her.

“Papá, what for?”

“You need to be educated.”

He glanced at Brígida, a rapid, furtive glimpse. He disliked making even eye contact with her. He noticed his sister's raised eyebrows. He looked away from her, suddenly realizing that although she never uttered words, it was through her eyes that Brígida spoke.

“But Papá,” Isadora pressed, “I
am
educated. I've learned to read and how to write. Ask Father Pascual. He's the one who taught me.”

“Hija,
you need to know much, much more than just how to read a book or write a letter.”

Isadora looked over her shoulder, searching for Ursula. When she caught sight of her, she looked at her apprehensively, and her expression begged Ursula to do something. Ursula instead picked up a pile of plates and disappeared behind the door leading to the kitchen. Isadora looked over at Brígida, and they exchanged a look that Flavio caught.

“Does this mean I have to live there?”

“Yes. At Convento de la Encarnación. All the fine young ladies of the region have been received there. I've investigated their record.”

“Live there? In a convent?” Isadora's voice was now tinged with terror. “With nuns? With only girls?”

“Yes.”

“I won't go, Papá. I won't.”

Flavio put down the crust of bread he held, took the napkin that he had stuffed into his collar, wiped his mouth, and looked steadily at his daughter.

“Isadora, you'll go because I'm asking you to go. Years from now you'll thank me.”

His voice was soft; it was not threatening. When he finished, he looked over at his sister and saw that she had grown very pale. Her expression was blank, and it said nothing to him.

Isadora left Hacienda Miraflores for the convent school in Chihuahua when she was fourteen years old. As she joined her father in the back seat of the touring automobile that now transported him on his trips, she was crying. He tried to comfort her, putting his arm around her shoulders, but he realized that she was trying to crane her neck to look out through the rear window, so he loosened his hold on her. When she looked out the window, Flavio did too. They both saw that receding into the distance were Ursula, Celestino, and his sons. This image stayed with Isadora during her four years at school, which ended in the spring of 1930.

For Flavio, those years were empty. He traveled to see Isadora once a month, but he knew increasingly little of her friends, her thoughts, her life. He felt a separation growing between them with each visit. He counted the days and months until the end of Isadora's studies finally arrived. On that day he appeared at the convent door before any of the other parents. He was so early that he was asked to wait in the courtyard, where he and his driver stood by his car, listening to the hubbub of the students saying their good-byes. When the girls' chatter died down, he instructed his driver to load his daughter's things while he took leave of the nuns and other teachers. Soon he and Isadora were in his car, speeding south toward Hacienda Miraflores.

At first, they sat quietly, as if listening to the hum of the motor. From time to time, they were jostled when the car hit a bump in the road. Isadora was remembering the four years, which had passed by faster than she had expected, and Flavio was thinking that his daughter had blossomed into a stylish young woman. He gazed at the small felt hat that she wore cocked over one eye, the leather gloves and shoes to match, and he was happy that he had decided to part with her during the years of her education. She was, as he had hoped, transformed.

“Are there many of your friends that will soon be married?”

Isadora was thinking of her closest friends when Flavio's words broke into her thoughts. She sighed while she made a mental count.

“Yes, Papá. Blanca Peralta will marry in June. Isabel Morán and her cousin, Yolanda Lizardi, will marry in July. It's going to be a double wedding.”

“The Lizardis are the bankers, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“Where will the weddings be?”

“In the capital. Probably in the cathedral. The fiestas will have to be in the Zócalo, since their families are so big. There must be thousands of them.”

Isadora giggled at her exaggeration, and Flavio joined her. He liked chatting this way with his daughter, even though he knew it was silly. It was the opportunity to bring up a subject that was not frivolous.

“Have you thought of marrying?”

Her head snapped toward him. Her expression had taken a seriousness that contradicted the giddy disposition of moments before.

“Getting married was all anyone could talk about during the last months of the term. But since I don't know anyone, I can't say that I've thought about it for myself.” Isadora looked out the window at the flat landscape blurring by as the car sped southbound. Flavio kept his gaze on her, studying her face and the movements of her body.

“There are several young men who would want to marry you, Isadora.”

“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.