The Day of the Moon (9 page)

Isadora had a son, and she named him Samuel. When Flavio first took him in his arms, he felt immense joy, especially when he saw that the child had inherited his mother's looks. His happiness faded, however, when word reached him that Eloy had run away with one of the servants, a woman who left behind four children and a husband.

After Eloy abandoned Isadora, the years crept by for Don Flavio. During this time Flavio suffered, blaming himself for his daughter's failed marriage and knowing that she was alone. She did not speak of the matter, but Don Flavio was afraid. He did know the reasons, but he feared for her. His fear increased when he heard one day a rumor that Jerónimo Santiago had returned.

When Samuel was five years old, talk about Isadora began, quietly at first, then escalating, becoming enormous and beyond even Don Flavio's power to control.

At first, he did not believe what his eyes and ears told him. She was his daughter, the person he loved above all else, the one to whom he had given everything. But it was the truth. Soon he was convinced that what those tongues were spreading from house to house, from hut to hut, from stable to mine shaft, from the
llano
up to the canyons, and even to the caves, was true. Those gossips said that Isadora was now Jerónimo Santiago's woman, that she slept with him, that she showed herself by his side, holding his arm.

Don Flavio finally confronted Isadora. She did not even try to deny what the rumors were saying. She admitted that she was Jerónimo's concubine and that she was pregnant with his child. After that, she left. She disappeared, taking Samuel with her, but Flavio knew that she had fled to the caves up in the sierra.

Shortly after Isadora's flight, Flavio collapsed. He was assaulted by a recurrent high fever, vomiting and delirium. His illness lasted days, and when he emerged from it, his spirit was paralyzed. He was unable to think or to move. He would not leave his room because he was ashamed and humiliated by his daughter's actions. When food was brought, he refused to open his door. When someone
knocked, he kept silent. He neither bathed nor shaved, and when each day turned to night, he kept vigil during the dark night until the first rays of light penetrated the gloom of his lair.

Flavio did not know how many days had passed before his mind cleared. When he was finally lucid, he began to hatch his plan. He determined that not only would El Rarámuri pay, but his father, his mother, brothers, uncles, aunts, the whole tribe would suffer with tears and anguish. Flavio took his time, thinking, calculating day and night.

First, he decided, he would allow time to pass. Flavio knew that the tribe would expect him to get rid of El Rarámuri and the rest of his family, run each one of those devils off Hacienda Miraflores. But he would do the opposite; he would do nothing because that would confuse them. He would wait until they thought nothing was going to happen, and
then
he would strike. After that he would fold his arms and watch as they sunk into grief and starvation.

It took Flavio a longer time to devise the next phase of his strategy because it involved El Rarámuri and Celestino. His first impulse was to have both son and father eliminated. Flavio knew that it would be simple, that his authority would not be challenged, especially in light of the offense he had suffered. He decided, however, that killing them was not enough, that it was too easy, too kind, too quick. Flavio thought of castrating Jerónimo, leaving him to limp through life, neither man nor woman. But the idea of his lingering presence sickened Flavio.

When it came to what to do with Celestino, Flavio's stomach tightened. What would cause him to suffer the same pain that he, Flavio, was enduring? In what manner could he create the same amount of torture for Celestino, a torment that would last as long as he lived? When the answer came to him, he reproached himself for not having seen it from the beginning. Both punishments were linked: By killing the son, the father would then be left behind to suffer the same loss and outrage that he, Flavio, was experiencing. With this calculation, Don Flavio saw that his plan was set. But he resolved to practice patience. He thought of Isadora's pregnancy,
deciding to wait a year before putting his plan into action, even though each hour was torturous for him.

After finalizing the details of the plan to his satisfaction, Flavio bathed, shaved, dressed and emerged from his bedroom. As he walked through the passages and corridors of the hacienda, he was aware of staring, startled servant eyes. He had looked in the mirror and realized that he had lost weight, that his face had aged, paled and become wrinkled. Flavio understood that when the eyes of the Rarámuri servants looked at him, they were filled with a mix of curiosity and fear; they were waiting for his fury to be unleashed. But he did nothing, taking satisfaction in knowing that this frightened them even more, heightened their anxiety, increased their fears of what would happen now that El Rarámuri and Isadora were living together.

The time to implement his scheme arrived. On that day, Don Flavio nervously fingered his bow tie as he stood at the window with his back to the man, a stranger to those parts. He had been hired, at Betancourt's bidding, by a contact in Los Mochis. Flavio spoke first, his words cautious.

“I don't answer questions.”

“I don't ask any.”

Betancourt whipped his head toward the man, surprised by the sharpness of the reply as well as the coldness of the voice. When Don Flavio looked him over, he saw that the man's appearance masked his words and voice: wire-rimmed glasses; shortsighted eyes; round, pink face; tiny, carefully trimmed mustache; double-breasted serge suit; straw hat nestled daintily on his lap. He looked like a schoolteacher, or even a banker, Flavio told himself.

“What are your terms?”

“Five thousand. In gold. No paper. Fifty percent now, the rest after the project is completed. “

“What are your weapons?”

“The ones you wish.”

“When?

“Whenever you say.”

The rapid exchange weakened Flavio's knees. He took a seat facing the small man. He scrutinized the assassin's features, his body, the way he sat. Flavio had decided to have Jerónimo Santiago taken out of Isadora's life, and although he had analyzed, questioned, sometimes even doubted his decision, in the end Flavio found no other way.

His mind darted back, reliving the bitter confrontation between himself and Isadora. He admitted that it had been he who had provoked the clash with his daughter when he became convinced that she was indeed the woman of El Rarámuri. At the time Flavio had been certain that he would be able to change her mind, to prevail by using his authority if necessary. But Isadora was rebellious, unbending, and instead of trying to hide the truth, she flaunted it to his face.

Months had passed since then. Now, facing the man who would be Jerónimo's executioner, Flavio inexplicably began to waver. He had thought that he was unconditionally committed to the plan that he had hatched, but the sight of this assassin seated in front of him began to unnerve him. He had taken part in bloodshed during the Revolution—what man had not, he asked himself. But he had never ordered the death of any man.

He looked at the small man and thought he saw an amused expression on his face. His eyebrows had arched and his mouth had rounded to a tiny circle, emphasizing his pencil-line mustache. Flavio lowered his eyes, trying to hide the emotions within him. He wanted to appear hard, determined.

His mind calculated: Isadora had been bewitched by Jerónimo, and she was set on living among his people as if she were one of them. Of this Flavio had no doubt. Nothing short of the man's elimination would take her from his side because she was now beyond reason. By her own admission, she was carrying a child and in time everyone would know who had spawned the creature. As for his grandson Samuel, there were only two ways: Either he would stay with his mother and become a primitive like the people
surrounding him, or return to Flavio to face a life of mockery and humiliation because of what his mother had done.

Putting together these considerations renewed Flavio's resolve. But then he was assailed by a new apprehension: What about Isadora? She would certainly know that it was he who had ordered her lover's death. How would she react? Would she hate him? Would she choose to live among those people in a cave—even without El Rarámuri
?
But these thoughts could not now change Flavio's mind. He was certain that he had no alternative. He could not stand by and watch his daughter mix with those people; he could not allow the intolerable offense to go without punishment.

Flavio sat upright, tense, unmoving. Without realizing it, he had spread his hands palm down on the desk. He was sweating so much that a foggy outline of his fingers was left upon the polished surface when he removed his hands. Putting aside his fear regarding Isadora's reactions, he reconfirmed his decision. He stood, walked to the closet where he kept cash, and returned with a leather purse in his hands. He handed it to the small man.

“Count it.”

“No need,
Señor
Betancourt. You have a fine reputation. Please tell me who we are talking about, when you want the assignment taken care of, and by what means.”

Flavio forced himself to sit down again. He laid out Jerónimo Santiago's name and description, the place to find him, when and how it should be carried out.

“I don't want firearms used. It will attract attention.”

The small round-faced man nodded amiably, a salesman taking an order. When he saw that Don Flavio had finished, he got to his feet without speaking, shook hands with him and walked to the door. Before leaving he glanced back and said, “I understand your hesitation,
Señor
Betancourt. It's not easy to kill. Believe me, I know.”

A few days later, the small round-faced man blended in with the shrubs and trees as he waited for Jerónimo Santiago. He was
flanked by two men whose names he did not know. And they, too, did not know his name. They hid from sight in a wooded area. The hired killer had spent several days following El Rarámuri, memorizing his routes, times, habits. He knew that his prey no longer worked for Hacienda Miraflores, but it was not difficult to gather the necessary information. When he was satisfied that he had mastered Jerónimo's comings and goings, he struck.

It was mid-day when Jerónimo crouched to drink from a creek. As he cupped water into his hands, he heard something behind him. He turned as two men rushed at him. Jerónimo had expected this from the beginning and, although afraid, he was not surprised. He kicked at one of them and lashed out at the other with his fist. His blows landed on target, giving him enough time to dash through trees that were close by. He ran, but soon the boots he wore began to hold him back. He stopped abruptly, just long enough to yank them off. Barefooted, he gained speed and his pursuers fell back until he could no longer hear them. But he did not let up on his pace, heading up toward the
barranca.

Jerónimo ran, sure-footed, and the rhythm of his feet increased his energy. His feet blurred over the ground as he picked up speed, outdistancing the attackers. He knew that only another one such as he, one of his brothers, could reach him or keep up with him. He ran, confident, knowing that he would soon be with his people and Isadora.

Unexpectedly, a man leapt onto the path in front of him, nearly colliding with Jerónimo, but keeping the distance needed to raise his arm. The man brought down his weapon. It happened so suddenly that Jerónimo did not see where the first slash of the machete came from, but it caught him in the right forearm. The force of the blow, intensified by the momentum of his run, sent him reeling backwards. As he was falling back, he had time to see the glint of another blade as it made its way toward him. This one sliced his left thigh, nearly severing his leg. Blinding pain flashed through his body, convulsing it, and Jerónimo quivered, rolling on the dusty clay, his blood mixing with the dirt. Before darkness overcame him,
he had time to see a round face. Its spectacles caught the glimmer of the declining sun and its round lips signaled someone to aim for Jerónimo's throat.

Years had passed since that day, but the memory still haunted Don Flavio who sat in his chair, scarecely breathing. He stared straight ahead at the watery window as he remembered El Rarámuri's head, its dead eyeballs glaring at him. The old man relived the assassination and Isadora's attempt to kill him afterwards. He clutched at the armrests of the chair, trying to relax his body, but the memory of her hatred bore down on him. Some impulse compelled him to peer into one of the corners of the room. He narrowed his eyes; folds of parched skin hung over them, making it difficult for him to see, but, certain that she was there, he began to cry.

“Ahh! Ahh!”

The old man was groaning so loudly that Ursula rushed into his bedroom without knocking. The lamp she had turned on was not enough to light the room; it was so dim she bumped noisily into a chair.

“Por Dios, Don Flavio, ¿qué pasa?”

He did not answer. Ursula finally made him out, hunched over in the chair. He was almost curled over, arms hugging his stomach, as he went on moaning. She tried to straighten him up, but he pushed against her. She looked around, searching, as if the cure for his pain were somewhere in the room. Ursula heard a noise and saw that Alondra, clad in a nightgown, had come in.

“El viejo está enfermo,”
Ursula whispered. “I think we should call Doctor Canseco. What do you think?”

“
Abuela,
you know how he gets when we do that. He gets crazy.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Don Flavio spoke up, his voice thin and raspy, but steady. “Leave me. It's passed.” When the women did not move, he repeated his words. “Leave me. Please.”

Ursula and Alondra looked at one another, surprised. Neither could remember Don Flavio ever being polite. After a few seconds, Ursula shrugged and jerked her head toward the door. They left the room without a word.