The dragonfly sat on the corner of the page, flapping its wings.
“I don’t think I’ll see you again,” she whispered.
Esperanza locked the door but remained next to it, in the darkness of the storage area. She knew she ought to head home but at that moment home seemed very far and the walk stretched into forever.
“Why do you always disobey me?”
The outline of Abel’s body was blackness against grey but his voice was clear enough in its piercing anger. She undid the apron she was wearing.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, walking towards her, blocking the light from the adjoining room.
“I apologize,” she said, neatly folding the apron.
“That’s not enough,” Abel muttered and snatched the piece of cloth, tossing it to the floor.
Esperanza glanced down, head bowed.
“May I go?”
Abel shoved her against the wall and she reacted at once, pure instinct, clawing his cheek. He responded with a hard blow that drew blood and a punch to her belly that made her gasp.
“Now you’ve done it,” he said. “This time you’ve done it.”
And he continued to repeat those same words over and over again as he stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth when she screamed, as she tried to kick at his legs.
“Don’t you dare,” he muttered, catching her leg, gripping her thigh and squeezing hard.
He pulled her down. One violent tug and she was flat on her back, her vision suddenly blurry and he was pulling her skirt up.
In the midst of it all, of the pain and revulsion building in the pit of her stomach and the blind panic, she heard something. The light warning of a cat hissing.
All of a sudden the weight of Abel was flung off her and she raised her head, pushed herself up in time to see how Abel’s skull was smashed against the floor, pounded in two violent strokes that sent blood spattering against her legs.
The homunculus bared his teeth, a predator’s snarl, and let go of Abel’s head, reaching out to her.
He pulled her up, his face quickly composing itself, mouth shut tight.
Esperanza’s mind, normally spinning fast, lay still as if a spring had broken inside her head. She could feel his fingers around her wrist yet at the same time she was not there, she was floating outside the room.
A dragonfly hovered before her and darted into a corner. The sound of its wings was as loud as a gunshot and she was back in her body, in the room, standing next to a corpse.
“It’s nearly six,” she said. “Mr. Morales will be back soon.”
Theodore’s flat gaze had returned.
“You’ve got to go.”
“Go where?”
She calculated the odds. That’s what she did best. She measured, she calculated, she predicted whether a golden peacock would be able to fan out its tail or would fall and lose its balance.
“Baja California,” she said, kneeling next to Abel’s body and searching his pockets. “There’s nothing farther than Baja California.”
“Why?”
Theodore observed her as she took Abel’s watch and his wallet. His cufflinks were worth two months of her salary.
She pocketed them and glanced up at Theodore. “Do you know what you’ve done? They’re going to kill you,” she said.
“I know.”
“Hey,” she said. “Did you hear me? Kill you.”
His eyes were flat like coins, a shade of ghostly blue. She remembered, for no good reason, that white cats with blue eyes were born deaf and were drowned in the tinaja of the vecindad.
“My book,” he replied.
Esperanza ran to get it and when she returned he had not moved an inch. She did not think he would. He was probably not capable of even considering an escape. She could lead him like a lamb to the slaughterhouse, to the police quarters; he would not object.
She considered simply dashing uphill, back to the safety of her room with the maps, the magazines, the postcards and her papers on automata. She saw herself like a line drawing melting into a vanishing point.
The dragonfly buzzed next to Esperanza’s ear. Theodore caught it with his left hand and stared at his closed fist for a minute before releasing it.
Then the dragonfly flew out of the store, its body glinting under the last rays of the setting sun. The sky above the city was purple and red. The streets were growing empty.
“We’re leaving,” she said. “Stay close to me.”
The door slammed behind them. They headed downhill and away.
Your absence chokes the words, ties a knot around my heart, drives me mad with longing. When will I see you? When can I join you?
I walk by the seashore and look at the waves, waiting for a sign of your arrival. The town is full of echoes and empty of you. The seagulls cry a sad lament.
Oh, my love.
I will go down to the beach and cut my palm with an ivory knife. I will then place this message in a bottle, hoping it reaches you.
It has been so long and not a sign of you. And now I know why!
I went to town today. The people looked at me in an odd, sideways way. Avoiding my gaze and whispering between them when I walked by. I felt a tension in the air and I quickened my pace, fear striking inside me; a sharp, disharmonious note. I tried to stop, to quiet the dread in my heart, yet it grew with every step.
Sweat began to bead my forehead, for it was a hot day. Too hot. Too hot to fish, the nets tangled and the fishermen waiting in the shade and the sea like glass; a still mirror, unbreakable.
I stopped and removed my hat, fanning myself, and that’s when I heard two women talking. They did not realize I listened to them, and listen intently I did.
They spoke of the lighthouse keeper’s daughter. She is young and beautiful and wears pretty, white linen dresses and her eyes are the shade of the sky after a storm. The lighthouse keeper’s daughter, with her beautiful voice that rises when we sign holy hymns. And her smile, which never fades, placid and pleasant.
They said she is to be your bride. She will marry you. She will wear seashells in her hair and a necklace of the finest gold, and she shall walk barefoot on the beach, while a retinue of a dozen girls make songs and music.
I’ve been cast aside.
I cannot believe. I shall not believe it. Three years ago I was promised to you.
They are wrong.
I shall speak to the priest.
Please, send a sign of your love.
The priest is an unpleasant, old man. He smells of rotten fish. His skin is a mottled grey. When I walked into church, he clasped my hand and the feel of his skin against mine was like sandpaper.
We spoke in his office, which is dark and stuffy and also has that annoying fish odour, though its coolness soothed me, for the long hot days extended one after the other. Each one warmer, each one more blistering. The nets and the boats lay abandoned, and even the seagulls seem to perch still, idle. Waiting.
The priest talked to me slowly and all the while I stared behind him, at the great mosaic that decorates the wall. It is a delightful picture of sea plants and fish and interwoven all around its edge is the symbol of the order.
The priest made small, slow motions with his hands until I boiled over, snapping, and asked him to get to the point of it.
The point is the women were right. The lighthouse keeper’s daughter has caught your fancy.
You want her instead of me.
We cannot hope to understand the plans and designs of our Great Lord, the priest said, but I would listen no more and rushed out of the office with a hand pressed against my mouth.
When I returned home, I wept. I have been weeping for hours now, for I never desired anything more than to be your beloved and for you to be mine. I cannot understand.
What has happened? How has she enchanted you? I can only assume that she has wickedly tricked you. I can picture her on moonless nights, tossing precious chains and jewelled rings into the sea.
Witchery
and deceit.
You must not listen to her! I love you dearly and will cherish you forever. She is a cruel liar who only wishes to curry favour from you and exalt her family. They are an ambitious lot, her people, and she always looks at us with her chin up high, her eyebrows arched, that tiny little smile staining her lips. As though she knows she is better than the rest of the townspeople and now she can prove it, for she is your bride-to-be.
Please, please do not betray your promise! Return to me!
I am slashing my palm thrice and tossing this letter into the sea, knowing it will reach you.
There was much unpleasantness last night but I refused to be cast as the guilty party, for I have done nothing wrong.
For the past few days there have been preparations for a great feast to announce the betrothal of the light keeper’s daughter. I’ve seen people around town busy gathering wine and salted fish and sweet breads, and it is known far and wide that the lighthouse keeper has polished the silver candlesticks he inherited from his grandfather, and taken other precious trinkets out from the old trunks.
It would all be put on display for the town to see.
And so, as the sun sizzled and burnt, day after day, I burnt inside with anger, seeing them coo and prepare for the great event. Not a thought was spared for me. It was as though I had disappeared and did not exist. It was as though I had not been paraded in a similar fashion three years ago, wearing a veil made from fishermen’s nets, a veil decorated with starfish and sea urchins.
It was as though you and I had never been.
My father said there is no shame in it, for we have been fairly compensated for our trouble. A few coins! That’s how much a daughter’s dignity costs. That’s how much the priest thought of us.
Not only did he dare to toss those miserly scraps at my father, he hinted it was my fault.
The weather has been so hot and the fishing season has been bad, and perhaps I had been a poor choice from the start.
But you loved me! But you loved me so!
So when he said these things it was like a scorching dagger was thrust into my heart and it lay there, burning, as the sun went down. When night fell I rose and walked steadily, guided by the merry voices of the townspeople.
The feast had started. They were playing the drums and the pipes. They were chattering while the bonfire burnt. Everyone was in their best attire, wearing the finest masks they owned. The young people danced in circles, swirling, following the beat of the drums.
A very long table had been set upon the beach, complete with a tablecloth spanning the whole length. Fine porcelain dishes etched with blue scalloped designs were set at each place and the precious candlesticks were on display.
All the great townspeople were present. The mayor, the priest, the lighthouse keeper and, of course, the lighthouse keeper’s daughter sat at the head of the table.
She wore a fine blue dress and a golden mask. Though I could not see her face, I could tell she was smiling.
I walked up to her, but she was talking to someone and did not see me.
The piping and the drumming ceased.
And then she turned her head, as if finally sensing me, and raised her masked face towards me.
And then I spit at her. Spit at that beautiful, golden, serene surface.
The beach was silent as I walked away.
Later, the priest and some others came to talk to my father and father slapped me very hard.
Dishonour, he said.
Dishonour!
It is she who is dishonourable; they who have done me wrong.
For I have only loved you, loved you most intensely, fully, without wanting nothing but you. You captivated my senses and filled my soul, and I cannot see dishonour in my pain, nor my love.
I slash my palm five times and bid this letter reaches you.
It has been a week since the feast.
It rained yesterday. A strong, steady, rain. In the morning, the beach was spotted with many pink starfish which had been washed ashore. When the tide goes out, they shall all dry and die.
The fishermen kicked the starfish aside, boarded their boats and picked their nets. They set out to sea and hauled in their bounty. So many fish, a pile of silver, spilled from their nets. The women beheaded the fish and gutted them. They bled the fish, removing the gills and all blood vessels. They cut the fish, they split it or they left it whole if it was small. Then they began salting them.
I salted, too, though not fish. I dusted salt upon my body, from my hair to the soles of my feet. When I was done I walked to the beach.
I stand here now, with the waves tickling my toes.
I know you love me no longer. She is your love. She shall swim with you in the darkest depths, her pearly flesh resting against you, iridescent fish swimming in her hair. She shall lay upon a bed of anemones and bones.
I know this.
But despite it all, I wish to see you one last time. To behold your perfection. Perhaps, to be embraced, only for a moment, in your arms; the acid taste of your kiss upon my mouth.
I will slash my neck with this ivory knife.
I hope I reach you.
I stare at you as morning light filters through the dusty blinds. You are so still, skin colourless. You might be sleeping. You’re not, but it’s easy to imagine you are. It’s easy to pretend in this murky dawn that you sleep, that your chest rises a little, that your eyelids flutter.
(You used to love me.)
I rise and make breakfast. Saturday is the best day of the week because I can cook for you and we can sit together in the little dining room. I take out the blue placemats with the matching napkins, carefully arranging the cutlery. The cherry blossoms dot the trees and the smell of fresh coffee and eggs wafts through the kitchen. The cat rubs its head against my legs. Birds chirp outside.
On Saturdays, I tell you to sit and you sit in your place. You don’t eat. Of course you don’t. Your mouth is closed, stitched with invisible threads. But I place the plate before you and talk, filling the silence with the answers you haven’t asked.
(You used to be the talker.)
I do the dishes. I wish we had a dishwasher. You were the one who took care of scrubbing the pots and pans. I never liked it. But you didn’t mind.
(You used to hum when you cleaned.)
I read to you as a soft spring rain washes the windows. First, the poetry books you enjoyed. Then, when the clock turns and ticks, the newspaper. I finish with our horoscopes and solve the crossword puzzle.
(You used to like reading.)
I drag you back to bed. Feet so slow upon the carpet.
The sound of shuffling limbs.
Then you lay back upon the pillows. I trace kisses down your neck and chest. I rub myself against you, drag my nails across your neck. Faint traceries which draw no blood.
I slide my thumb against the amulet. A dove, decapitated, dangling from a black cord with three rusty nails sticking from its torso.
I kiss your mouth and it’s like kissing frost. I suck on your lips and it’s like sucking chips of ice. One winter, when we were coming back from a party, I took off my heels because my feet were aching so much. I walked barefoot upon the snow. Drunk and cold and yet my feet didn’t hurt.
It’s like that with you, with your cold, so cold, skin.
I touch the amulet again and it beats, following a rhythm. Your own heart can’t beat, can’t make music. It’s up to me now to be the conductor, raising and lowering the baton.
I raise and lower myself upon your body, upon the ice plain of your flesh.
(You used to want me.)
Dusk. The greyness of the room makes your lips chalky and your eyes silver. The house is quiet as the shadows stretch their arms across the hallways.
You lay wrapped under several covers, back to me.
I pull the covers off and stare at your back, drawing a line upon your spine with my index finger.
(You used to love me.)
There were no sent
inels. Aikir looked for traps and found none. He didn’t spot any winged demons, either.
They reached the end of the staircase and an antechamber. Inside, moth-ravaged tapestries adorned the walls and the witch sat in an ornate chair. Next to her was a hawk in a cage.
She was clad in a worn, blue tunic. She was young and had pretty eyes, looking nothing like the wrinkled demon-witch they’d told him about.
“Vyro-Shana. Destroyer of empires, killer of kings. I am Aikir, and I have come to finish you.”
“Put away your sword. I am in a generous mood today, so I shall give you a chance to escape. Turn back before I transform you and your companion into dust.”
“Master —” mumbled Oshar, but Aikir pinched his squire, making Oshar swallow any questions.
“We have come here to destroy you. Surrender or fight me.”
“I will not do any of the sort. Get out,” the woman said.
The witch rose, heading towards a door that probably led to a terrible torture chamber. Aikir followed her and grabbed her by the arm.
“Are you going to cut my head, sir?” she asked. “An unarmed woman who has not raised a finger against you? A mighty hero you must be.”
Oshar looked at the witch and the warrior, heart drumming in suspense and expecting a thousand goblins and demons to leap through the air and attack them. But Aikir let her go, and she moved away.
“Leave now or you shall regret it. I have given you fair warning. You shall be dead by dawn if you remain here.”
Alone now, Aikir and Oshar both regarded the locked door behind which the woman had escaped.
“What do we do?” asked Oshar.
“We wait.”
“Master, maybe we could go inside. Just for a little bit.”
“No.”
They had camped next to the witch’s tower, in the ugly garden. Their small fire did nothing to dispel the cold, and their dinner was stale bread.
“Master —”
“We wait here,” Aikir said. “We wait until she makes her move. Stay alert. Sometime tonight she will send her winged demons to eat our hearts. We must be ready.”
Love and Other Poisons Page 4