Chapter III
Checkers
"De la Vega. Come in."
Monasterio had only but glanced at the visitor, then directed his attention back to the documents in front of him.
"Buenos días, Comandante. I hope I am not ill timed."
He gestured at the chair on the other side of his official desk: "To what do I owe the honor?"
Diego waited for the Capitán to look at him again: "Academic matters. You see, I'm working on the genealogic registry of the town, a project I plan on bringing padre Felipe into and, by all means, you're invited as well if you wish to participate. It should be a fascinating endeavor."
"You do not suppose I would have the time for something of that nature, do you? I'm as busy as it is with all of the duties that being the Comandante entails."
"I understand," Diego nodded.
"Anything else? And I'm sure there is."
"As a matter of fact, yes. It would be useful for my research to have a look at the birth records of the last, let's say, fifty years. If you don't mind."
"But I do mind. That is sensitive and classified information that we cannot share with the first scholar who believes he has the right to."
"It appears to me, Comandante" Diego stood up: "that my timing has, in fact, been more than ill. My apologies."
"Accepted."
Monasterio took a puff of his cigar, focused on the papers once more and didn't give another thought to the fastidious pseudo-intellectual.
(...)
The philosophy book was a bit too dense for her liking; the business one, pretty much unreadable; only the poetry volume had caught Josefina's interest, mainly because of the way the first line rhymed with the fourth one, and the second line with the third one. It was a passage about the countryside of a faraway Spain and its beauties, the sunlight, the lands, the peoples and the rivers. Had Diego ever been there, to Spain? He must have, he-
The door. Someone tried to open it up. Once, twice, then again. They kept on struggling, attempting to push it open.
She didn't breathe.
This was the border of the precipice. This was it.
"Cresencia!"
"Ah, Don Diego, you're here". Josefina dared to blink, at the sound of the voices right outside: "Your door is jammed, I think. I can call Vicente, maybe he can fix it."
"Don't worry, it's not jammed at all. I have the key."
"But… we've never needed a key before."
"I have to study now, so if you'll excuse me."
"But I have to clean your room, I always clean it on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and-"
"I'll let you know when I need it cleaned. Gracias."
"But-"
"Gracias."
Silence, inside and out, in the whole world, except for the air that Josefina exhaled, which she had been holding in for an eternity.
"Very well, señor."
The lady's steps, leaving, fading away. Then, two quiet knocks.
"I nearly had a heart attack" she said after letting him in. Incredibly enough, he seemed amused:
"We emerged victorious, didn't we?"
"I'm so sorry about this… Ah, I can clean your room! Just get me a mop and a duster."
"That won't be necessary, you're my guest."
Or something like that. An imposed guest.
But... it's alright.
"I did bring you some things" he placed them on the desk. "Here are some books, though I see you already went ahead with that."
"Sorry, they were laying there and I took them."
"Josefina, would you promise me one thing?"
"What?"
"That you won't apologize for things that don't need an apology."
"I'll try."
"Fair enough. Is that the poetry one?"
"It's great. There's a poem about Spain."
"That's good because this one is about Spain's Geography. This one is a novel and these two are shorter, fictional stories."
"Gracias."
"We have some paper. Quills, ink."
"..."
"And this."
"Are those checkers?"
"Exactly right. Have you played before?"
The squares on the wooden board were alternatively dark and light brown, with matching circular pieces. It smelled like recently applied varnish, like earth and oil. It smelled like the study room from her childhood, the chimney, the armchair and bookshelves.
"Long time ago. But I remember."
"May I challenge you, then?"
"Sure." She couldn't stop smiling, and swear to God she tried to. "I hadn't seen one of these in so long, I used to play with my father all the time."
"Did you?"
"Yes, I had a father. For a while. He would always play the black ones and would never go easy on me, he'd never just let me win. So whenever I won, the few times I did, it was because I had really put effort into it. I'm glad he taught me that."
"It sounds like he was a wise man."
"Not that much." Sometimes it's better to just leave it there, not go deeper down roads that tend to be dark; be diplomatic and formal, not too personal. And other times we just let it go: "He gambled everything away. The house, all we had."
"I'm sorry that happened to you." He had a way of looking, and a way of saying things that you would just… believe it: "It will get better. You'll see. "
It already is.
He spoke again: "Are you sure you want to play now? If not, we can leave it for another time."
"Can I be the black ones?"
"Of course."
"Then, yes."
(...)
That evening, Diego had dinner with his father at the salon, as usual. They talked about politics and when it was time for don Alejandro to go and get ready for bed (always at 10 o'clock, sharp), the son pretended to go to his room as well. Instead, he returned to the dining room, made sure there was no one around and made it to the secret passage through the cupboard access.
About an hour later, Zorro was infiltrating into the town's headquarters, where the windows and trapdoors, the hallways and corners, were so familiar to him. In the third filing cabinet, second drawer, he found what he had come for:
María Josefina Iglesias Martínez.
Birth date: June 21st, 1805.
The names of the parents, address, baptism date and other information was there as well, but he didn't read that: there were more pressing matters, such as heading out without being heard or seen. He would usually feel tempted to leave Monasterio a souvenir: a Z carved on some strategic place, a Zorro flag waving in the wind in the middle of the Cuartel (that was a good one, he reckoned, though he'd had to deal with the consequences later on). Not this night; he could leave no trace. And he didn't.
Only Tornado's footprints, which blended together with those of dozens of other horses', were left behind.
(...)
Notes:
So I'm halfway through writing this chapter and then I learn (through a reviewer's message, they were telling me about the history of these times, which I don't know much about) that back then, birth certificates were kept at churches. (*Insert my surprised Pikachu face*) That makes sense. Once again, I'm sorry about the historical inaccuracies in my story. But everything has a reason to be, I promise.
I wanted to portray the Diego-Monasterio dynamic kind of like it was at the very start of the series. Of course the Comandante, unfortunately, stayed with us for 13 episodes only, but I feel that for example in season 2, Diego was less… pretendy? And more just himself.
I watched several Diego-Monasterio scenes to get inspiration. Btw, in Spanish it's "Monasterio".
As usual, thanks so much for reading! And thanks for reviewing, it really makes my day :-)
