The tour group moved on, following the guide toward a waiting bus. Some of the tourists handed coins to Esteban’s friends (the main purpose of the children’s visit to the tree that day), but Esteban lingered behind, slowly tracing the lines of the creature on the tree. There was the E on one of the scales, the C on a dragon’s feather, the ring wrapped around one of its toes. He couldn’t make sense of the sight before him, although he tried to convince himself that there was a perfectly good explanation for it.
In a rush of giggles, the other children raced back to Esteban to combine their newly acquired loot and split it evenly. Esteban barely registered the handful of coins he was given.
A dozen more tour groups would arrive that day, making the children’s pockets bulge with clinking metal. Under ordinary circumstances, Esteban would have been delighted with his bounty. But as he emptied his coins into a small jar by his bed that evening, his mother noticed his sullen mood.
“Are you hungry?” Chita asked. “There’s some pan amarillo and requesón in the kitchen.” The yellow bread made with egg yolk and sugar was Esteban’s favorite, and normally he loved the stringy cheese. However, it all tasted bland and insipid as he struggled to come up with an explanation for what he’d seen.
Of course, he had to consider the possibility that the creature had always been on the tree and he had never noticed it before. But the other children had also spotted the creature, and they all agreed it was new. No, this was definitely a recent addition.
The situation was giving him a headache, and a growing sense of unease.
“Esteban? Are you okay?” his mother asked.
“I’m fine, Mami. I’m just thinking about something.”
“Can I help?”
“I’m not sure….” He hesitated. “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.”
His mother frowned.
Esteban had inherited his premonitory talent from his father. People would come from all over the state to meet with Esteban’s father. It was said he was never wrong, that his predictions were true to a tee. The only premonition he ever missed was the one that had mattered most.
He had been walking home from work one day when he was struck by lightning. There’s a saying that lightning never strikes twice in the same spot, but Esteban knew that wasn’t true. For his dad was struck in the very spot where his father had been struck twenty years earlier. Some people said it was destiny, that the lightning death of Esteban’s father had been written in the stars. When Esteban mentioned this to Clara, she said she didn’t believe in destiny.
“Things in life just happen,” she said. “And that includes death.”
Destiny or not, one thing was certain: after the lightning strike, Esteban began to experience premonitions of his own, and like his father, he was never wrong.
“What makes you think something bad is about to happen?” Chita asked. She was always careful to keep her alarm in check at Esteban’s proclamations, but she knew better than to ignore them. “And how bad?”
“Well, I saw something today that I can’t explain.” He described the incident at the tree, adding, “It seems like a message. Or an omen.”
His mother nodded.
“It might be a coincidence,” Esteban went on, although neither of them believed in coincidences. They knew that things always happened for a reason. The reason might not be evident at first, but by the end of the journey it was always clear.
“We need to call Juana and tell her,” his mother said. “She should keep a closer eye on things until the feeling goes away.”
Juana was used to such portentous calls from her sister, and she put great stock in Esteban’s premonitions. If Esteban thought something bad was going to happen, then something bad was going to happen.
“Okay,” Juana said after hearing Chita’s concern. “I’ll talk to Clara. And perhaps we should see the tree,” she added. “Just to make sure?”
The sisters agreed to meet the following day.
Seated under a large tree overlooking the blue house, Catrina gazed up at the stain of lilac melting across the sky, gradually deepening into purple, then indigo. A chain of clouds drifted away to find the sun, and as they departed, they draped a canopy of stars over the city.
“Such a simple thing, the turning of the earth,” Catrina said. “And yet it creates such extraordinary beauty.”
“That it does,” Life agreed.
When the parade of colors had faded away, Catrina turned to her companion.
“A toast?” she asked.
He nodded.
Catrina reached into her skirts and pulled out two small black pottery bowls. A pattern of geometric shapes ran around the rim of one bowl, which she handed to Life. Roses crowned the rim of the other, which she kept for herself.
“This is quite something,” Life said, admiring his bowl’s smooth sheen and elaborate design.
“It’s from this area,” she replied. “A gift from an admirer.”
Life smiled. Catrina was as competitive in her personal life as she was in play, and she never missed an opportunity to let Life know exactly how beloved she was.
Extending his finger, Life touched the soil at his feet. Instantly, a jet of clear water flowed upward. He filled Catrina’s bowl first. Moonlight glanced off the water in the black receptacle as he passed it to her. He then filled his own bowl.
As quickly as the jet of water arose, it vanished.
“To the first day!” Life said.
Catrina tapped the deck of cards on their makeshift table. “To the inevitable.”
“Oh?”
“Well, the cards are shuffled; their order is already defined,” Catrina said. “Which is to say, the winner of the game is a foregone conclusion. We play only to reveal the inevitable.”
“In that case, to the winner!” Life said.
Catrina nodded and cupped her bowl delicately, bringing it up to her skeletal jaw and letting the clear liquid drip down a phantom throat.
Life followed suit, then set down his moonlit bowl. He picked up the top card from the deck before him.
“EL QUE CON LA COLA PICA, LE DAN UNA PALIZA,” he called out. “HE WHO STINGS WITH HIS TAIL WILL GET A BEATING.”
“The scorpion!” Catrina placed a black bean on her tabla.
At their feet a dirt-colored scorpion with a small black dot on its back scurried away, carrying its stinger toward certain destiny.
The family agreed that Clara’s father would stay behind to run the restaurant while Clara and her mother went to Santa María del Tule. Thus, on the evening prior to their departure, Clara and Juana worked late into the night getting the food ready for the following day.
“Remember, don’t stop stirring.” Juana pointed at the pitcher of hot chocolate simmering on the stove. She moved around the kitchen like a dancer onstage, always in graceful motion. Her hands never stopped as she chopped, sliced, rolled, fried, tasted, seasoned, tasted again.
“I can do more than this,” Clara said, diligently stirring the hot chocolate.
“It’s okay,” Juana replied. “What you’re doing is a big help.”
Clara knew this was true; however, her mother needed more help than this. Despite her ease in the kitchen, it was clear Juana was distracted. Her concern had gradually electrified the room. Clara’s skin tingled, and the hair on her arms stood on end.
“Mami!” Clara cried. “Careful, you’re burning the food.”
Juana had already ruined a batch of tamales and thrown away the first mix of hot chocolate when she added salt instead of sugar. Now black smoke rose from the comal, a flat pan in which she had been roasting peppers. She swiftly removed the peppers from the comal and, without a thought, began peeling off the charred skin.
“Ouch!” she cried as the steaming peppers burned her fingers.
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“Mami!” Clara rushed over to help her mother. “You knew they were hot.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just distracted.” Juana ran her hands under cold water.
“You’re tired,” Clara said. “And I know you’re worried. You should go to bed.”
“No, no,” Juana said. She turned off the water and returned to the stove. “I still have too much to do.”
“Fine,” Clara said. “Then at least take a small break.” She led Juana to the hot chocolate and put the molinillo in her mother’s hand. “Don’t stop stirring.”
This time Juana didn’t resist.
“What should I work on?” Clara asked.
Juana pointed at the masa sitting in a bowl on the counter. “We need more tortillas.”
“I can do that,” Clara replied. She plucked bits of dough and rolled them into small balls that she flattened with a tortilla press. The tortillas were shaped unevenly and thinner than her mother’s, but they would have to do.
Juana stirred the hot chocolate, and for a few minutes the two worked quietly. Then Juana’s voice broke the silence. “What do you think it means?” she asked.
“What Esteban saw?” Clara asked. “Or his feeling?”
“Both.”
Clara was embarrassed about the attention her sketch was receiving. She rarely showed her drawings to anyone, and now the whole family was talking about it. They’d even asked her to draw it again so they could compare it with the growth on the tree.
“I think he saw something that reminded him of my drawing,” Clara said. It seemed impossible to believe that her exact drawing had been replicated on the tree trunk. “He has a very active imagination, you know.”
Juana did not respond, but the tension in the room eased just a little. Clara finished pressing the tortillas and moved on to the now-cooled peppers. As she peeled off their charred skin, Juana spoke up again.
“And what do you make of his premonition? He’s always right about those. Always.”
Clara nodded and finished peeling the peppers. “I know,” she sighed, reaching for a knife.
“Wait,” Juana said. “I’ll do that.”
“Mami, I can cut peppers.”
“Of course you can,” Juana replied, but she still took the knife from Clara. “Why don’t you start cleaning up? I’ll just finish this salsa, and then we can go to bed.”
The two worked side by side while the moon looked on, its strands of silver light interlacing with the glow of the kitchen fire. In this braid of silver and gold, a dirt-colored scorpion with a black dot entered the room.
The scorpion scuttled out of view, then slowly inched along the floor under the blue-and-white-tiled counter. It made its way around baskets laden with red, white, and yellow onions. It crawled through a crate of potatoes and past burlap bags heavy with rice and dried beans. Clicking softly, the scorpion circumvented a cluster of long-forgotten limes, their skins brown and hard, before it arrived at the other end of the kitchen, where it began a steady climb up the wall.
Juana reached for a jar of cumin, her fingers barely missing the scorpion resting on the shelf next to the oregano. The scorpion moved on, past an assortment of ceramic bowls of different sizes, past the bundles of dried herbs and ropes of chiles hanging to dry. And then it reached the top of the wall, where it extended a segmented leg and gripped the ceiling.
Clara had been busy during the scorpion’s walk: food had been put away, dishes had been washed (only one bowl had broken), the floor had been swept. But now she stood still, poised directly beneath the arachnid.
She watched Juana wring her hands on her apron.
“Don’t worry, Mami,” Clara told her. “I’m sure we’ll get some answers tomorrow.”
The scorpion released its grip on the ceiling and plunged toward the girl.
“You’re right,” Juana said, and she pulled Clara into a hug. The movement was slight, but it was enough.
The scorpion landed on the kitchen floor inches from Clara’s shoe, a precarious place for such a creature. As quickly as it could, it edged away from the looming threat of Clara’s foot.
“We should get some sleep,” Juana said, releasing her daughter. Clara stepped back into the now scorpion-free space.
But the dirt-colored fiend with a black dot on its back still had a role to play. Hidden behind the leg of a chair, the scorpion watched as the girl and her mother turned off the kitchen lights and said good night. The moon lingered for a while, perhaps waiting to see what would happen. Eventually, however, it withdrew in search of more interesting sights upon which to gaze.
But the scorpion, infinitely patient, settled down to wait out the night.
* * *
Miles away, Esteban tossed and turned in his sleep. A stab of pain, sudden and sharp, propelled him out of bed. He groaned, clutching his stomach as he raced to the bathroom, where he promptly deposited his supper. The sickening dread he’d felt at the tree had intensified with every passing minute.
His body smoldered as the heat brought his blood to a boil. He splashed water on his face. Clouds of steam fogged up the window. He had experienced high fevers before, especially connected to his premonitions, but he’d never had one quite this intense.
His vision blurred as he tiptoed past his mother’s room into the kitchen. With trembling hands he poured himself a glass of water, spilling its contents all over the counter and on the floor. But he didn’t care. The cool, clear liquid raced down his throat, instantly quashing the heat inside him. He poured himself another glass, and then another, until, with a final fizzle, his fever vanished, the puddle on the floor the only evidence of its existence.
But even then sleep evaded the boy, who knew, without knowing how, that everything was about to change forever.
The following morning, Clara woke early. The sun had just begun to wash away the night sky, sending a few faint rays of gold and orange to light up her room as Clara dressed. The scent of cinnamon-laced coffee indicated her parents were already up.
In the kitchen, Clara’s father cooked some scrambled eggs and frijoles while her mother packed a picnic basket for the day ahead. A pile of crispy tortillas sat on the table. They ate quickly and in silence, under a cloud of worry. Before they left, Clara braided her hair, interlacing the plaits with dark purple ribbons. At the last moment she changed her mind and replaced them with her lucky bright pink ribbons.
“Clara, hurry! We’re going to miss the bus.”
She fumbled with the last ribbon as she kissed her father on the cheek.
“Don’t forget your bag.” He handed her the woven bag she had placed on one of the kitchen chairs the night before, now carrying the sketch of the two-headed dragon.
“Thanks, Papi. We’ll see you tonight.”
“Hurry, child!” Juana beckoned. “The bus is coming.”
In the distance, Clara spotted the city bus rumbling down the potholed street.
A gray pigeon perched on the driver’s side mirror. Long before anyone could remember, the pigeon had forged a bond with the rusted green-and-white vehicle rolling toward them. Some said the pigeon had been born in the bus and thought of it as their nest. Others believed the pigeon didn’t realize it was a bird. The driver thought the pigeon fancied itself a sort of captain, riding their steed into battle every day, maneuvering around countless obstacles on their quest to lift the people of the city out of their daily doldrums. Hence, he took to calling the pigeon El Capitán. Everyone liked the driver’s version best, so the name stuck.
“Buenos días.” Juana smiled at the driver as she and Clara climbed up into the bus.
“Good morning,” came the reply. “An early one for you two?”
Juana nodded but didn’t explain. She led Clara to the first row of seats. When the bus passed their house, Clara spotted her father at the threshold.
He waved to them, and Clara leaned out the window to wave back. A playful breeze tugged at the loose pink ribbon in her hair, carrying it off in a dance of color. She sat back and leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder as El Capitán valiantly led the bus onward.
Life and Death locked eyes on the bus as it rumbled past them.
“There she goes,” Catrina said. “Off to meet her destiny.”
Life chuckled. “I would say she’s off to make her destiny.”
The issue of free will was one the two friends often debated. At the heart of the debate was the question of choice: whether a person’s destiny was determined by past events or if people had the ability to shape their own future.
Life believed that people created their own destiny. He argued that choices could be made freely, regardless of one’s past experiences.
Catrina, on the other hand, argued that choice was an illusion. Free will was something people wanted, so they tricked themselves into thinking it was something they actually had. The truth, according to her, was that everything that happened in life was the natural and inevitable consequence of what came before, and it led—naturally and inevitably—to everything that followed.
“Like this.” She displayed one of the many beaded bracelets wrapped around her bony wrist. “An unbroken chain of events. One leading right to another and another, and so on.
“People like to think they’re in control,” she went on. “But they’re not. Whatever is bound to happen will happen, whether they like it or not.”
She pointed at the deck of cards. “It’s no different than you and me playing this game. We’re not choosing the cards that determine the girl’s fate; we are only witnessing the cards as they are played. And so it is with people. They are merely witnesses to their own destiny as it unfolds before them.”
The clock in the Santo Domingo bell tower began to toll, an invitation to Mass. Dogs across the city responded with their own calls, and a flock of birds took flight.
Lotería Page 3