Chapter 8
Uncovered
She'd jumped off the cliff, there was no turning back.
And her leap was in the shape of a note she'd left under the door for him to find.
It went like this:
"Dear Don D.:
Please forgive my lack of answer, I was out of town. I am glad I could be of service and it pleases me more to know you are feeling well. There were times when I even feared for your life and tell me, what would I have done with a dead outlaw in my living room?
You say you want to thank me in person. Maybe the opportunity will arise.
See you soon,
Lucía."
As she pictured him reading the note, she almost had a physical sensation in her hand: something like a weigh or an itch to open the door, look at him in the face and let the chips fall where they may. It was a what if thought, shuffled around inside of her by forces unknown.
However, looks like it's easier to follow a horse into the depths of the wilderness, pick up a stranger who is also a bandit, bring him home and feed him stinky roots, than twisting a knob.
Her own heartbeat seemed too loud.
And he had such a strong presence; even without making a noise, with a scraped off wall between the two of them, she could feel as if he were staring at her, like any movement or too deep of a breath would give her away, if it hadn't yet.
Then, there was finally something: the crinkling of paper, a raspy sound against the door. That's how she'd imagined he'd write: swiftly, as if his writing was trying to catch up with the promptness of his thoughts.
Soon enough, a note was popping up from under the door.
She didn't budge a muscle.
The paper was mostly on this side, but for sure there was a little bit peeking out.
He was still outside.
She was dying to read it.
And for twenty minutes or so, no one moved.
Hard to say which one was more stubborn.
Lucía gasped in mute when the note disappeared. More writing on the door. Then then it appeared again.
His steps going somewhere. The trotting of a horse fading away.
An eternity later, she finally sneaked a look through the curtain: no one around, apparently.
The type of paper was the same. His angular handwriting (even the o was angular, how is that possible?) had been drawn in charcoal.
"Your doorstep, September 8th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
The funniest thing happened this morning at the square: I believe I saw the lovely face that accompanies the sweet voice and the green eyes that kept yours truly from being a corpse in someone's living room. Do you happen to know when or where I could greet them properly? There is nothing I would like more.
See you soon,
D.
P.S.: Very well then. But I will come back."
What was the agenda now, the next logical step? She had none in store. All she had was his charm in each sentence; the way he changed the closing line from respectfully yours to see you soon, after the closing in her own note; his knocks on the door still echoing around; the reminiscence of his voice pronouncing her name.
Lovely face… sweet voice…
See you soon.
(…)
The market was a thing to prickle the senses: bright colors in the yellow of the lemons, the red of the apples and variations of purple, orange and green in everything else. The voices announced, chanted or greeted, the coins jiggled when changing from hand to hand and a horse or donkey whined somewhere around. But the smells were definitely the best part because they brought along memories out of the blue, without notice or trying: mint, like the tea her abuela used to make for her when she was a kid and it was chilly outside; squash, like Christmas dinner with those neighbors that had moved out of town years ago (did he come to the market often? She remembered seeing him there maybe a couple of times, had she been blind the other times? Or the opposite: way too aware of her place and his, worlds apart, to even consider his existence?); turmeric and other spices at the adjacent stand, that's how her own home had smelled for about a week, as she nursed her very own Zorro back to health.
No one saw her giggle at this, or so she thought.
The scent of berries was present as well: it was sweet and flowery, deep and colorful in a way. She counted eleven coins in her skirt's pocket (after fifteen, it could be considered a good day) while surveilling the baskets with her peripheral vision, not everyone was actually willing to pay for the fruits, vegetables and other merchandise, shoplifters would come out of nowhere and you wouldn't even notice, but of course gooseberries are an excellent aid for the digestion, would you like a bundle or two? (And would Don D. show up at her door that afternoon as well?), this batch that you see is delicious, try one if you please (lovely face, sweet voice, green eyes… the thought caressed her brain), and then the half deaf lady, she was always a trip:
"One for a peso. Three for two pesos."
"Two for a peso?"
"No, it's one. For a peso. One, one. Uno, uno."
"Ah! I see. And four for two pesos?"
"No, three for… for… three… eh…"
"Three for three pesos! That's too expensive, child."
How long had he been there? Better yet: how long had he been looking at her? A river of swarming people between the two and he was now so evident, so in the center of everything, his face now free from any fever, mask or door, yet as familiar as ever (if ever can consist on few weeks, and for her, it sure did.)
The lady left grumbling about the inflation, there was no time to react or think as he began to approach, more like he leapt in, owning each step, making his way among the people.
A boiling burst of nervousness made her look down. It also brought along an absurd thought or two, such as maybe I should offer him some berries or maybe I should just pretend nothing ever happened, ever.
Or maybe just be glad to be here. Be glad to be living this, whatever it is and wherever it goes.
"Good afternoon, señorita."
Ah! His voice.
"Good afternoon, señor."
And she looked up.
The market vanished, the people, the whole town too. It was only them and their eyes, reaching out.
"I was told you have the gift of healing, so I wondered: would you happen to have anything that could perhaps be beneficial for a concussion and an arm wound? Asking for a friend. "
Lucía smiled widely, laughed, smiled some more.
Just be glad. And let it go.
"I might."
"You might?"
"I just might."
END.
Note: this story got out of hand a bit. At first, the idea was only about him being hurt and her helping him out, but it escalated to all of this.
Also, if you've seen the movie "Amelie" which is one of my all-time favorites, you probably noticed that I got inspiration from it for this chapter. I gotta say that at the start of this story, I planned to write the girl as being more outgoing and sassy, but I feel that I always end up projecting myself into my female characters, and this kind of awkward stuff is definitely something I'd do XD
Another thing: not sure if the ending feels kinda rushed or sudden; but I swear that from the start, this is how I planned to end it: with them actually meeting for the first time, so to speak. Now, what will happen next? Who knows! But this was the story of a visitor.
Also, if you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other story: "Immortal" (in English) or "Inmortal" (in Spanish). I think it's better than this one :-S
Thanks for reading! And I'd love to read your opinion!