Chapter 7

Yes, it was essential that this L.A., whoever she was, awoke. And testified. Diego didn't doubt that her version would corroborate Felipe's. But the question was when. Yes, when; and not if. This second wording... well, he didn't even want to think about it. Yet the doctor had not seemed overly optimistic about the patient's condition, but Diego refused the possibility that she lost her life in whatever happened. She had to testify, it couldn't be otherwise. Or else...

Diego shook his head to dispel this unpleasant thought, not unlike a drenched dog shakes himself dry. In the meanwhile, Felipe remained in jail. And a suspect. Who else but Diego himself would believe in his innocence? His father, surely; after all, he knew Felipe as well as himself did, he had partly brought him up too, during all those years himself was away in Spain. It was under Don Alejandro's care and guardianship that Felipe had finished childhood and then entered teenage, Diego remembered. His father would trust the boy's integrity, and his innocence.

Another thought came to his mind: he was convinced that the fact that Felipe did not speak, at least not through words and orally, would work against him. Come on, he knew too well that, to the majority, even to the best-meaning people of the pueblo, even to those with a good heart and who granted him their affection, Felipe was considered as... well as a bit… 'simple' so to speak, merely owing to his handicap. While the boy, as for him, understood absolutely everything and even far beyond what most people were able to grasp themselves; Diego was well placed to know that: he, who was so close to him in everyday life that he didn't just rub shoulders with him, had taken on – and was still carrying on – his education under his tutelage in advanced areas such as the latest scientific concepts or discoveries, and who "conversed" with him about everything and nothing was well aware that both Felipe's intelligence and knowledge were above average; especially in this remote pueblo of the new world where the thirst for culture and advanced academic education was not the daily concern of people who, first and foremost and above all else, had to run their business, whether it is an arid and barren land to cultivate with their hands in order to get from it the bare minimum for a living, a business to run or a large estate like his father's to manage.

Europe and its Enlightenment were very far away, the Spanish Motherland almost an abstract concept, and culture as well as academic knowledge did not even appear as a luxury there, but rather as an idleness, a lazy leisure, a vain coquetry which hardly befitted either peónes, merchants, soldiers or even wealthy landowners or well-born caballeros. A ridiculous preciosity, somehow... in other words, something to make any man appear a bit… wussy.

These interests and skills that in Madrid, in Barcelona, in Seville, in Paris, in Berlin and in London were the heyday of salons and of all that mattered in the most respected social circles, were looked down upon in this Californian pueblo, as a bizarre fancy at best – by Don Alejandro or Victoria for instance – but more generally were simply taken for perfectly ridiculous by the majority. Scientists, philosophers, upcoming glorious celebrities, and all those who through hard research and audacious theories were preparing both the world's future and the progress to come – from which, Diego was convinced, everyone would benefit without even knowing it – all these brilliant minds were here disregarded at best as insignificant, at worst as pathetic sissies, just on the grounds that they didn't spend their time settling their disagreements with their fists or sword in hand, on the simple pretext that when facing criticism or contestation they preferred honing their arguments over sharpening their blades...

But then an idea came to Diego's mind: if people here disregarded Felipe's sign language as insignificant simply because they hadn't learned it or didn't conceive that it could be fluently used, if they didn't consider it a language in its own right, just as valid as any other, or even if they suspected Diego to "adapt" the translation to his needs or as he wished, then Felipe just had to express himself in the good and simple Spanish everyone knew, understood and used, that was all. He would tell his version of the incident in a language Mendoza, Sepulveda and the alcalde could understand, and perhaps it would even the odds. A little bit, anyway...

"Victoria," he then said quickly, "can I borrow a quill and an inkwell? And would you also have a few sheets of paper to–"

"Really, Don Diego," the corporal interrupted, "with all due respect, do you think now is the right time for one of your articles? That won't bail Fe–"

But Diego swept his objection with an impatient wave of his hand before Sepulveda had even finished stating it and the corporal fell silent.

"Victoria..." Don Diego repeated in a tone that transpired an urgency she didn't understand, "please..."

He didn't seem to want to loose any time in explanations and it was such an unusual behaviour and tone from him that for once Victoria didn't even think about asking for one nor balking, and for once she complied without jibbing at it, quite taken aback by her friend's conduct. Unusual situations are curious in that they sometimes have the power to make us act very unusually ourselves...

"Under the counter, behind the bar... you'll find what you are looking for..." Victoria managed to splutter without leaving the bedside of the still unconscious stranger whom she was staring at with some interest, wondering if she was the key to Don Diego's strange behaviour.

If that was the case and if he really did not know her, then she must have however made quite a strong impression on him, even in her current state, a puzzled Victoria reflected. Strange; all this was very strange. Obviously, Diego did not want to talk. At least not now. And obviously Corporal Sepulveda knew something she didn't… yet. It would therefore be wiser to try to turn to this source in order to learn a little bit more about this situation and Don Diego's odd reactions. So she let him get out of the room on his own and help himself under the counter so that she could find herself alone with the good corporal, whom she shouldn't have too much difficulties to make talk...

z ~ z ~ z ~ Z ~ z ~ z ~ z

Inkwell, quill pen and sheets of paper in hand, Diego strode again across the plaza this time towards the jail. He looked so determined that Mendoza didn't even think about denying him his request – well, his demand, almost! – to see Felipe again. Besides, the alcalde's orders couldn't have been any vaguer: he didn't clearly forbid visits to the prisoner, he just said he intended that the latter would be "kept under permanent heavy guard" and that no one would "interfere in this case, nor influence the testimony of either of the parties, not even, and particularly definitely not the de la Vegas".

But to Mendoza, 'visiting' wasn't necessarily 'interfering', and as long as a third party 'chaperoned' them to make sure that nothing in the interview would influence the young man nor dictate him what he should 'tell', then he didn't have the heart to deny it to Don Diego, poor man... Besides, determined as the latter seemed to be, the sergeant wouldn't like – for once – to find himself in Diego de la Vega's way, Mendoza thought hiding a slight grimace of apprehension at this idea...

"Felipe!" the father-to-be exclaimed with in his voice both the relief of a castaway who spots a ship and the worry of the same castaway who knows that the providential boat can go on its way without seeing him.

And again he was close to the cell in three quick strides, and again he clasped the young man's hands in his own through the bars, after laying hastily what he had been holding on the little worm-eaten table pushed against the wall, which was the only furniture outside the cells. Not that the cells themselves were well furnished, far from it: they were equipped all in all with a bench attached to the wall by chains, which served both as a seat and a berth for the prisoners, regardless of the number of people per cell. Felipe was alone in his, so he had been able to lie down to try and find some rest, and think about the situation; but precisely the concern caused by this very situation had hitherto prevented him from getting any repose.

He squeezed Diego's hands with all the despair this situation inspired him, and also with all the faith he placed in him, whom he was sure his salvation would come from. Although as of yet he hardly saw how...

"Felipe," repeated Diego, "here's something to write with."

He gave him successively the ink, the paper and then Victoria's quill through the bars.

"You're going to write here everything that happened this morning, until the patrol arrived. Absolutely everything, without omitting anything. Don't forget any detail, even if they seem insignificant; you never know, they might be of importance later. For now you are the only one who can testify of what happened then, since the soldiers were not there and the señorita hasn't awaken yet."

He had been careful to say "hasn't awaken yet", and not "hasn't regained consciousness", in order to preserve Felipe's hopes – and his own – and not to aggravate their shared concern about how things might turn out: the situation was already unpleasant enough as it was without having to think firstly that the young woman couldn't clear Felipe's name, and secondly that he could even end up facing a murder charge.

"Write down absolutely everything well, don't forget anything," Diego repeated. "It will be your deposition, as no one has bothered to ask you for it yet. Your account of the facts is essential to disculpate you. This will be your testimony, if need be. And when the señorita wakes up and confirm what you said, then the concordance between the two versions will make truth come to light and can only hasten your release; and then we can all forget this whole thing, all right?"

Felipe nodded, but probably less out of real conviction that everything would go that much all right than in order to reassure both himself and Diego who, although the he was trying to hide it, needed that as much as the young prisoner himself – come on! Felipe knew him well, and with time he had learned to read him and to decipher part of what he didn't tell him. That was what happened quite often by dint of sharing of secrets; and Felipe also had over the other people the advantage of expressing himself as much through looks, expressions and attitudes as through deliberate hand gestures, which made him able to notice theses same looks, expressions and attitudes in others, even when they were unintentional; and even when people tried to hide those behind some facade, he could sometimes manage to 'read' something. All the more so in someone he had known, lived and worked closely with for as long as he had with Diego; and the latter, despite all his talent and his experience in pretence, act and appearances – all things that he had been practicing and honing for so long now – couldn't always fool his closest confidant, almost his other self...

And perhaps even less easily than he succeeded in fooling himself.