A short story by Daniel A. Olivas
After the Revolution, after the last ringing “¡Basta ya!”
echoed through the plazas, calles and ranchos of Mexico, after the murders of
Emiliano Zapata and Pancho Villa, and after the drafting of the new Mexican
constitution, Lázaro Mayo Cisneros worked with all his soul, all his essence,
all his sweat, to rebuild his wealth and power.
The agrarian
reforms inexorably led to the confiscation, division and distribution of Lázaro’s
once vast, lush rancho. Out of pity, the Revolutionaries left him with a few
acres of rocky terrain at the outer edges of the pueblo. But he was a realist.
Lázaro asked himself: What could I do with all that wonderful grazing land when
my fine cattle has been taken away as well? And he answered: Después de la lluvia sale el sol. Things must
get better after such a calamity. ¿No? Lázaro looked in the mirror and saw a
healthy man of thirty-two years. The Revolutionaries did not take this from him.
So, he accepted the unusable acres with a smile and an elegant bow, and pledged
on the memory of his late parents to begin anew in this measureless land of
Mexico.
Aside
from his youthful vigor, Lázaro enjoyed several other advantages. First, he
benefited from a keen mind, one that not only gathered and retained limitless
quantities of facts, but a mind that never ceased to assimilate these
facts—whether during working hours or in the dark depths of his hard-earned
slumber—so that they could be used in the most efficient and lucrative manner.
Second, Lázaro
enjoyed a diplomatic nature and a graceful bearing so that even the
Revolutionaries took great delectation in his company. Indeed, the
Revolutionaries grew to trust Lázaro’s opinions on politics, ranching and
science.
Finally,
Lázaro enjoyed immense luck. One crisp morning, he discovered that his rocky
plot of land was nothing less than a boundless source of fine granite that
could be quarried to build the many new edifices the pueblo desperately needed
to take advantage of the blooming economy. Realizing that much more money could
be made from his land, he hired an architect and an engineer so that he could
not only sell the granite, but also offer the services of his newly-formed
company to design and construct the new courthouse, mayor’s home and plaza. Soon,
the surrounding pueblos learned of his structures. A Mayo edifice was solid,
dependable yet handsome, graceful, not unlike Lázaro himself.
Lázaro’s
popularity grew almost as rapidly as his wealth. He employed scores of men from
the pueblo, which made him that much more appreciated. Indeed, at the end of
three years, several of the more ardent Revolutionaries cajoled him into
running for mayor, which he did reluctantly. Of course, Lázaro won the election
having no opposition candidate to take away a single vote. Yes, three years
after the Revolution, Lázaro had risen like his namesake, Lazarus. But where he
had been merely a wealthy landowner, he now possessed not only money but the respect
and support of the entire pueblo.
Yet, at
the age of thirty-five, Lázaro still lacked a wife and a male heir. So, he set
about the task of filling this one void in his otherwise full life. If he
suffered from a personal failing, it was this: Lázaro knew nothing of the fine
art of romance. True, he was sturdy and handsome, and when dressed in his
Sunday finery, Lázaro attracted many fluttering, appreciative eyes. But he
approached the idea of starting a family the same way he constructed a
building: he carefully drew up plans, thought about what kind of foundation to
use, and how long the entire process would take. One night, Lázaro closed
himself up in his study with strict instructions to his ancient but competent housekeeper,
Marta, that he should not be bothered until he opened the study door. His other
request was for Marta to brew a large, strong pot of coffee because Lázaro
appreciated the importance of his decision, and he needed to be alert. He did
not let his housekeeper know the nature of his task because he was a bit embarrassed
by it all.
Once he
settled at his desk, and after a few sips of Marta’s wonderful, hot brew,
Lázaro pulled out a large piece of paper, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and
deliberately drew three names separated only by vertical lines running from the
top of the page to the bottom. He sat back and pondered the first name: Celia. Oh,
beautiful Celia! Her father, Miguel, who owned the pueblo’s largest restaurant,
had previoulsy hinted that he would not mind such a match. But Lázaro, at that
time, was not interested because he had too much to accomplish to rebuild his
fortune. Now his mind’s eye washed over the few furtive glances he had thrown
Celia’s way when she walked through the pueblo. She reminded Lázaro of a
brilliantly-plumed parrot: exquisite and proud. But Lázaro’s mind stumbled into
a memory of his one conversation with Celia. Though at first she seemed quite
normal, with a particularly mellifluous voice, he remembered that she had no
opinion about anything, not even the weather, and that, indeed, she said
nothing of any importance though she said it quite beautifully. Surely he would
grow bored living a life with this woman.
Lázaro took a
sip of coffee and then turned to the second name: Hortencia. Though not as
beautiful as Celia, Hortencia, the daughter of one of the more affable Revolutionaries,
was a robust young woman who wore glasses and loved to read Russian novelists
and German poets. Perhaps she could keep Lázaro content and produce an
intelligent son who would eventually take over the family business. The
downside to Hortencia? Lázaro could not think of one other than Hortencia did,
indeed, enjoy polemic, the intense debate, controversy. Was this an unwanted
trait? Would it not benefit Lázaro to live his life with a woman who had the
intelligence to point out the pitfalls of this business venture or that? Interesting
question. He underlined Horntencia’s name twice.
Finally,
Lázaro looked at the name Socorro on the parchment. Why he would do this he did
not know. Socorro was the last woman in the pueblo to be made a widow by the Revolution.
She had been married to Lázaro’s friend, Manuel Osorio Martín. Oh, poor Manuel:
he was a fine man but stubborn beyond belief. When the Revolutionaries took his
land, he spat in their faces and told them to burn in hell. And one bullet
ended this great man’s life leaving behind the handsome, seventeen-year-old
Socorro and no children. Before her husband’s death, she had been gay but not
frivolous; practical yet not boring. But when she held Manuel’s lifeless body
on that horrible day in October, her soul crumbled, caved in, became a
cheerless abyss. And for a full year, Socorro wore nothing but black and
shielded her ethereal visage with a veil. When she finally discarded her
mourner’s apparel, she went about her business trying not to make eye contact
or to make a ripple in the pueblo’s activity. But once, and only once, on one
of Socorro’s rare visits to the mercado, Lázaro caught her eye. And she smiled,
not much of one, a mere shadow of an upturned lip, but it was enough for Lázaro
to catch his breath and be trapped for a moment in the beauty and sorrow of his
late friend’s widow. Was there a downside to choosing Socorro? Perhaps only her
poverty could be considered a disadvantage, but money was not at issue here. Finding
a true helpmate, a mother for his future male heir, that was the only issue for
Lázaro to keep in mind.
Lázaro’s task
had kept him so enthralled he had not noticed the passing of the hours. A sharp
rap on the study’s door snapped him from his musings. The heavy wooden barrier
creaked opened and there stood Marta, holding a large silver tray of breakfast,
shaking her large head back and forth, clucking her tongue, as if she came upon
an unruly child who was unceremoniously torturing the household cat.
“No sleep,”
she said as a statement of fact and not as a query.
“None,”
offered Lázaro feeling just like that unruly child.
Marta shuffled
to her master’s desk, set the tray down and crossed her arms.
“Eat before it
gets cold,” she said with more concern for the fine meal she had prepared than
for Lázaro’s health. She reached for the napkin and handed it to Lázaro. He
took the napkin, spread it upon his lap, and gazed upon his breakfast of
huevos, frijoles, tortillas and coffee. Despite her personal failings that
included an extreme lack of warmth, Marta was an accomplished cook who ran an
efficient household. Suddenly, as she started to walk away confident that
Lázaro would eat his food, Lázaro had an idea.
“Marta,” he
began. “Look here. Look at what I have been writing.”
Marta let out
a sigh without any attempt to conceal her annoyance.
“I have
much cleaning to do,” she said as she turned back to the desk.
“This will
not take long,” said Lázaro. Then he corrected himself: “This will not take you long at all.”
She
scanned the parchment and made a small whistling sound through her narrow
nostrils. “And what am I looking at?” she said.
“I am
deciding who should be my wife,” said Lázaro pushing back his embarrassment for
he was at a terrible impasse.
Marta
fell back upon her heels as many thoughts invaded her mind. Wife? she thought. What of me? Will she replace me?
Lázaro,
sensing her panic, added: “It is important for you two to get along because you
will be with me for as long as God allows.”
Marta
recovered her bearings for her master was nothing if not an honest man. She
squinted and peered at the parchment. For a full five minutes, she offered
nothing more than a cough as she absorbed Lázaro’s elegant notations. Lázaro’s
heart beat harder with each minute Marta mused in silence. He respected this
tough old woman’s opinion.
Celia,
Hortencia and Socorro. Marta recognized each name. And this is what she
thought: ¡Ay! Why must Lázaro make such a
change in my life? Things are so good, under control, and predictable for me! Oh,
what a hard life God has set down! So who would cause the least damage to me? Who?
Celia? She is pretty. Too pretty! She will have me doing much more laundry just
to keep her looking lovely in her frocks. She would be the end of me! I would
surely die of exhaustion! And Hortencia? She is no fool and she does not worry
much about how she dresses, either. She might not bring too much misery to my
life. But she does love argument, does she not? In fact, she seems to love
debate for the sake of debate. I saw her engage the wonderful, patient butcher,
Alonzo, in an argument about the name of a certain cut of beef! Poor Alonzo! He
had customers piling up behind Hortencia but did she care? No, she had to argue!
She will ruin my life! She will turn everything I do into fodder for a diatribe!
Let me see: Socorro. Poor woman. So young to lose a husband. And she very
properly wore black for a year. She knows her place. Socorro. ¡Si! It will be
Socorro who will bring me the least
trouble!
Marta
pulled herself up straight and cleared her throat as Lázaro waited anxiously
for her opinion.
“Well,”
she began, “you have listed three of the finest women in the pueblo.”
Lázaro
smiled and nodded.
“And
your notations are not only beautifully written, they are accurate as well.”
“Yes?”
said Lázaro. “Go on.”
“So, the
question is which of these fine women will make you a solid wife, a good mother
of your future children.” And then she added: “The most important thing is
which woman would be best suited for you and only you.”
“And
your thoughts?”
Marta
paused for emphasis. “These are my thoughts: there is one woman on the list who
will make my life more difficult but who will be the best match for you.”
“But it
is not my intention to make your life more difficult,” said Lázaro.
Marta waved
her callused, veined hand. “I am not important. You are. So let me speak.”
“Yes, I
am sorry. Who would be best? For me?”
Marta
paused again. She finally said in soft voice: “Socorro.”
Lázaro
looked down at the parchment. “Socorro,” he whispered. “Socorro,” he said
again.
“Socorro,”
echoed Mart.
Lázaro
dipped his pen in the inkwell and crossed out the other two women’s names. “Socorro
it is, then!” he said triumphantly.
Marta
reached for the pot and poured coffee into large cup. “Please, now, you must
eat breakfast,” she smiled. “You have much to do today.” With that, Marta left
the study triumphantly.
Lázaro
grinned a wild grin and ate his breakfast with great vigor while the image of
Socorro swirled about his mind. He saw the faces of his future children: a
firstborn son who would be named after him, and maybe a daughter or two to keep
Socorro contented. And he saw a wonderful retirement with grandchildren running
about the house, and most importantly there would be a competent, successful
son taking over all of his business ventures someday. Yes! A momentous task lay
before him.
After a
joyous breakfast filled with reverie, Lázaro bathed vigorously and then shaved
his smiling face while Marta set out his finest outfit. As he dressed, he
wondered how he should broach the subject of matrimony with Socorro. Lázaro had
not spoken many words to her since Manuel’s demise, but he felt a connection
with her. So did it much matter? He would have an invitation delivered to
Socorro inviting her to dine with him at the pueblo’s finest restaurant. It is
so easy to discuss business over a delicious meal and delightful wine, he
reasoned.
As
Lázaro directed two boys in the washing of his Model T, Marta hired another
boy, Tito, to deliver the invitation to Socorro. A half-hour later, Lázaro
proudly gazed upon his gleaming automobile. As he removed a stray fleck, he
observed in the reflection Tito wandering up the road. Ah! he thought. He must have
the response from beautiful Socorro! Suddenly, the front door opened and
Marta went to meet the boy. As Lázaro happily fussed with the Model T, he heard
Marta’s voice become shrill and scolding. Alarmed, he turned in time to witness
Marta slapping Tito across his bony face. Lázaro turned on his heel and ran to
his maid and the boy.
“What is
this?” he yelled.
Marta
pulled her hand back and slapped the boy one more time.
“This
boy,” she said with a sputter, “did not deliver the invitation as instructed!”
Lázaro motioned
for Marta to leave. After a moment of hesitation, she let out a huff and walked
back to the house.
“Well,”
he said to the frightened boy. “Is this true?”
Tito
kept his eyes to the ground and slowly nodded. Tears rolled silently off his
high cheekbones and hit the dusty cobblestones with remarkable force. Lázaro
leaned closer to Tito.
“What
happened?” he gently asked the boy.
After a
few sniffles and a wipe of his nose on his soiled cotton sleeve, Tito said: “I
gave it to her but after she read it, she handed the invitation back to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes. This
is the truth.”
“Did she
say anything?”
Tito
thought for a moment. He was now calm with the knowledge that Lázaro was not
the type of adult to hit a child indiscriminately.
“Not
really,” Tito said slowly.
“Not
really?”
“Well,
she did laugh,” the boy said.
Lázaro
leaned away from Tito. “Laughed?” he said as a smile broke out on his
glistening face. “She laughed!”
And with that,
Lázaro let out a hearty laugh of his own. Tito couldn’t help but join in. After
a moment of glee, Lázaro handed the boy a coin and told him to run along. He
called out to Marta who had been observing the dialogue from the kitchen
window.
“Marta, we
have a change of plan,” said Lázaro. “Prepare dinner and pack it in my
automobile, por favor.”
Marta looked
at him through squinted eyes of disbelief.
“I will have
to approach the widow a bit differently, I believe,” offered Lázaro as an
explanation.
Marta shrugged.
“It is your choice.”
“Yes,” said
Lázaro. “It is my choice.”
Once Marta had
prepared the meal as ordered, and packed the Model T with the delicacies,
Lázaro got in his automobile, started it with a great puff of smoke, and waved
triumphantly to his disgusted housekeeper. He
is becoming foolish, thought Marta. Men
are such stupid creatures! She watched as the black vehicle grew smaller
with distance. Finally, Marta turned to the task of scrubbing the kitchen, her
one true domain.
As Lázaro
drove over the newly-paved roads of the pueblo—paved by his company at a fair
but lucrative price—he thought of what he should say to Socorro. She was a
proud woman, no doubt. And he had virtually ignored Socorro after the
Revolutionaries murdered her husband and took her property. Why he did, Lázaro
did not know. Perhaps he wanted to forget the horror of it all and concentrate
on rebuilding his life. Perhaps he felt responsible in some way. It did not matter.
It was time to begin anew, start fresh, write the next chapter of his life.
Lázaro drove
past Socorro’s former home, a large structure built in the French colonial
style with smooth columns and a fine, ornate balcony. He remembered many
wonderful dinners there, with his friends, talking of business and politics and
even moving pictures. Now the house was filled with three families, all
Revolutionaries, who allowed the magnificent residence fall into disrepair. So
sad. So unnecessary.
By the time he
had reached Socorro’s simple home at the outskirts of the pueblo, Lázaro’s mind
was mired in pitiful thoughts. He shut off the motor and grabbed the basket of
food. Was this a bad idea? Well, it was too late to turn back because he saw
Socorro standing at her front door, arms crossed, brow knitted. Lázaro offered
a wan smile and a tip of his hat as he left his automobile and walked toward
his best friend’s widow.
“What is
that?” she asked.
Lázaro blushed
a deep crimson. But even in his embarrassment, he observed the great beauty of
this woman.
“Dinner,” he
answered. “May I come in?”
Socorro slowly
and without a word stepped aside to let Lázaro pass. Once inside, he noticed
the humble but tidy surroundings. Despite being forced into this hovel, Socorro
made the best she could of her predicament. Lázaro nodded towards the dining
table.
“Yes,” said
Socorro without emotion as if she were telling a boy to gather twigs for her. “You
may put the food there. I will get everything else.”
Lázaro
complied. The wonderful, rich aroma of Marta’s cooking began to fill the modest
abode mixing with the loamy smells emanating from the red dirt floor. Lázaro
allowed his eyes to roam freely over Socorro’s sturdy, curvaceous physique as
she set the table. Once or twice, she leaned close to finish her task and
Lázaro filled his nostrils with her warm, sweaty, delicious scent. But Socorro
did not seem to notice. She had a task to complete and she set to it as if she
were alone.
Finally, she
said, “Done.”
Lázaro ran to
Socorro’s chair and held it for her. He thought he saw a bit of a smile appear
on her lips, but he wasn’t certain. She sat slowly, elegantly, but it could
have been fatigue that made Socorro move in such a manner. Lázaro, acting as
haughty as a French waiter, bowed and proceeded to serve dinner. This time, a
true, almost broad smile flickered on the woman’s beautiful face. When both
plates were full of Marta’s fine cuisine, Lázaro bowed again and took his seat.
As dinner
proceeded, Socorro grew more comfortable and the conversation eased into that
wistful nostalgia that only two old friends could delight in. Her anger towards
Lázaro dwindled with each laugh, every shared anecdote. And Lázaro fell into
the moment with such ease and joy that he forgot his great plans to propose
marriage. He simply luxuriated in this woman’s company without a conscious thought.
When the food had disappeared and the wine bottle long stood empty, the two old
friends grew quiet. They simply looked at each other, lost in their separate
though similar thoughts. Why be alone? Life
is so short. Why not this one? While such thoughts were new to Socorro,
they seemed new to Lázaro, as well, because his abstract plan of action had
been met with the power of this woman’s presence.
Finally,
Socorro broke the silence: “So, Lázaro, my dear friend. It is time you started
a family. ¿No?”
Though Lázaro
normally would have been shocked by both the boldness and prescience of such a
question, he was not. Rather, he leaned forward and tried to catch the scent of
this woman. And he answered, simply, with a nod and a soft smile. Socorro
touched Lázaro’s hand and he felt what could have been a small spark leave her
fingers, travel up his arm, round his shoulder, and reach the nape of his neck
in a small electrical dance. He had, indeed, made the right choice.
And so it was:
the wedding took place one month later in the still-majestic Santa Cristina Church
with an extravagant fiesta in the plaza that lasted two full days and nights. People
wondered why Socorro had hidden herself away for so long for when they saw her
resplendent and smiling on her wedding morning, she was certainly the most
beautiful and joyous woman within many miles.
Perhaps the
happiest person in the pueblo was Marta who knew that of all the women her master
could have married, Socorro was least likely to be a burden. But this would not
be so. For when the new mistress of the household moved in with her new
husband, she proceeded to chip away at Marta’s duties. Socorro never would sit
idly as Marta cooked, cleaned and did the laundry. No, Socorro was
constitutionally incapable of becoming an indolent person. So, she started to
prepare the meals while Marta watched helplessly from the corner of what was
once her domain. This distressed Marta to no end, but what could she say? The
mistress was now her boss. She decided to spend more time with the
housecleaning and laundry. But Marta had too much free time. No problem, said
Socorro. You work so hard. Take a day off. We will survive. What would she do
with a day off? She had no friends, no family, nothing to occupy herself. And
if she left for even a day, Marta was certain that Socorro would start doing
the cleaning and maybe even the laundry. Oh, what a horrible predicament!
One day, being
forced to leave and enjoy a day at the insistence of Socorro, Marta wandered
the pueblo like a suffering ghost. She mumbled to herself damning the day she
cunningly convinced Lázaro to choose this woman. This horrible, evil woman! What will I do?
The next
morning, Marta’s worst fears came to fruition. She entered through the kitchen
at the back of the house and found it empty except for the rich aromas of beef
picadillo and frijoles cooking on the stove. But the smells merely made her
queasy. Marta suspected something was amiss. She left the kitchen ostensibly to
see if her mistress needed anything but to her horror, she almost stumbled over
Socorro who was scrubbing the main hallway tile floor!
“Mistress,”
Marta sputtered. “What are you doing? Are you well?”
Socorro let
out a laugh. “I am very well, thank you.”
“Let me do
that,” said Marta sounding more like the boss rather than the housekeeper.
Socorro turned
back to scrubbing. “No, I do not mind. In fact, I enjoy good hard work. It
makes me feel alive.”
“But that is
my job!”
Socorro
laughed again. “Feeling alive is your job?”
Marta did not
welcome this joke at her expense. But she could not fathom what to do next. This
was her mistress, after all. In the
end, Marta was at the mercy of this strange woman. So, she offered a weak nod and
headed toward the backyard to do laundry. Luckily there was plenty to do that
day. Certainly her mistress would not take this task away. Unless of course she
was, indeed, insane. For what kind of woman would voluntarily take on such toil?
If Marta were wealthy, she would relax, perhaps travel, maybe tend a pretty
garden. That is what a woman with money does! She does not cook and scrub
floors!
Marta exited
the house through the kitchen and found herself on the back porch. She gazed
upon the gleaming, copper electric washing machine that sat squat on three legs.
Marta hated using it. That damn machine
can never get the clothes as clean as my own two hands could! She pumped
water into a basin, sprinkled in a liberal amount of soap powder, and set the
washboard at a good angle. Marta’s mind felt as though it would burst. She grabbed
a one of Socorro’s dresses from the basket and plopped it into the soapy water
with a splash that wet her face. But she did not care. Marta had to calculate a
way to end this lunacy. She soaked the fabric and then started to knead it up
and down the washboard’s metal ripples. After a few moments, Marta suddenly
stopped, hands clenching Socorro’s dress. She stood motionless while staring at
the white cotton garment. And the longer she stood there, the more her mind
turned. Finally, she let out a small chuckle. Yes, there was something Marta
could do before it was too late, before she lost her job to this demented woman’s
desire to slave away at household chores when she could be enjoying her new
station in life. Marta had no choice. Something had to be done. Period. But the
solution had to be subtle. Nothing too dramatic and certainly nothing to bring
blame upon Marta’s head.
That
afternoon, pretending to need additional soap, Marta offered Socorro a strained
smile and headed to an encampment just outside the pueblo in search of Katrina,
the curandera. The townspeople knew that Katrina was Russian and that long ago,
she sold her body to any man who was willing to turn over a few pesos. Now that
her face and body no longer pleased, she turned to the black arts to make her
living. There was also no doubt that Katrina possessed the kind of powers that
no one had ever before witnessed, at least no one in this particular pueblo.
As Marta approached
the encampment, she could discern several dilapidated, crudely-constructed huts
hugging the edge of a creek. The closer she got, the stronger the stench of
this loose community grew. Disheveled men, women and children wandered about
the encampment almost in slow motion, without joy, without sound. Even a pack
of mongrels lacked life as it hovered by the garbage heap to the far north of
the structures. Marta entered the encampment but not a soul seemed to care: no
one lifted a head, no one glanced at her. She asked a young girl where she
could find Katrina. The girl offered nothing but large, vague eyes. Then, just
as Marta was to give up, the girl lethargically pointed to a moss covered hut a
few yards away. Marta trudged through the muck to the hut and rapped on the
piece of rotting wood that passed for a door.
“Come,” said a
voice that sounded more like an animal’s grunt than a human response.
Though not a
woman to be cowed by anyone or anything, Marta shuddered with dread for she
knew that there were things that could not be explained, things that could
cause great harm if you refused to admit your helplessness. And rumor had it
that Katrina was no less than a devotee of the Santisima Muerte, a banned saint
whose cult was without a doubt rooted in an Aztec goddess often depicted as a
skeleton. Oh, the thought of such mysterious power shook Marta to the core. She
entered the darkened hut warily and with great trepidation. Once inside, Marta
squinted and attempted to adjust her eyes as rapidly as possible.
“Come,”
said the voice again. “I am here.”
Marta
turned to the far corner of the small room and beheld this woman the townspeople
feared most. Marta’s heart relaxed as her eyes absorbed the vision of this
great curandera. At a table sat Katrina, a small-framed, fragile-looking woman
of no more than forty years. The curandera’s long hair, which still shimmered a
rich cinnamon, hung neatly away from her face and down her back. Her sharp,
green eyes flickered with the light of a lone candle.
“Please,”
said Katrina. “Come forward and sit here.” She motioned with a miniature hand
toward a stool that stood at the opposite end of the table.
So, this is the great curandera, thought
Marta. I have wasted my time for certain!
Katrina
let out a low chuckle. “No,” she said. “You have not wasted your time, I assure
you.”
Marta’s
eyes widened and her scalp danced. Katrina chuckled again.
“Please,”
said Katrina. “Sit. It is time to talk of what you need.”
Marta
had no choice. She must sit and tell this powerful woman what was in her heart
though it was clear that she already knew. Marta slowly made her way to the
stool and sat as directed. Katrina smiled, leaned forward and said softly,
almost gently, “You have come to me for the freedom another woman is taking from
you.”
As these
words entered Marta’s consciousness, she knew that Katrina would help her. Marta
nodded and mouthed the word, Yes. The
curandera suddenly stood and walked to a small ledge that was cluttered with
every size, shape and color of bottles. As Katrina carefully examined her
potions searching for the correct one, Marta noticed that the woman was no
taller than a child but moved with the grace of a dancer. Finally, Katrina emitted
a soft Ah! and returned to her chair.
“Here,”
she said as she placed a slender, blue bottle before Marta. “This will bring
you freedom from that woman.”
She
reached for the bottle but Katrina snatched it away with such alacrity that
Marta jumped back in fright. After a moment, Marta understood. She reached into
her cloth purse, produced three coins and placed them on the table. Katrina smiled
and put the bottle near the money. Marta grasped the bottle and brought it to
her bosom.
“So,”
she said to the curandera, “I give this to Socorro?”
“No,”
said Katrina. “Feed it to your master at night.”
Marta’s
eyes narrowed. “What?”
Katrina
ignored the question. “But you must make certain Socorro is not in the house.”
“How?”
Katrina
again ignored the question. “Be patient,” she said. “Wait for the right time.”
Marta
opened her mouth to ask another question but she knew it was useless. She slid
the bottle into her purse, stood and left the hut without turning back. As
Marta hurried away, she heard a small but distinct laugh follow her.
And so
it was: Marta waited for the opportunity to use the magic as Katrina had
instructed. She patiently watched as Socorro cleaned house and cooked every
meal leaving only the laundry for the once-busy housekeeper. In disgust, Marta
also watched as Lázaro fell deeper in love with this interloper. But her
patience paid off well. One morning, after Socorro had cooked but not served
her husband breakfast, she called Marta to the kitchen.
“Tomorrow
is Lázaro’s birthday,” she whispered to the housekeeper though there was little
chance that anyone could overhear.
“Yes?”
said Marta through a forced smile.
“I wish
to make a magnificent dinner for him,” said Socorro as she tidied the kitchen. “But
I must go to town today to buy what I need.”
“Oh, I
can do that for you,” offered Marta knowing full well that she would reject
such an offer.
“No,
no,” Socorro said almost on cue. “This must be from me.”
“Is
there something that I can do to help?”
“Yes,”
she smiled in excitement. “I have prepared breakfast for Lázaro. Please serve
it right after I leave.”
“Of
course,” she answered. “Anything else that I can help you with?”
As Socorro
removed her apron and reached for her purse, she said, “Make certain our finest
table linens are as clean as they can be. And if Lázaro should ask, confirm
that I simply went out to visit with Señora Miramontes.”
Marta
grinned with such intensity that Socorro froze. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,”
Marta said as she tried to control her glee. “Please go. All will be well.”
And with
that, Socorro left the house. Marta quickly fumbled with her own purse which
always hung by her side. When she found the bottle, she poured its reddish,
thick contents into the boiling pot of frijoles and stirred until not a trace
was visible. Marta filled a large bowl with a hearty helping of the frijoles,
placed the bowl on a silver tray, and completed the meal with pan dulce,
tortillas, a pot of café and a large glass of water.
“Ah!”
said Lázaro as Marta carried the food to the dining room. “Looks wonderful! But
where is my lovely wife?”
The housekeeper
set the tray down and started to unload it. As she placed the bowl of frijoles
before her master, her right hand trembled a bit so she quickly employed her
left to steady the bowl.
“Socorro
had an errand or two to tend to,” said Marta not remembering what her mistress
had instructed. “But she left this magnificent breakfast for you.”
Lázaro’s
eyes glistened with hunger. After Marta had set out everything, Lázaro took a
big gulp of café, grabbed a tortilla, tore it in half, and proceeded to devour
his breakfast. His housekeeper stood back, arms crossed tightly across her
narrow chest, crooked smile in place, and quietly observed Lázaro. In a short
time, he had finished every bit of food. As Lázaro drank the last of the café,
Marta approached.
“Do you
desire anything else?” she asked as she reached for the empty bowl.
Lázaro
nodded and placed palm of his hand squarely on Marta’s lower back. “I desire
you,” he said softly.
Lázaro’s
intimate request paralyzed the housekeeper. After a moment of silence, Marta
realized what was happening. The potion! But what to do? She had not
anticipated such a result.
“Well,
mi amor,” cooed Lázaro. “Socorro is out of the house. You and I are alone.”
Before
she could answer, Lázaro stood and enveloped Marta in his arms. She thought
that she should scream, but she had brought this on. And perhaps it was the
only way to get rid of Socorro without shedding any blood.
“But I
am too old for you,” said Marta knowing full well that her words did not
matter.
“And the
thought delights me,” countered Lázaro.
He
gently lifted Marta’s chin with one, strong finger. She saw nothing but
adoration in his eyes. Well! Why not?
she thought. I am not so old that I
cannot enjoy myself. And if this is the only way to win back my freedom from
that woman, so be it! With that, Marta closed her eyes and welcomed her
master’s lips to hers. And her memory fell back many years to when her own
father had kissed and embraced her in such a way. But she was only twelve then.
What did she know? Now, as a mature woman, she could truly enjoy the love of an
appropriate man without guilt.
A scream
snapped Marta from her reverie. She pushed her body from Lázaro’s. In the
entryway stood Socorro with a look of abhorrence so excruciating, Marta had to
turn away. Lázaro looked at Socorro and then back at Marta, and back again. He
shook his head, blinked several times, and tried to say something, but his lips
could form no words. Socorro’s hands trembled before her. All three stood
motionless not knowing what to do or say. Socorro finally turned and ran from
the house making a pitiable sound.
Lázaro turned to Marta. He no longer
craved her. Rather, his heart now filled with disgust and a knowledge that
Marta had played with fate though he did not know how. And Marta understood she
could not escape. So, as Lázaro approached her and slowly but with great
passion placed his enormous hands around his housekeeper’s frail neck, Marta
did not scream or struggle. She merely closed her eyes and yielded to Lázaro’s
hatred. For she had no choice. He was her master. And the curandera, indeed,
had promised her freedom. Nothing more. Nothing less.
[“After the Revolution” first appeared in Margin, and is featured in
Anywhere but L.A.: Stories (Bilingual Press, 2009).]
