The Day of the Moon Page 3

  “You need to know that he took his life because we had fallen into poverty. You could have prevented that from happening.”

  He glared at his sister, realizing that he disliked her intensely at that moment. He wanted to tell her that she was there only because he needed the legitimacy of family. He resented Brígida’s tone, her manner, and most of all the haughty look in her eyes. He decided that he would marry her off as soon as possible.

  Flavio signaled the driver to head for the entrance. They fell into sullen silence until the carriage halted and he jumped from the vehicle without using the steps. Then he turned and extended his hand to Brígida, who stepped down with an affectation of aristocracy which surprised Flavio but which he calculated would be on his side in his negotiations for her marriage. That night as Flavio and Brígida were being served dinner, he went directly to the point.

  “I’m to marry next month.” He was peeling a pear. As he sliced off a wedge, he put it into his mouth with the blade of the knife. He waited until Brígida said something.

  “Married? To whom?”

  Her eyebrows had arched. Her expression said that she now understood why he had dragged her across hundreds of miles to his hacienda.

  “Her name is Velia Carmelita Urrutia. Her family is influential in these parts.”

  “I see.” Brígida was not eating; she was rubbing a water glass between her hands. “Do you love her?”

  Again, the blunt way in which his sister probed into the privacy of his life irritated Flavio. He found being scrutinized by Brígida repugnant. He disliked being asked such questions, especially when they came from a woman, and that woman his sister.

  “Don’t you think that’s my business?”

  “You’ve answered my question. I supposed a more important question would be to wonder if she loves you. Eh?”

  Brígida smiled, sarcasm stamped on her face. She looked as if she might burst out laughing. This was not the way Flavio had imagined his sister. He had assumed that she would be filled with gratitude and admiration for him. Instead he was faced with rudeness and impertinence. The young woman’s face was a mask; something hard lurked behind it.

  He fought the impulse to stand up and slap Brígida. Instead, he re-filled his wine glass and gulped it down. He knew now that her being in the same house with him would not work. He had thought that having her might bring to Casa Miraflores the civility and respectability demanded by a family such as the Urrutias. To the contrary, his sister would be nothing less than a constant annoyance, a disadvantage. Flavio understood that he had made a mistake. He glared at his sister through half-closed eyes, deciding to put her in place without losing time.

  “I didn’t bring you from Arandas so that you could mock me. I want you to understand that immediately.”

  He sat rigidly in the high-backed chair and pressed his body against it with such force that he heard the wooden frame squeak. He saw, however, that the look of sarcasm had only deepened around her eyes and mouth. His mind searched for a way to crush her boldness. “It’s my intention that you marry as soon after me as possible. I—”

  Flavio’s words were cut off by his sister’s laughter. Loud, cackling, vulgar, it came from the center of her body and echoed off the high ceiling of the chamber. She went on giggling until her face turned red and tears ran down her cheeks. He felt his nerves beginning to unravel. She was laughing at him. Flavio knew that he was losing control when he tasted a bitterness on his tongue.

  As she went on with her merriment, he sprang to his feet, knocking the chair onto the floor. He banged the table with his clenched fist with such force that plates, glasses, and silverware crashed to the floor. Two women servants ran into the room, not knowing what to expect. They cowered when they saw Don Flavio, feet spread apart, his face purple with rage and his hair sticking out as if he had seen the devil.

  “You’ll hear from me tomorrow!”

  He stalked out of the room, but not before Brígida had the last word, her voice still tinged with derision.

  “You’ll never marry me off! Never! Never!”

  The next day, still in bed, she received a letter from Flavio. The servant who brought it to her was careful to knock at the door, open the shutters and windows, and bow in respect to the sister of the Patrón.

  “Buenos días, Niña.”

  “Buenos días.”

  Brígida stared at the young woman as she moved, folding clothing and picking up the room. She was captivated by the Indian’s graceful, quiet motions and the manner in which her bare feet slid on the polished hardwood floor.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ursula Santiago, Niña.”

  She was a Rarámuri woman wearing the traditional cotton dress that reached nearly to her ankles. Her hair hung below her shoulders in two braids. She handed Brígida the sealed envelope and silently left the bedroom.

  Brígida, You will marry the man that I select for you when I order you to do so. If you do not obey me, you will find yourself on the streets of Ciudad Creel.

  The note was not signed. Brígida laid back on the pillows for a long while, thinking, the note crumpled in her left hand. Then she smoothed the paper and re-read the words. She got out of bed, called the servant, and instructed her to bring hot water for her to bathe in. After she did this, she dressed, asked for a cup of chocolate, and she drank as she gazed out the window.

  Brígida feared being destitute, but she dreaded being married even more. She had known from girlhood that she would do anything to keep from the condition that had turned her mother into a shadow. She had been very young when her mother had died, but Brígida remembered enough to see how her father disdained the woman who had given him pleasure. She was convinced that her mother had sickened and perished because of that abandonment, and she had determined then that she would never marry.

  Brígida closed her eyes; she was shaky, unsure of what to do. She regretted having mocked her brother, but it had happened thoughtlessly. His conversation about marriage had taken her by surprise and unnerved her. It had clearly been a threat on his part and something inside of her had leapt, fought back, and it had come out sounding scornful. She thought of apologizing to Flavio, but something inside of her recoiled at the idea. She then considered conforming to his wishes and agreeing to marry, but she was sickened by the thought.

  Brígida made her decision. She went to the desk at the far end of the bedroom, took a sheet of paper from a drawer and answered her brother.

  I will never marry because I was not born to do so. If you cast me out, I will see to it that the scandal is so enormous that you will be rejected by the Urrutias and all other such families.

  Flavio Betancourt was forced to allow his sister to remain in Casa Miraflores while he planned his wedding. He brought to the union holdings that, even though moderate, were among the most promising in Chihuahua. However, even though he was now wealthy, he was still a newcomer. No one forgot this, especially not Flavio.

  On the other hand, Velia Carmelita Urrutia brought herself as the main prize of the marriage dowry. She was the only daughter of Don Plutarco and Doña Domitila, one of the most powerful families of the region, owners of silver and copper mines as well as vast territories housing more mineral wealth. Don Plutarco had been part of the turn-of-the-century mining boom in the Batopilas Canyon; the La Bufa veins, already of world fame by the time of the wedding, belonged to him.

  It was an arranged marriage even though Flavio had fallen in love with Velia Carmelita when he had first seen her three years earlier, at a ball in honor of her coming out. At the time, she had hardly taken notice of the tall, blond man, but when her father told her of his plans, she agreed to marry. Her mother and father admired Flavio’s aristocratic bearing, his ability in politics and war, and even though his holdings were dwarfed by the Urrutia wealth, he was suited for her.

  Chapter 4

  On the day of the wedding, garlanded carriages filed from the Urrutia mansion, heading for the church
of Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, the mission church for the Samachique Rarámuri town that marked the beginning of the road to Batopilas. A long line of coaches accompanied the bride; they were filled with laughing girls feeling the thrill that one of their own age was about to be married. The young men of the surrounding families followed on purebred mounts. These men did their best to attract the attention of the girls, knowing that one of them more than likely would be his bride.

  Flavio rode among these men. He was dressed in the northern fashion: black riding suit, fine boots, white tie and gloves, and a black Stetson hat. He felt tense but happy. He was marrying into a notable family, and he had the good fortune that the woman to be his wife was beautiful and, he told himself, he was luckier yet to be in love. This did not happen to many men.

  Flavio’s and Velia Carmelita’s wedding day was the culminating point of days of celebration which had taken place at both residences: rodeos, coleaderos, barbacoas, fandangos, verbenas. Flavio had provided dozens of calves, chickens, venison, ducks, pigs and sheep for the meals of his ranch hands, and especially for la indiada, the Rarámuri people. He had held back nothing, giving his people days off and providing everyone with enough mescal and cerveza to last days. He had put up money for musicians and singers to entertain the throngs of men, women, and children who had come down from the sierras to help him celebrate his wedding. Long-distance foot racing, betting, and gambling drew dozens of Rarámuri to the hacienda. Singing and dancing in the surrounding fields preceded the wedding mass by days, and Flavio participated as much as he could by sitting by the bonfires at night, drinking mescal, and eating roasted lamb or pork wrapped in corn tortillas.

  In charge of all of this was Celestino Santiago, the Rarámuri who had once been Flavio’s friend but who now was the caporal, the head ranch hand. He had differed from many of the Rarámuri men by becoming a skilled horsebreaker, usually the job of mestizos. He was one of the few natives in those parts who was not a runner; he preferred horses, and it was chiefly because of his abilities that Flavio had made him his main overseer. Nor had he forgotten that Celestino had stood by his side when he won the hacienda in the card game.

  Celestino had since married and usually lived with his wife and sons in the caves of the Copper Canyon, la Barranca del Cobre, but he bunked at the hacienda when he was most needed. The wedding was one of those occasions. On one of the nights of celebration Flavio noticed that Celestino had brought his children.

  “These are your sons?”

  The two boys hid behind their father. Flavio made faces, trying to tease them, but they shrank even further behind Celestino.

  “Sí, patrón, and there’s another one up in la barranca with his mother. We baptized him the other day.”

  As the two men spoke, shadows and light flickered from the campfire, casting Celestino’s features into a mask. Flavio studied that face again, as he had done the night of the card game. He made a point of looking at the prominent cheekbones, slanted eyes, wide mouth with the protruding teeth, sparse mustache, and broad forehead.

  “Another boy? I’m happy for you. Maybe soon I’ll catch up with you. What did you call him?”

  Flavio knew that he would hear a Christian name, but the true one would be held secret from him. Everyone was aware that the Rarámuri kept their true names to themselves.

  “His name is Jerónimo.”

  As the celebrations went on, Flavio had teams of Rarámuri women come to the hacienda during the day to clean, move furniture, place new curtains, polish silver platters and goblets. He had a chamber prepared that was to be for Velia Carmelita and himself. He chose the one with the windows opening to the most impressive views of the sierras and meadows surrounding Hacienda Miraflores. He had women embroider linen with the initials F and V for their bed, and he commissioned dressmakers to make gowns for his new bride.

  Flavio did not keep track of the money he was spending. Although on the other side of the residence his sister brooded, left out and uninvolved, he went ahead on his own, anxious and excited. The news had come that, with the entry of Francisco Madero into Mexico City, the Revolution was now a success. The war had ended and people could continue with their lives as usual. So Flavio was determined that his and Velia Carmelita’s would be an unforgettable match.

  Similar celebrations were happening at the Urrutia mansion, and the wedding ball, scheduled to take place after the mass in the main salon of Velia Carmelita’s home, would be the highlight of the wedding.

  As Flavio galloped toward the church that morning, he felt happy and grateful. He had even forgotten that Brígida was also part of the procession heading toward the mass, because she rode in a separate carriage far behind him.

  When the musicians struck the first note of the wedding march, Flavio waited at the foot of the altar. His heart was beating so fast that he found it difficult to keep his hands from trembling. He looked up at the intricate niches, fluted pillars, gilded frames, and chubby-faced cherubim, then he breathed deeply, trying to steady his nerves. He forced himself to concentrate on the details of the church as he scanned the ornately carved altar loaded with white flowers, placed to accentuate the golden tabernacle. Above it loomed the image of a triumphant Christ with Mary, Mother of Sorrows, at his side. The rest of the facade was taken up with the images of Jesuit saints, other holy figures, and angels with outstretched wings. Flavio closed his eyes, but the brilliance of the church penetrated the darkness behind his eyelids.

  The organ’s somber tones, combined with the silvery voices of violins, filled the nave of the church, bouncing off its baroque columns, stained-glass windows, and marbled images of Christ on the way to His crucifixion. The place was filled to capacity with gloved men in white ties and tails, and women dressed in brocades, lace, and broad-brimmed hats. The radiance of their jewelry matched the silver of the candelabra. It was through the center of this congregation that Velia Carmelita moved toward the altar on the arm of her father, Don Plutarco.

  Flavio sucked in his breath when he caught sight of her: white gown, slim, corseted waist, uplifted breasts, high lace collar, diamonds hanging from her earlobes and intertwined in thick, auburn-colored hair; a gauzy veil proclaiming her virginity. When she reached the steps leading to the altar, he offered her his arm. Bride and groom climbed the three steps to kneel in front of the waiting priest and two altar boys. The music trailed until it stopped; someone in the back coughed, and this was echoed by another person clearing his throat.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  The nuptial mass began, full of ritual and ceremony. People stood, knelt, or sat in imitation of the priest and altar boys. This was repeated over and again through the different parts of the mass. At the exchange of vows, everyone craned their necks, turning their ears in the direction of the altar, trying to see and hear what was happening. A few were able to glimpse Flavio putting the ring on Velia Carmelita’s finger. Later others heard parts of her vows as the words floated up toward the gilded cupola that towered above the altar.

  Brígida alone sat rigidly; she did not stand or kneel during the mass but kept her place, seemingly paralyzed and unmoving. When it began, she had stood along with the rest of the congregation, and because she was seated by the aisle, she was able to see Velia Carmelita closely as she walked by on her way toward Flavio. Brígida’s eyes saw through the flimsy veil and captured the beauty of that face: olive-colored skin, round, full lips, Grecian nose, and hair the color of chestnuts.

  Velia Carmelita’s eyes were like none ever seen by Brígida. They were light brown and seemed to be gazing from heaven toward the altar. As she walked past her, Brígida examined the high, firm breasts outlined by the silk gown, and she was assaulted by an inexplicable impulse to reach out, put her hands on them, caress them, kiss them.

  By the time Velia Carmelita reached Flavio, Brígida had been compelled to sit: The blood in her temples was pounding with such force as to make her dizzy, and she was afraid of
falling. When she sat down, she closed her eyes, confused, not understanding the whirlwind of emotion that had overtaken her. She had never felt such sentiments: a mix of love, desire, happiness, wretchedness, tenderness and shame collided in her heart. Velia Carmelita’s beauty had touched Brígida’s soul as nothing else had in her life.

  “Cor Jesu sacratissimum, miserere nobis.”

  The mass ended. The triumphant musical notes of the orchestra tore through the upper reaches of the church and the congregation stood, happy and relieved that the long ceremony had come to a close and that now the much anticipated ball would begin. Everyone crowded after the couple, trying to squeeze out the front portals of the church. They wanted to touch, embrace, express good wishes and congratulations to the bride and groom. Only Brígida remained seated, riveted and bewildered by the emotions she had experienced during the mass.

  The celebration lasted until sunrise of the next day. Don Plutarco and Doña Domitila had left nothing undone to make the ball the most memorable in those parts. The food and drink was of the best, and the music was in the latest fashion from Vienna and Paris. Eligible men waltzed with young women, flirting, eyeing each other, enjoying the fiesta of the season. Flavio danced with Velia Carmelita over and again because he wanted her to feel the desire that he was feeling. He smiled at her, made small talk, teased, squeezed her gloved hand. Yet instead of warming to him, she became stiffer and more remote with each hour.

  On the other side of the hall, Brígida also danced because she was beautiful, and many of the men wanted to strike up a connection with the sister of Don Flavio Betancourt. She danced, but her mind was absorbed by Velia Carmelita. She constantly searched the crowded dance floor until she made out her brother and his new wife. Brígida wanted to go to her, put her arms around her, tell her how she felt. Instead she forced herself to dance with whoever asked her. It made no difference. Every one of those men was equally repugnant to her.