The Word (3)
The shadows were lengthening and it was nearly time for supper before Felipe realized what Diego was trying to give him. He closed the book on engineering and hugged it to his chest, suddenly warm and almost giddy.
A profession, one of the few things Diego could never have for himself.
It wasn't just about making a good living or using the talents God had bestowed or reaching a position of respect. Diego saw his demand that Felipe choose a profession not as an obligation or a burden, but an expression of pure freedom.
Diego was a caballero. His position was secure, his "occupation" predestined. Someday he would inherit the vast de la Vega estate, be responsible for several thousand head of cattle, a profitable vineyard, acres of farmland planted in corn and fruit trees, and all the workers who depended on de la Vega productivity for their livelihoods.
Diego easily had the intelligence to be a doctor or an engineer or a navigator. Or anything. But he had never had the luxury of choosing. Even the Guardian, as much as he loved it, was seen as little more than a hobby, something he would set aside someday for the serious business of running a ranch.
Diego had never complained, not about that. If he weren't so emphatic about pushing Felipe to take the issue seriously it might seem as though he had never given it any thought. But there was no question, as much as he loved his home, as much as he enjoyed riding as Zorro, even as talented as he was with art and literature and music, what he loved best of all was the chemistry set in the cave and questions of natural philosophy. Felipe wasn't sure, had their positions been reversed, how he would have found the strength to be so generous, to give a friend the freedom he could never have for himself.
He set the book aside and went to the kitchen. The cook was already laying out a tray for Don Alejandro. Felipe told her to leave something for Diego as well, but not expect him to appear for dinner. It would probably be a few hours before he settled down to eat.
In the shadowed room Don Alejandro looked both old and weary, but Felipe woke him anyway. Recovery required food as well as sleep, a lesson learned tending Diego's injuries.
Moving stiffly, Don Alejandro shifted to a chair, and Felipe slid over an ornamental table to hold the tray.
"Thank you, Felipe. Tell Maria it looks wonderful."
Felipe nodded and spread his hands to ask if the patron needed anything else.
Very firmly, he answered, "Yes. I've been thinking--" He broke off abruptly and motioned toward his arm. "All this has got me to thinking, I don't really know all that much about," he stopped again, his eyes sliding away from Felipe's face. If he hadn't known better, it would almost seem like Don Alejandro was lying, or at least hiding something. "You know where Diego keeps his medical books?" His voice was much less firm now. "I would like to look at them. I suppose I know very little about...injuries."
Felipe nodded and replied that he would bring the books when he came back for the tray.
"Perhaps I'm bored, all this time lying around," Don Alejandro added. He sounded very reasonable. And, after all, it was a perfectly reasonable request.
Felipe lit the lamp, checked the chamber pot, and left to retrieve the medical books.
The two main ones were in the cave--ponderous tomes filled with tiny words and appalling diagrams. Diego consulted them regularly, more often from curiosity than from need. Felipe had read--and re-read--the sections on infections and wounds caused by musket balls and falls and swords. All of that had been driven by need and some of it had given him nightmares.
Diego was at the desk writing when Felipe entered the cave. Felipe reminded him about dinner and explained that Don Alejandro was bored before collecting the cumbersome books. Then he paused and turned back. He didn't have a free hand, but he leaned sideways just enough to brush Diego's shoulder before continuing on his way.
z
On Sunday morning Diego found his father already up and starting breakfast in the dining room. Diego hesitated only a moment before sitting down and reaching to take the pot of chocolate from Maria. "I take it you're feeling better?"
"Well, I man can only spend so much time in bed--" He broke off, frowning. "I thought I'd go to church this morning. My Arm is still too stiff for riding, but we can take the wagon." The rest of breakfast passed in silence. Father seemed to have gotten over his anger, but he was still casting Diego strange looks. For his part, Diego was acutely conscious of the deceptions that lay between them. Anything he might say--any apology he might make for the disappointment his father must surely be feeling--would only compound the lie. He didn't have the heart.
Diego told himself he didn't dread a trip to town in the wagon with his father. And, an hour later, when they were on the way, he told himself that the silence wasn't awkward.
He'd offered a ride in the wagon to the cook and the maid and taken the reins himself so that Felipe had has hands free for conversation. Diego tried not to think about how unfair it was to put the boy--quite literally--in the middle.
"You were still reading when I went to bed last night," he said as the wagon turned onto the main road. "Are you having no luck making a decision."
Felipe smiled and shook his head. "I want to be a lawyer."
On his other side, Alejandro tapped Felipe's shoulder and said, "I didn't catch that."
Automatically, Diego translated: "He wants to be a lawyer."
He blinked in surprise. "A lawyer? Really? But that is an excellent idea."
Felipe pointed at Diego.
"It was your idea?" and oh, but Father sounded too surprised. Perhaps he knew it, because he hastened to add, "The population is growing. We could use someone to handle wills and contracts and so forth. Not to mention, the way criminal cases are handled around here. A pure disgrace." He laughed once. "Dear boy, you will have your work cut out for you!"
The rest of the short trip passed with Diego's father and Diego's student conversing excitedly about Felipe's new aspiration. Diego kept his eyes on the necks of the horses in front of him and let the discussion flow past unhindered.
Once they arrived, of course, the silence that lay between the members of the de le Vega household was buried beneath the chatter of distant neighbors who only saw one another on Sunday mornings. In its way, though, the gauntlet of greetings and well-wishing was almost as burdensome as the silence. Everyone who had not already heard about Felipe's encounters with the stagecoach bandits was alight with questions, and those who already knew the story were anxious to convey their congratulations.
Felipe, smiling uneasily, planted himself at Diego's elbow. He looked both gratified and scandalized at the attention. At one point, recovering from the Joshua Barnes' 'Yankee' praise (a clout across the shoulders that nearly knocked him over), Felipe signed an apology and added that perhaps he'd liked being invisible.
"You did earn this," Diego said, edging them toward the church. Once inside, the press of people would calm down. "You were brave. You did stand up for the community."
Felipe frowned, signing with restrained motions, "Easier to watch people when nobody watches back."
Diego patted his shoulder.
On Sundays, the De le Vegas gave the house servants the afternoon off, and on warm days brought a picnic lunch and joined the other families in the Mission orchard. Growing up, Sunday afternoons had been sheer joy, playing hoop games and climbing trees with Francisco Escalante, Jose Macias, and, before he died of measles, Don Carlos' nephew Emanuel.
Today, though, they'd left the basket at home and gone to the tavern to eat instead. The explanation was that Don Alejandro was still too stiff to sit on the ground, but, at the tavern there would be fewer people, and for Diego that was a clear attraction.
The main attraction was Victoria, of course. On Sundays she only set out a cold lunch and lemonade, but since she didn't wait on the tables or cook, she had more time to talk. Diego watched her as she circuited the room, still in her Sunday dress, laughing at something one of the lancers said. The word magnificent came to mind. So did other words that Diego absently began to arrange into a poem before he realized that there was no paper at hand.
In any case, he had a stack of poems at home he could never give her, despite the fact that he judged some of them to be quite good. Poetry was a talent of Diego, not Zorro, and Diego was not in love, not with his dear childhood friend. Their relationship was completely innocent.
Meanwhile, Alejandro was announcing--to anyone who paused to say hello--Felipe's interest in the law. Some of the older Caballeros eyed Felipe speculatively, no doubt considering the long-term usefulness of a local lawyer, particularly one whose primary allegiance would be to one of their own.
Sergeant Mendoza came over to say that the stage coach robbers were scheduled to hang on Tuesday. Diego didn't comment on the alcalde's rush to justice this time--there were too many witnesses, their own actions had further incriminated them, and Zorro himself had caught them in the process of attempting still another murder.
Don Alejandro's smile vanished. "Thank you, Sergeant. We will attend."
Stumbling a bit, Mendoza changed the subject to Felipe's heroism, and the round of congratulations resumed.
"You know, Felipe, the military recruiting officer will be here next month. We could use a clever young man like you in the ranks."
It was, actually, a generous offer. Mendoza was a little lazy and not terribly enthusiastic about some of his duties, but he wasn't an idiot, and the casualty rate at the garrison was very low. He didn't get his men killed by careless mistakes or inattention. A young man could do worse than to ally himself with a sergeant who had survived almost twenty years in the service.
Felipe politely declined: he had decided he didn't need to see the world. At Mendoza's confused look, Diego explained that Felipe had changed his mind. "He says he wants to help people fight injustice. He wants to become a lawyer."
At this point Mendoza voiced the response that everyone else in the pueblo was too polite or too awed by de le Vega influence to share. "A lawyer? But--he's deaf! He can't even talk. I mean--He can't-"
Felipe flinched only a little, but Diego felt positively sick. He put a possessive arm around Felipe's shoulders and said--something--polite and cheerful, certainly nothing threatening or scathing.
Mendoza stammered, quickly concealing his surprise, and changed the subject again. Felipe looked up at Diego, who had not stepped away, and wiggled two of his fingers like a hummingbird flying. He shook his head, nodded toward Victoria, and gave Diego a shove in her direction.
A little abashed, Diego went.
He refilled his glass from the pitcher and joined her at one of the back tables, where she was just sitting down to her own lunch.
"Hola, Diego," she said, nodding for him to sit. "How are you all doing?"
He shook his head ruefully. "I was just told to stop hovering and come bother you for a while."
She laughed. "Fortunately for me, you are not such a terrible bother." She glanced over at Felipe. "My goodness. It seems like just yesterday he was a very small boy."
"Don't remind me. Although...sometimes it seems like yesterday that you were in pigtails, playing with a doll."
She shook her head at him in mock admonition, but her eyes were far away. "We don't realize, when we're young, do we?" she murmured.
"Realize what?" Diego asked, taking a sip of his lemonade.
"What we will be capable of doing when we are grown. The things we will have to do when we are grown."
"No, I suppose not," he replied, not sure he understood.
"I would not have guessed I could run a tavern by myself. Or that I would want to."
"Ah," Diego said. "No. I could not have guessed....." He could not have predicted Zorro.
Victoria looked over at Felipe. "Sergeant Mendoza says you were all pinned down in the house and Felipe led them away."
"Yes, he did."
"It's amazing, what we can do if we need to."
Diego, not trusting himself to speak, nodded.
z
"I should check your arm," Diego said as they entered the house.
His father glanced away. "I'm sure it's fine."
"Nevertheless."
Alejandro nodded, and Diego collected a basin of water and fresh bandages. In Alejandro's office, he wiped the few traces of dried blood away and checked again for swelling or the smell of infection. "It's healing nicely," he said, breaking the silence.
Alejandro stared fixedly at the window. "You're very skilled at this, son." It was the stiffest, most insincere sounding compliment Diego could imagine. He answered with his own flat "Thank you," and pushed his chair back to rise.
Alejandro's good hand flashed out and stopped him. "Son. If there was something you wanted to tell me...."
Startled, Diego could only blink. "Father--your arm really is coming along very well." But this was not the answer his father wanted, and Diego stumbled to silence. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a wan smile, Diego nodded and left.
He stalked through the house, dumping the basin and rags in the kitchen, then retrieving a set of practice swords from his bedroom and Felipe from the parlor. "Change out of your Sunday clothes. We're going to practice."
They went up to the sheering shed, far enough from the house that no one would see them, enough open space so they could move freely. Felipe grinned when Diego handed him the sword, and Diego had to breathe in, trying to settle himself.
Felipe, smiling, saluted formally and settled into an opening stance. Confident. Relaxed. Delighted in an unexpected lesson.
Diego forced himself to smile back, to drag his thoughts away from his father, and to ignore his lingering uncertainty about this little experiment. He saluted. "Defend yourself."
Diego started slowly. He had no intention of breaching Felipe's defense, but he put a little strength behind each ringing strike. A dozen times in succession, Felipe turned Diego's sword neatly aside. He attempted a single foray of his own. Diego struck it down with more force than necessary and speeded up his attack.
Felipe frowned, but he didn't pause in his defense.
Diego turned, making Felipe follow him. He was working hard now. "Close your stance," Diego commanded, striking again and again. "Don't let your arm drop."
Already, Felipe was more skilled than most of the lancers stationed in Los Angeles, but Diego was determined that he not become overconfident. He continued to circle, pressing the attack. "A hanging guard, now. No, let my tip slide away. Again. Again."
Felipe was completely absorbed with the task of keeping Diego's sword point at bay as he followed the string of commands and corrections. Slightly breathless and sweaty, he met Diego's blade again and again, tossing it smoothly to one side and then another.
Diego increased both speed and force once more, pushing Felipe backward. "Watch your balance, your legs are too far apart. Better. Don't let me take any ground." Diego himself was working harder now than he had ever had to against Luis Ramone. It was time to end this. Diego lunged once, making Felipe dance to the side. In a moment he had swept the sword from the young man's hand and disarmed him. Without stepping back, Diego lowered the point of his sword to Felipe's stomach. "Yield," he said in the same tone he'd been using for instructions all afternoon.
Felipe raised his hands in surrender.
Diego didn't pull back. "Aloud."
The low sound that came from Felipe's mouth bore no similarity to "I yield," but it nearly brought tears to Diego's eyes anyway. Too tired, too caught in the habit of obeying, Felipe hadn't thought, hadn't hesitated, he had simply tried.
For a moment Felipe simply gazed at him in astonishment. Then he gulped and produced the quiet bleat again. And again. Even the third try barely sounded recognizable, but Diego dropped his sword and swept Felipe into his arms. "Yes," he whispered, "yes."
Felipe pushed his face into Diego's shoulder, muffling the sound as he said over and over--no, it wasn't "I yield," he was saying, it was "Diego."
"Yes, I hear you." Diego realized that he was nearly ready to weep.
Felipe pushed himself back and signed--awkwardly, one-handedly, since he was still clinging to Diego with one arm. "Always. You always heard me," which only made Diego's eyes burn more.
Somehow he got them both seated on a rough wooden bench in the sun. Felipe leaned back against the roof support and tilted his head up, eyes closed. Diego, resting his forearms on his knees, breathed deeply and mopped his face with his rapidly wilting handkerchief.
Felipe nudged his shoulder and raised both hands, palm up in mystification.
"How did I do it?" Diego asked. He had no idea how to answer that, and after a moment Felipe made the sign for magic. "No, of course not. I--I didn't know it would work. But it seemed to me that you...were ready. Perhaps you only needed a little help."
Felipe nodded slowly and whispered, "Diego." Already his voice was cracking with overuse.
"Yes, my friend."
They sat for a long time, until the slight breeze began to feel a little chilly. Diego rose and collected the swords. "I don't know how we'll do it," he said slowly, "Or when we can start. But if we mention to my father that you are hearing loud noises it will be all over the pueblo in a day. If your hearing 'comes back' gradually...."
Felipe's eyes snapped open.
"Or there is a hot spring north of here...to the west. The Indians say it has healing powers." Diego swallowed. "Padre Benitez informs me that 'everyone' thinks I dote on you and coddle you terribly. No one will think anything of it if I take you looking for miracles--"
"Now that's crazy," Felipe signed flatly. "You can't fake a miracle. Not even you!"
"Fake?" Diego was as surprised as Felipe seemed to be. "It wouldn't be faking anything. As far as I'm concerned, your recovery is a miracle. Felipe--" He stopped, reminding himself that Felipe really had no clear idea of the state he'd been in when Diego found him. It was not a topic either of them would benefit from dwelling upon. "It is a gift from God, and I am deeply grateful."
Felipe softened, but he still shook his head. "The secret protects us. Both of us."
"I admit, this deception has been very convenient for Zorro. But you cannot spend your whole life pretending to be someone you are not, and I won't...I won't do that to you." Bad enough he had done it to himself.
"You need me."
"And I will still need you, after!" He found himself caught. Felipe's wide, brown eyes were afraid. It made Diego pause. "Felipe, the most important things between us are not these secrets. You are my best friend, my confident, my comrade. You are...all the brothers and sisters my parents couldn't give me, the sons I'd have if Zorro.... But nothing will change that. Nothing. The world will change, and we will change, but I will always--" Unable to go on, he returned the swords he was still holding to their sheaths and set them neatly aside. "You told us you wanted to be a lawyer. And I think you want to use all of your abilities to do that."
Felipe closed his eyes and nodded slowly.
"I think you want it very badly. I think you want so much from the world."
Another nod.
"Then how could I want any less for you? How could I not help you, as you have helped me?"
Felipe sniffed. Diego could see desire in his eyes now. Desperate desire--but also some of the old pain.
"You are not betraying me, by being ambitious for yourself. And you are certainly not cutting yourself off from me...by learning to talk to other people."
Felipe's hands flew to life. "I owe you everything. I admire you more than anyone."
Diego nodded. "Thank you. Thank you. I don't--I am not denying either your loyalty or support. But you are growing up and some things will have to change. Let's this do this together, my friend. Let's pick our moment, and make our plans. Yes?"
Felipe nodded.
It was getting late. The sun was already setting. They returned to the hacienda and sat down to a simple supper of beans and tortillas with father, who spent the meal apparently lost in thought, barely speaking, and eating only a little. Diego assumed that it was only their same old problem...or perhaps his shoulder was paining him a little...but in any case, Diego found he didn't have the strength to puzzle it out that evening.
When the meal was finished, he slipped off as quickly as he could and took Toronado out for exercise. He'd dressed as Zorro, but he wasn't looking for trouble, just some peace in the quiet darkness. He might, if the mood struck him, stop by the tavern or search the alcalde's office, but only if he was out late enough that the Pueblo had gone quiet for the night. He had nothing specific in mind.
z
Felipe was in the kitchen, the French-language chemistry book along with the Spanish commentary laid out on the large table beside Diego's notes. None of it made any sense. Lavoisier was probably some kind of madman. What did it matter what water was 'made of?' It was made of water, and the most important issue was getting enough of it where it was needed and not letting it flood where it wasn't. Hopefully, now that Diego had admitted that Felipe had no talent for chemistry, he would give up trying to lever it into his poor brain.
Tied up in the case against phlogiston, he really didn't notice Don Alejandro until the older man had tapped him on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Felipe. I didn't mean to startle you. I was looking for Diego?"
Felipe signed that Diego had gone to bed.
Don Alejandro frowned slightly. "Oh. Very well. Perhaps you and I might speak for a few minutes then?" He looked very serious.
Felipe nodded and followed Don Alejandro back to his office. The prospect of another very serious one-on-one conversation made chemistry look much more attractive.
Don Alejandro seated him not in the wooden chair across from the desk but in the padded chair beside it. He turned politely to face Felipe and regarded him for several seconds. "Are you all right? After these last few days?"
Felipe shrugged and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
"That's good. Good." He nodded slowly. "I hope you weren't hurt by what Sergeant Mendoza said in the tavern at lunch. He was surprised. He didn't mean anything by it."
When the patron was in a mood to talk seriously he would push until he was satisfied. Felipe hoped that bluntness would satisify him. "I am a peasant," he signed very slowly (certainly he did not want to repeat this). "I have no family. I am crippled. And I want to be a lawyer?" Felipe shook his head, his eyes turning toward the ceiling.
"There was a time when I might have agreed with him....A long time ago now, I suppose. People can learn."
Felipe wondered if Don Alejandro thought this was news. He nodded solemnly, hoping the conversation was over and he'd be dismissed. But no, they weren't finished. Don Alejandro sighed. "You are completely loyal to my son."
Felipe nodded. This didn't need explaining.
"If it came to a choice between the two of us, I have no illusions. You would chose Diego, and rightly so."
Felipe had no idea how to respond to this statement. It was true, of course, but the idea--the implication--that he would betray Don Alejandro or that he recognized no allegiance to him, he could hardly let that stand.
Don Alejandro raised a hand. "No. You don't need to protest. I...I strongly suspect that my son needs an ally."
Felipe ignored the growing know in his belly and tried to keep his worry off his face. Wherever Don Alejandro was going with this, he certainly had not guessed about Zorro. The secret was safe, as long as Felipe made no mistakes and gave it away.
"But you need to remember that I am on Diego's side, too. I love my son. I would move heaven and earth to help him, if I only knew what help he needed."
Felipe stared resolutely at the clock on the desk. He wouldn't react. He wouldn't let his worry get away from him. He would allow himself to look uncomfortable, as anyone in his position would, surely, this conversation couldn't go on forever.
"Felipe, please. I am asking you for his sake. How ill is my son?"
Felipe's jaw went slack. For a moment he felt frozen, unable even to take a breath. Then, numbly, he signed, "I don't understand."
"What ails Diego? I am quite sure you know, and for his sake, I am asking you to tell me."
Felipe froze. To deny an illness--if the denial was even believed--would only set Diego's father searching for some other explanation. But to "admit" to some health problem was not only an outright lie, but an act so cruel it made his stomach ache just to contemplate it.
"Whatever it is, he's been trying to conceal it for several years now," he continued relentlessly. "It is serious enough that he refuses to consider marriage." He paused, looking into Felipe's eyes. "The primary symptom seems to be headaches, sometimes quite debilitating. I suspect these little 'colds' he gets are also related. He recovers very quickly, but they're so frequent...."
He paused again. The silence stretched between them.
"Three years ago he was 'thrown' from the most docile horse we own, and yet he could cut cattle and leap Oak Creek when he was twelve. And he wouldn't ride to the pueblo for help two days ago. What interferes with his riding? Dizzy spells? Some kind of problem with his eyes that comes and goes?"
Unable to bear it any longer, Felipe signed, "Diego is fine."
Alejandro slammed his palm down on the desk. "Do not lie to me!"
"I can't talk about this!" He surged to his feet, signing too fast, leaving too rudely. He ran anyway. There as no salvaging this conversation. Possibly not even Diego could fix this, but since that was the only hope, he made straight for the secret door and hid himself in the cave to wait.
z
It grew late, then it grew later. Alejandro sat at his desk, a flickering candelabra beside him, turning the pages of Diego's Manual of Diagnostics. Many of the technical terms eluded him, and some of the theories were downright bizarre. The rest was, simply, terrifying.
Consumption. At least, thanks be to God, Diego's symptoms did not indicate that.
A tumor--if it were causing symptoms--would probably have already killed him.
An injury to the head would account for the headaches and balance or vision problems, even years after the event, apparently...but Diego's speech and memories seemed intact.
An aliment of the heart? Yes, some of the symptoms fit. And, if this was the problem, the case was not serious, since Diego showed none of the worst symptoms: fainting, breathlessness, swelling of the extremities.
Alejandro rubbed his eyes. Had he actually just had the thought that an ailment of the heart 'might not be serious?' How absurd. He was drifting toward madness....
He flipped through the pages, looking for a reference to sleep. Diego often slept half the day away, and yet frequently he was tired. He excused himself by saying he'd stayed up late reading or watching the moon or counting stars or something even more foolish...but perhaps those excuses were lies, and Diego--for some reason--could not sleep. Or perhaps, some days, no amount of sleep was enough.
There were lies. Some at least, many...probably. Tonight's discussion with Felipe made that clear, if nothing else. The boy had sat there, earnest and mystified while Alejandro had pushed and pled. When his innocent façade had finally broken Felipe had been beside himself with fear and grief. He must know...everything. And he had never given anything away.
The boy could join an acting troupe. Hell, he could probably teach acting.
Alejandro only allowed himself a moment of bitterness. As repugnant as their deception was, as painful as it was to be kept in the dark....obviously they were trying to protect him. Whatever Diego was suffering, or whatever they expected the end to be, clearly they believed that it was too much for Alejandro to bear.
At least it was not consumption, thank God. And probably not his heart.
Some ill humor of the blood?
A quiet rustle of cloth made him look up. Diego was standing in the doorway. He had come silently, like a cat. Without waiting to be invited, he entered the office and took the seat across from his Alejandro. His eyes dropped to the desk, and the medical book spread out there.
Alejandro closed the book and set it aside. "Good evening, Diego," he said levelly. "Felipe said you'd already gone to bed."
"I dozed off reading, not quite the same thing." The words were calm and inflectionless and a lie. He wondered if there was any use in challenging it.
"Father, I have just had the most remarkable conversation with Felipe. He told me you believe I am concealing some serious illness from you, that I am dying."
Alejandro blinked. He should have expected this. Of course Felipe would run to his patron. They had no secrets from one another. The fact that he should have expected this confrontation did not make him ready for it. His words tumbled over each other as hey broke free. "Diego, I--Just tell me, please. Let me help you. Whatever you are facing--"
"My health is fine," Diego protested. The anguish in his voice belied him.
Alejandro closed his eyes. "Please, my son. Whatever the truth is, it cannot be worse than this...wondering." Even as he said it, he realized that he might be wrong, and winced.
"My health is fine. My health is, in fact, excellent. Father--"
"You are bedridden two or three times a month! Some days you have so little strength--"
"Stop! Please! Father, stop. Papa. Papa. I promise you, I am not sick."
"How can I believe that? The evidence is clear. And it is you who always places such stock by evidence."
"The evidence...in this case is deceptive...in fact, deliberately so."
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"Father...you know I am loyal to the Crown."
The room suddenly felt a little cold. Alejandro nodded.
"I have no desire for independence. I do not hold with public disorder, and I believe revolution is a needless and tragic loss of life."
"So you've said." Ever since coming home from his uncle's funeral, nine days late and with a small child clinging behind him on the saddle.
"But any resistance against the tyranny of our local military government is an act of treason, and any successful resistance would be punishable by hanging."
"What has that to do--"
"What I've done--it hasn't just been unkind to you. In some ways, it is dishonorable. I've concealed...a great number of illegal actions."
Alejandro gaped for a moment. "What illegal actions?"
"The kind that would get you hung as my accomplice if you had any knowledge of them."
"The kind that would...you're engaged in some kind of resistance movement? Diego? You?"
"You see? Could anything be less likely? Diego de le Vega a secret radical?" He shook his head, suddenly casual and carefree. "How absurd. I am no threat to anyone."
Alejandro turned the idea over in his mind. Diego, whose talents came and went, whose interests waxed and waned, who was never available when things got interesting.... "But, no. Diego...you tell me you're not sick, but...you are too frail to be...." Although he hadn't been. Never, as a child. Barely sick at all, until this slow slide into 'headaches' and 'fatigue' after he'd returned from Spain.
Diego's bland smile abruptly faded. "A ruse, Papa. I'm sorry. It was meant to protect you, not hurt you."
"But--what have you been doing? I mean, I've heard nothing, seen nothing! Who--? And how--?"
"I won't tell you what I've done. Yes, you have heard of much of it. It's only my involvement that is a secret. And no, I won't discuss it with you. I won't risk you're execution if I'm found out."
"But Diego--I could help you. Whatever you're doing--" It occurred to him that he didn't know what Diego was doing, or what 'resisting tyranny,' might involve. But, while he might not know his son's actions, Alejandro knew his son's values. Didn't he? Hadn't he always felt that Diego was very much his mother's son? Was it likely he would object to Diego's choices when he never disagreed with what his son wrote in the Guardian? "I am your father," he said at last. It was a plea.
Diego nodded. "I admit, father, that there have been days when I wished for your council. But your innocence protects me. You are quite transparent in your dealings at the pueblo, among the caballeros, with the military.... No one--looking however closely--can discern that you are hiding any covert resistance, because you are, in fact, hiding nothing."
In the silence that followed, one of the candles guttered and went out. Alejandro ignored it. "Felipe--"
"Knows far too much for his own safety," Diego nodded. "I did not...I did not intend to put him so at risk."
Yes, that made sense. Felipe stayed too close to Diego for something that took so much of his time to be concealed. And more, Felipe must have covered for Diego so many times. "You weren't asleep earlier. When he said you were."
"No," Diego conceded. "I was out."
"No one would suspect him of anything. He is...." A memory of Felipe's hands passed through his mind: I am a peasant. I have no family. I am crippled
"Conveniently invisible," Diego finished in a hard, unhappy voice.
"Two days ago, when Felipe was leading the bandits away, why did you refuse to leave the house?"
"I...had resources I could bring to bear on his behalf--But not with you and the soldiers there to witness."
Alejandro's breath caught. "You have a way to contact Zorro!" he whispered.
"I will admit to nothing, Father," Diego answered. His tone was harder than Alejandro had ever heard it. "And you must forget everything I have told you."
But his mind was afire. Diego! Living some great, double life, concealing a revolution--no, not that, not war, not Diego--concealing some great, subtle undertaking, right here, under his father's very eyes! "And the reason you won't marry?" he pressed.
"I could not conceal my actions from a wife, and I will not see an innocent woman hang with me, should it come to that."
He sagged suddenly. "But you have managed to conceal them from me. You had me completely blinded, disappointed, even. Oh, Diego."
Diego didn't let him continue. "You are still disappointed. I am peculiar and ineffectual, hardly the son any man would want." His eyes held Alejandro pinned as he continued relentlessly. "Papa, I am very sorry for the worry I caused you. I never meant to bring you such grief. I never stopped to consider where all the evidence I left you was leading. This was my mistake, and I hope you can forgive me. But this discussion can go no further and you cannot think of it in the future. Nothing in your attitude or behavior can change. My life and yours--at the very least--depend upon it."
Alejandro should have been able to stand up and demand a full explanation. Diego was his son, not the other way around. But the look in his eyes (and where did that come from? Since when did Diego have a commanding presence?) kept Alejandro silent. Diego, who had fooled everyone.... who had, apparently, accomplished quite a bit...said that this was what was needed, and Alejandro could not find it in himself to argue..
Slowly, he got to his feet and came around the desk. He laid a hand on his son's broad shoulder. "Not ill?" he asked softly.
Diego surged to his feet and embraced him. "No, Papa. Not ill. I swear it." He laughed brokenly. "I am as healthy as a bull."
"And you did not fall from the mare?"
"I fell, but not from the mare. I struck my head rather badly, actually. But not from the mare and not on the smooth road to Monterey, I promise you."
Alejandro bit down on the urge to ask what he had been riding and on what mission.
Diego started to pull back, but Alejandro's arms wouldn't open quiet yet. "Thanks to God," he whispered.
Another of the candles went out. Diego pushed himself back. "Can you do this, Father? Will you keep my secret?"
Alejandro straightened and took a deep breath. He had to take another, but finally he could speak calmly. "What secret? Diego, what are you going on about? Look how late you've kept me, talking about nonsense." Even to himself, his voice sounded shaky, but he plowed ahead anyway. "We have to be up early tomorrow. Show some sense and get to bed." He handed over one of the remaining candles and used the other to light the way to his room. He did not look back.
TBC