Chapter XI

The church

Diego got off the horse, Bernardo would tie it to the post. At the entrance, there was Sargent García and a handful of people, neighbors most likely. They opened the way for him in silence, the soldier lowered his head with a sad look and holding the hat in his hands. It was clear there was nothing left to do.

The narrow living room was murky and it brought back the memory of that afternoon when he sat on that armchair for the first time, in front of a grim faced Don Pedro. Diego started the conversation with the topic of the store and the leather business, then, the subject shifted to horses, acquaintances in common and old times, until the old man asked if beating around the bush was what he'd come for (in those exact words). So, after a lot of elaborating, assuring and reassuring, he got him to lower arms and give him a blessing that was skeptic at first, but still a blessing nonetheless.

That was before. Now, there was no one at the sofas. There were only muffled sobs coming from inside.

Inch by inch, he advanced towards the bedroom. He saw the corner of the bed, the dull colors of the patches that made up the bedspread, a hand and an arm of don Pedro, that lied there inertly. He approached more, didn't want to see his face directly, now he saw Josefina who appeared in the picture as well. Her hair was loose and she was holding her uncle's other hand in between her own.

"I was bringing him a cup of tea" she blurted out as soon as she saw Diego: "He always drinks tea in the morning and I came to bring him some but he wouldn't wake up so I rushed to the doctor's house but he's not in town and and he won't wake up, he-"

It's unconceivable, this, seeing someone you love lying lifeless on a bed. It's a black wall, a dark room, a bottomless well. Something in Josefina wanted to let herself fall and get lost in there, but another part hung on to Diego's embrace like a shipwreck survivor, let his arms hold her, let out the tears of all of her losses: mother, father, aunt, now uncle Pedro. One would think that after all of that you get used to it, but no, it was always like the first time.

"I was bringing him some tea…"

"He knows. He knows you always cared for him lovingly, same way he did with you."

From then on, everything occurred as in a dream, as if she was walking around wearing a steamed up scuba dive helmet. Someone announced that a doctor had to certify the passing, so Bernardo was sent right away to the nearby town to get the physician. There were people coming in and out, the neighbor lady who brought a bowl of soup that got cold next to the cup of tea that was never tried, don Alejandro who arrived a while later, padre Felipe who came to say some prayers. Any other nosy character who'd show up (a few kids several times, looks like the attraction of the day was to go and have a look at the dead one), Diego kicked them out in an instant.

It was midafternoon when the doctor finally made it.

Things kept happening very far away, Josefina's only anchor to this world being Diego's hand holding hers, his presence, constant and certain. At some point of the day, one of the De la Vega's servants arrived, Cresencia, who helped her get into an old, black dress (the same she'd worn when aunt Caridad died) and tamed her hair into a low bun. After that, the casket, the hearse going down the town's streets, the people crossing themselves at the sight of it, a lady about a hundred years old who threw a carnation at it, perhaps not even knowing who the deceased was.

At last she found herself in the church, the coffin was at the center surrounded by lit up bras candlesticks. It puzzled her to see Diego with another suit, a dark grey one, almost black, now with a tie. She spent a while wondering when the change had been, and concluded that maybe Cresencia had brought him the clothes.

The last thing she'd expected was the procession of people that came to express their condolences. Friends of her uncle, neighbors, don Theo, Corporal Reyes and Sargent García. But also people she'd only met at the engagement party: don… what's his name, this other don and his wife, the Torre's, she did remember them; Anita, Magdalena's father, even a Captain or Inspector or whatever he was. Looked like those people were now a part of her life and she was just now realizing of it. She shook hands with each of them, same as Diego and don Alejandro did.

Padre Felipe kept on with his prayers over there.

(…)

The nights of death are strange, just as those of illness. Life and time get distorted and battle against one another. Even more in a deserted church, or almost deserted. Or a sacristy.

"Cresencia's back, she got you this, it's hot." Stewed chicken with rice, soup and coffee. She stared at the viand like she had no clue what that thing was. Diego insisted: "You haven't eaten anything all day. You have to eat something."

"Did you eat?"

"A while ago. You didn't want to, remember?"

"Ah."

"Are you going to eat?"

"Yes."

Memories poured inside her head like a cornucopia of wakes. She recalled her mother's, her aunt's. Her father didn't have one, there was no money for that sort of stuff back then. They tossed him into a mass grave.

After eating, they continued holding the vigil, sitting on the church's rigid benches. Cresencia murmured prayers and offered them tea or coffee from time to time. Bernardo sat somewhere in the back, the priest wouldn't stop praying, don Alejandro would be back in the morning. The smallest movement seemed to cause echo, the smell of incense, dust, wax and wood was omnipresent, and there was Diego by her side, as if he was real and all else was a dream, or vice versa, saying something to her, lending her his silk handkerchief and his shoulder for her to rest her muddled head on.

(…)

Uncle Pedro was buried at ten in the morning. In these cases, it's always an appropriate resource to say that the day was grey, cloudy and rainy, but the truth is that at that time of the day, the sun was shining intensely in the blue sky. More condolences, more people (some, she remembered; some, not), a flower she let fall in between the shovelfuls of earth that were covering and covering the uncle that was leaving forever, the same that went to pick her up in Monterrey when she was fourteen years old and she'd been sleeping on a cot at the convent's kitchen, since there was no place for her anywhere else. When they were sticking the cross with his name to the ground, if Diego hadn't been holding her, she'd have fallen apart.

And now the house was a large and hollow cave.

When they arrived, Josefina went straight to sit on the couch. She got back on her feet right away:

"What should I do with his things? Should I leave them there? What do you think?"

"I think it's too soon to think about that, you should just rest now."

"He never wanted to throw away aunt Cari's things, it's all there but I don't know if I should do the same. It's all there, all of his things, their things-"

"Josefina, you have to sleep now. Cresencia is outside, she'll stay with you."

"What for?"

"To help you around so you can rest."

Then her eyes widened as if she'd realized of something:

"Diego! Everyone has died, my parents, my aunt, everyone's dead. If-" A wave of sobbing choked her; she held onto his arms: "If something happens to you-"

"No. No, no, no." He held her: "That won't happen. Don't think about that, 'cause it'll never happen."

When she was able to speak again, she asked: "You promise?"

"I swear. You and I will see grandchildren and great grandchildren, the two of us together."

All of the things El Zorro did on a daily basis flashed before her eyes (the most recent of them, only a couple days before): dodging bullets, running around the rooftops, jumping from a horse to a coach at high speed, facing delinquents and authorities alike. And she was more afraid. But no. If she swore it, it had to be true. If he just said it, it was true. If he held her like this, everything would be all right.

(…)

The globe was made of wood and something that seemed to be ivory and probably was. The countries and kingdoms were bordered by red, green or blue dotted lines, with a fantastic dragon, elephant or giant turtle emerging from some point in the ocean.

"Where would you like to go?"

Josefina didn't know he´d been staring at her for a while from the library's entrance. Always the stealthy one, even as Diego.

"My grandfather was born in Spain." Over nations and seas she ran her index finger until she found it; there it was, a bunch diminutive letters, rivers and mountain ranges: "Uncle Pedro always told the story of going there to visit, when he and my mother where little. That the Mediterranean Sea is very big and… that everything smelled like jasmine and olives, that's what he used to say, but maybe he was exaggerating."

"Then we'll have to go there and check if it's true or not. On a honeymoon."

"Are you serious?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise but since we're postponing the wedding, I wanted you to know already."

It was the eighth day of uncle Pedro's novena. He was still fresh in his tomb, so it made her feel a bit guilty to be talking about wedding and honeymoon. He always used to say, though: let the dead bury their dead. She chuckled on the inside only to imagine him sitting comfortably on a cloud, telling her quit the nonsense and marry already. Not because of a postponed wedding am I going to dance my way out of the casket.

"Maybe we don't have to wait two more months. How about just a month? We don't have to make a big party, it can be something small."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. I'm marrying you, I'm not marrying the party. We can do without it."

"It is set then."

A kiss, the first one since the mourning period began.

"I don't know if I've… thanked you."

"There isn't a thing you have to thank me for."

"He didn't have a spot at the cemetery, let alone to cover the expenses of… anything. You took care of that, didn't you?"

"…"

"Thank you Diego, I-"

"No. You thank a favor. That wasn't a favor, it's what people do for their loved ones."

"And thank-you" she covered his mouth with both hands: "for being with me in all of this. I can't imagine having been… or being without you."

"Would you stop giving thanks, señorita?"

"Then what if I say that… I love you?"

"That's better."

Lunch was ready, Bernardo came to inform. After that, there was the mass and not work at the tavern anymore. The days off for mourning and marriage overlapped, and then, the resignation already.

(…)

If the first time he'd taken her to the cliff there had been a million stars, this night they had multiplied by a thousand. The air was neither too cool nor too warm; the sandy soil, with the shawl folded as a pillow, was actually comfortable.

"…that other one is Cassiopeia: one, two, three, four, five" Diego pointed at then, tracing the shape of an extended M: "They use it to find the north when the Great Bear is not visible. Which is… right there: the legs… the head, the tail… you see it?"

"It looks like a piano to me."

"Yes, it could be, but there weren't any pianos when they named it."

His own forearm served as a pillow. A long time he'd spent in Spain studying Astronomy in huge books or glued to a telescope, and sometimes he still did it. But years had gone by, maybe even since he was a teenager, that he hadn't just lied on the ground to see the firmament.

"When were they named?"

"Hundreds of years ago, even thousands."

"By the Greek?"

"Exactly."

If she fixed her eyes on a certain star for a long time, it seemed to vanish. She had to look away and then focus on it again for it to reappear: "One day those people were just like this, looking at the stars. And now they're all dead."

"They're not. They live. In the names of the constellations, for example." He interlocked his fingers with hers: "They'll live there forever. They're immortal."

"So are we, right? Just now."

They were. That little while at the cliff might be short compared to the age of the Earth or the Universe; nevertheless, in the nothingness of space, the eternal of time and the inevitable of death, it spanned it all and it was all there was.

He approached and kissed her.

For her, the sky, constellations and all, started to spin above their heads, like a whirlwind that tossed them into a void where there was no up or down, no rhyme or reason, but it was sweet, overwhelming, infinite.

She felt his hand on her waist.

And felt her legs dissolve.

Then he stopped kissing her and let go. She felt two, three breathings of his, very close, before he said:

"We should-"

"-go back" she finished the sentence.

Truth be told, she didn't want to go but it was… better. Only one more day to be his wife. A whole day, plus few hours.

He helped her up. Tornado would take them back into town, he'd drop her home and good night.

(…)

The living room was more illuminated than usual, thanks to three or four extra lamps. Doña Graciela and her assistant had been joined by Anita, who was already in her pink tulle dress and was popping almonds on the couch.

"Just a little more here… there we go. Take a look at yourself."

"Oh!" Anita exclaimed: "You look so pretty!"

She'd tried it on a couple times before, but it had yet to be shortened here, lengthened there, fixed on that side. This was the final version and it suited her perfectly, discreet and pretty at the same time, just like her makeup and hairdo. She hadn't wanted to look ostentatious, but… like herself: happy.

And that's exactly what she saw on the mirror.

It was too much, it was the day, it was too good to be true, it was true… it was time.

She was twirling in front of the mirror (and Anita clapping) when someone knocked on the door.

"Hija, you look stunning." It was don Theo in his Sunday suit. He'd walk her down the aisle. "Should we go now?"

"Wait." Doña Graciela touched up the lipstick: "Now we're good."

One last look in the mirror. The next one she'd see like this, face to face, would be Diego.

(…)

Note: I don't know about constellations, I just googled a bit, so sorry if you can't really see the ones Diego mentioned at the same. What do you think of this chappie? Thanks for reading!