Epilogue

1828

Don Alejandro took the last sip of his third cup of tea that day, prepared with herbs that helped both with insomnia and digestion. Bernardo would surely get him the fourth one soon. The desk was crowded with diverse maps and atlas: of the United States, the Spanish domains, Central and South America, Western and Eastern Europe, Canada and even Australia. Most of them had these little red crosses drawn on them: one for each city in which he had searched for his son.

Not in person, naturally, that would have taken him ten lifetimes. But since the day everything changed, since that utopic afternoon when the new Governor gave a final verdict of his revision on the Zorro case (who, by the way, there wasn't a soul at this point who didn't know it had always been Diego de la Vega) and declared him a just man and therefore free of any sentence or punishment, the only thing on don Alejandro's mind was to comb every corner of this Earth until hearing from him.

He knew he was alive, proof of it was that he'd taken Josefina with him. It all made sense then, when recalling the face the girl had that evening: she knew she was leaving and couldn't say a word; he understood, it didn't upset him. Truth be told, not only was he was proud of his own son being Zorro, but also of knowing him as clever as to disappear without a trace. And you can bet he had tried to follow his trail everywhere, with no success. He wrote letters to acquaintances and strangers, friends and enemies, twice in some cases; he sent statements to the King and the Viceroy, he spoke with traders, indians and beggars, and he was a hair's breadth away from shaking Padre Felipe by the shoulders, to force him to tell him something, anything (who else could have brought any message to Josefina?), but the old priest held on to his confession secret and didn't utter a word that could be of use.

That's when he had an idea: getting two portraits made, of Diego and the wife, and sending them to a total of 114 newspapers, magazines and pamphlets of all sort, in 32 countries, kingdoms, provinces and colonies. Some of these copies laid exposed on the chairs, armchairs, tables and shelves all over the library. In this titanic task, he'd already spent over a year. Maybe he should get the portraits published again…

He was thinking precisely about that and had already decided it, when a scream pulled him back to reality. It wasn't very common to hear voices in that house anymore, except for his own orders, but that was Cresencia, he was sure.

"Cresencia! What is it?"

Coming from the living room, there were sobs and invocations of the heavens, so it had to be serious. He put away the Saturday supplement from Buenos Aires, Argentina; on the first page the two faces could be seen, a brief explanation of the matter and the promise of a reward for anyone who could give any hints on their whereabouts. He reached out for the cane and stood up.

"Cresencia, what-"

Someone opened the library's door.

Was it real? Had he gone mad at last, or senile?

"Father…"

After his son was captured and injured, hunted down, condemned and missing, don Alejandro could have bragged of not shedding a single tear; a man doesn't cry, not even at the face of the worst adversities, let alone a De la Vega. But here, that stoicism broke.

He wanted to say something: my son, Diego, anything, but the only thing that came out was a sound with no syllables that had been loading up in his strong, yet human spirit, for over seven years.

Nothing more pathetic than a decrepit, old man crying, he thought, and didn't give a damn.

With God as a witness that he wasn't fond of displays of affection, but he had to hug his son.

Then, he had a better look at him. He was more… adult, more… strong? Like someone who hasn't spent his time reading or playing the guitar anymore, but doing some physical work. His skin slightly more tanned, too.

And next, what he saw at the door made him lose balance, so much that Diego had to hold him by both arms. Don Alejandro didn't look away, though: it was Josefina and a couple of little things.

"Hello!" she just said, smiling and tearing up at once. She'd always been the same, genuine and sincere; that's what he liked about her and what ended up convincing him that Diego had made the right choice. Was all of that in this life or in another faraway one? Centuries ago, for God's sake.

With the cane in one hand and his son holding him by the other arm, he came closer to see them better. The oldest one, a six or seven years old, started at him attentively: it was a mini copy of Diego. The other one, a two year old perhaps, was in his mother's arms and seemed sleepy. It sure had been a long trip.

"Father, these are Pedro…" he went to carry the small one, who started to suck his thumb right when resting his head on his dad's shoulder: "...and Alejandro."

The boy held out his hand:

"It's a pleasure to meet you, grandfather. Did you see we have the same name?"

He had Diego's exact same face. The same intelligent and curious look in his eye. And was that a… French accent?

He shook the small hand:

"The pleasure is mine… Alejandro. That, I assure you."

(...)

In his last years, don Alejandro enjoyed the company of his grandsons, playing with them until his bones allowed him too, telling them real or made up stories and stuffing themselves with candy and sweets from Cresencia's kitchen.

As soon as he returned, Diego took charge of the De la Vega hacienda, which had declined in the last years. It didn't take long for it to become the most prosperous ranch in California again.

They learnt Monasterio had been called to Spain, something about some missing money. No one heard of him again.

Father Felipe had passed away few months before, so they went to leave some flowers on his tomb. Pepe could finally find a job, at the De la Vega hacienda: after the priest's death, he'd just been wandering around, since no one was hiring for indians.

They visited Sargeant García too, now simply known as don Demetrio: he'd received a dishonorable discharge for reasons unrelated to Zorro. He was working as a street sweeper. They bought 49% of the tavern for him, since don Theo was in need of a business partner. Even nowadays, the former soldier spends his time behind the bar, tasting good wines, toasting to the King and greeting everyone with a smile.

Josefina and Diego still live. They can be seen horseback riding around the lands of the rancho and its surroundings.

And when a crime is committed or oppression threatens to return, some people say that out of the night, when the fool moon is bright, comes a horseman who lives by honor and justice, carves a Z with his blade and is still free, to this day.

END.

Note 1: I can't believe I translated the whole thing! I still feel some things were lost in translation, but I tried!

Note 2: I didn't check if in 1928, California was still part of Spain or not, if Canada and Australia existed with those names, or what. Sorry, I'm not too historically accurate (or I'm just lazy). Also, I mentioned Buenos Aires, Argentina, because that's where Guy Williams lived in his final years. (That's just a way of saying it. He loves on, right? Like Zorro).

Note 3: this epilogue, I wanted to write it not from Josefina's point of view, like most of this story was, or Diego's, but from the outside, or someone else's perspective, like my dear don Alejandro. I wanted to leave how she and Diego felt to the reader's imagination.

Note 4: Thanks for reading! Writing and translating this story gave me such a rush. I still daydream about it and about the two main characters XD I hope I can write something out of that.