I told him then about the smuggling, and the wager, and why I married Dante, and the men I gave myself to, and the godhead, and Matilde, and the missionary, and the night of the storm, and everything in between. I heaped it all on his shoulders and watched him stagger under the weight of it. I felt relief for that more than anything, that he felt the pressure and load of it, that he held the understanding of my trials, that perhaps now he would help me carry the burden.
I was exhausted and shaking when I finished. He carried me to the bed and tucked the blankets around me. He laid his hand on my head lightly, I could feel the warmth of his palm. “Bless you my child. God forgives you.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss across my closed eyelids, I was already dipping into sleep, escaping truth, and his words as soft as the beat of a bird’s wing in my ear. “And so do I.” he said.
A letter came back from the archbishop within days. “There is no record of the contract. The land belongs to Isabel Cordova. She can do what she wishes with it.”
Julián sat hunched over his desk writing a response. Writing was a difficult and frustrating task for him. He had read Braille all his life. He had learned the alphabet quickly, but he still had trouble sometimes, and he hated to ask for help. He would close his eyes and try to see in his mind the connection between a word he had felt with his fingers, and the curlicues and angles of the letters he now had to command his hand to write. When he finished, his eyebrows and lips were harsh lines over white eyes and teeth. We did not exchange one word about it, just moved in ever widening circles in our daily tasks, until a response came. The reply was the archbishop himself standing on Julián’s doorstep, with a small overnight bag and a large manila envelope.
He did not appear surprised to find me there, and so I assumed part of Julián’s difficult letter had been a confession of his own.
He was a large man, jowly and jovial. His hair was spade black and shot with saintly silver, his eyes wet ink. He shook my hand with warmth and strength. I took his bag and looked helplessly around for a place to put it. There was only one bedroom, an uncomfortable fact considering everything.
“I am a connoisseur of couches,” he told me smiling. He took the bag back and stashed it underneath the table by the front door.
He held Julián at an arm’s length, studied his face with the intensity of a mother checking a newborn for flaws. He brushed his big brown hand over Julián’s restored eyes. He kissed him on both cheeks. “Not all miracles are blessings,” he said. “And not all of man’s choices are sinful.” He winked at me. “I brought a bottle of brandy, the one with that egomaniac Napoleon on it. If it made him courageous, it might help you.”
I went off to the kitchen for glasses. We did not have anything grander than clay cups. I took down three, reconsidered, and put mine back.
“Make sure you get one for yourself.” The archbishop called. I picked it back up.
I sat on the porch with them only long enough to sip at the brandy and listen to them talk of people they knew and church politics. Then I excused myself to make dinner.
While I cracked eggs and made omelets, my glance kept straying to the manila envelope lying on the table. I was irrationally afraid of it. It was imbued with its own essence. Like the godhead, it held some key to my future, some fatal premonition.
While we ate I tried not to think of it, but I was distracted, not at all good company. I was certain that the archbishop would wonder what had been so incredible about me that Julián would give up the church. I suspected he had already been told everything, all my transgressions. After we finished Julián volunteered to would wash up. The archbishop wanted me to sit and keep him company while he had a cigar.
I sat perched on the edge of the folding wooden chair, scanning the bushes for enemies, avoiding our guest’s penetrating but benevolent gaze. He thoughtfully sucked on the cigar, the warm and homey smell of tobacco, and the vibrant purr of cicadas made me alternately relaxed and jumpy.
At last he said, “If you don’t forgive yourself you cannot overcome this.”
I was startled and I blurted out. “I have ruined him.”
“Have you?” He blew out blue smoke the color of a porpoise into the still evening, it drifted away intact.
“He thinks he chose me, chose this. But I made it happen. He would not have given in if I hadn’t tempted him.”
“He wouldn’t have been tempted if he didn’t have his own mind.”
“It won’t last.”
He pressed his lips together, nodded. “Probably not. He loves God very much. He loves serving God. Maybe he will love you more than that. But you do not really want that do you?”
I didn’t. I would always wonder if he stayed with me because of coercion, guilt, lack of opportunity. “What can I do? We’re stuck together. There’re no other options. I love him but I cannot love him into happiness and completion.”
“Nothing satisfies like God,” he agreed. “Although, that too is an empty sort of satisfaction. He demands that we give something up for Him. That is the true test of faith, of love, and of free will. What good is it if we are forced? He could stay with you and find some happiness, but he would always miss what he lost. And you will never forgive yourself for that. So it is impossible to go beyond this point.”
I hung my head. “I have told him things that have put him in danger.”
“He knew that too when you told him. You make yourself too important. The world will go on just fine without you or Julián in it. It is a small thing, your lives here. You can’t save yourselves, but you can keep each other from what God wants you to do.”
“And what is that?” I asked him looking up. I was angered by his wisdom and the finality of it
He puffed on his cigar and smacked his lips. “Well I can’t tell you that. There are no oracles, and very rarely signs and wonders. You both have to realize that you are already free. That is the trouble with people, we always want to believe that we cannot escape where, we are and yet the whole supposition of my Faith relies on the very fact that it doesn’t matter. We are souls Isabel, not bodies. Our souls are as free as we allow them to be. Where we are is not where we will be.”
He ground out the tip of his cigar leaving a round black smudge on the porch. “Bring me the envelope. I will help you on your way.”
Dutifully, ever the penitent, my feet heavy as stone I went and fetched it and brought it back outside.
“Go ahead and open it,” the archbishop said.
Inside was a neat purply-blue carbon copy of the deed to the plantation. The owner was listed as Estevan Cordova, and under that on the instance of his death was my name. Nowhere did it mention the fruit company or anyone else. The land and the house had been mine all along.
I had been conned almost out of existence, all because I had put my faith in lies.
A gaping hole opened up around me and started to suck me in from all sides. I could feel my atoms and molecules shaking loose from their moorings, they were going to fly apart.
I rose to my feet. “Excuse me,” I said to the archbishop.
I walked purposefully to the bedroom and shut the door. I went to the corner and sank to my knees, folded in on myself, and imploded, undone by the knowledge of what I had become.
I screamed into the void.
I spent three days after the archbishop left keeping to myself, avoiding Julián’s helpless and searching gestures and awkward starts at conversation. I fantasized murderous thoughts.
Most of these thoughts were outlandish. So many of the things that I imagined were no worse than the misfortunes that had already befallen him. I prayed to God, I bypassed Christ and harked back to the Old Testament wrathful God to ask for help in my battle.
I wanted to smite him.
Julián could sense what I was about and it made him leery and underfoot. “Whatever you are thinking you must abandon it Isabei. Give it up to God.”
“I have given it to God,” I told him. “You have to trust me.
/> ”
Chapter Twenty
SOUL
It is the nature of irrational plans to exist only in my mind, unable to infiltrate the real world without a jump start.
His eyes leveled with mine, he was learning to use them. “You aren’t telling them, because you want to take matters into your own hands. That is it isn’t it?”
I looked down at the floor, not caring if he believed me or not. “I just want it all to go away.”
“Well it won’t. Not on its own. You should tell them. You haven’t done anything wrong. They could help you. Protect you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promised, already thinking of alternatives.
Julián left his chair and stood over me, he lifted my chin. “Do you want me to take you away?”
I just want you to take me, I thought, take me in and don’t let go. “Not yet…maybe soon…maybe someday. I just want to stay here a while longer.” When I left, I knew it would be without him. Our story was coming to an end.
He let go and stepped back a few paces. “Alright then, have it your way. For just a while longer.”
I would not prolong the inevitable. That night, I made love to Julián with a furiousness, a sustained and renewed heat that tainted him and made him vicious as well. He was desperate to keep me there, to keep me from doing whatever it was I was planning. In the end he was undone by his manhood. Spent and listless he fell asleep.
In rest, he was a little boy again, the small brown mestizo I remembered from childhood. His eyelashes lay long on his cheeks, his lips puffed and pouty, his skin dewy and young. There were more lines now around his eyes, marks of the things he had finally seen. I kissed his eyelids as soft as the night moths that batted the lampshade. He did not smile, his eyebrows furrowed. I left him sleeping, serious and innocent. I said goodbye.
He kept the gun he had brought back from Guatemala in the kitchen cupboard, behind the wooden mixing bowls that the women in the village had made him. I had found it once while rummaging, he had been embarrassed and apologetic. “I did not know how to get rid of it.” he explained. “I used it to save my life a few times. I never had to pull the trigger. Just having it was enough. Sometimes knowing it is there in the cupboard, just having it…I feel better.”
“You never know when you might need it,” I told him.
“I have heard they are good for killing snakes.” he had said.
I knew what they were good for and I knew exactly why I needed it.
The thing was awkward in my hand, heavy and useless, a paralyzed limb. I knew how to see if it was loaded, and how to cock, aim, and fire it. I was hoping to shoot point blank.
The night was dark and moonless. I slid through the featureless blackness with the stealth of a creature bent on murderous deeds. The dark pushed me with soft arms, urged me along. I crept up the familiar path led by the increasing drone of the godhead. I had to stick the gun in my waistband, and put my hands over my ears until I could get used to it again.
Forest creatures, night spirits, crossed my path but left me alone. My errand was nothing unusual in the predator’s hours.
The house was filled with light and sound. I crept closer. I hoped the godhead would not give me away. I thought it knew that I was out to appease it.
I could hear Dante’s laughter, and then that of several men, the clonk of coins on the thick wooden table, the muted wufffttt of cards being shuffled. The night was on my side. The skin under my breasts and armpits, and on the inside of my legs was sweating with heat and nerves. The godhead took up a noise of horse’s hooves and heartbeats, masses of them expanding and contracting, pressing forward together.
I reached my hand out to it to answer it, to reassure it I was out for blood. The celestial residue of the stars lit a spark on the handle protruding beneath the stone. My hummingbird dagger. The godhead had kept it for me until it was time to use it. I slid the weapon out of the dirt, into my hand, and I buried it deep in my boot.
I hurried away from the house. The bitter light of the stars, helped guide me to the water, to the dock where the dinghy was tied.
The water was choppy tonight and the little boat bounced and squeaked against the wood while the water slapped and jostled itself. I could see no lights on the Sea King. I could not tell for sure if it was even anchored out there.
I climbed into the boat and awkwardly untied it. Not wanting to attract any attention, I used the oars at first, but the current was against me. My arms burned from the strain.
I would need my strength for tonight, and if there was anyone aboard the boat I was thwarted anyway. The motor started after several tries and rumbled toward the approximate area I remembered the ship being, hoping that the restless water would help cover the sound. I kept glancing back at land trying to figure out how far I had gone and then squinting into the darkness in front of me searching.
The dark removed the scale from my journey and I was certain I had passed the boat, or perhaps it wasn’t there at all. I would have turned around, already the sea air was blowing my mind clean, making me yearn to return to the soft space in my bed, the air damp with our breath and perspiration, heavy with the scent of flowers. But I could make out the outline of the stacks against the sky, a place devoid of stars.
I steered toward the stygian silhouette letting the motor fall back in on itself and idle. The mast lights were dim and glowing high up in the air, nothing else. I scanned the boat one more time looking for the glow of a cigarette, the beam of a flashlight, anything. I did not think the men would lie around in the dark all night waiting for an ambush. There was no one here. I probably only had the length of the card game at Dante’s to accomplish what I had come for. I wanted to be sure he would come after me, and the sooner the better, before I lost my courage or my chance.
Awkward, unskilled, it took me a lot of maneuvering and several failed attempts to angle the dinghy right up to the side of the ship close enough to the ladder to grab a hold of it. I reached for the line to tie the dinghy off, but it was beyond my grasp. I had to let go of the ladder and get the line and then try again. When I tied the knot my fingers were shaking.
I grabbed the gun and climbed up the ladder straining my ears and eyes to see anything or anyone that might be hiding on board. I was the only scupper rat. On the deck, I tried to match my erratic breath with the rise and fall of the swells, to get my bearings. I walked half feeling, half seeing my way to the steps leading to stern. I fumbled in the dark disoriented and turned around. Time was passing.
I felt along the walls worried that I had remembered incorrectly or that they had been moved but then my fingers brushed one of the gas cans, stacked and strapped, stored to refill the dinghy motor, or the generator, or any of the various machines that Dante carried to ply his trade. The first one was heavy and difficult to carry so I started where I was. I twisted off the cap and tipped it over letting the gasoline run out onto the deck. The sweet grainy fumes made me dizzy and accelerated. I was going to do this. I was committed now. I hauled the rest of the can downstairs. The door to the hold was locked, but I doubted that it would burn anyhow. In the bruised darkness I started dumping the gas over the counters, the shiny brass rails, the lustrous glowing wood and paneled mirrors and mauve cushions, the thick carpet that felt so good after scorching your feet on the hot deck. I returned to the stern and emptied another until I could carry it, and finished soaking the salon. With a third I doused the game room and bar, and with a fourth, the crew’s quarters.
In the great red bed, the fuel made a blood colored stain all over the satin, splashing my legs and burning. I tossed the empty can into the corner and did a little dance on the bed, a demon in hell dance, my pitchfork raised over the flames. It had taken me longer than I thought, I had to hurry if I was going to finish.
Up above, I let the fresh air sear the burn from my throat, and clear my eyes and head. Hastily, sloppily, I poured more gas on the decks from bow to stern.
Satisfied that I had no
t missed anything, I pulled the matches from my pocket and considered the wisdom of tossing a match while I stood there. How fast would it catch and spread? I reasoned that the ladder was my best bet. I started toward the side and realized I didn’t have my gun. Trying to remember where I had left it, I went downstairs, thinking I had dropped it when I was on the bed. I was just on the threshold when my flashlight died. I stood in the dark shaking it. I got down on my knees and crawled on the floor with my hand out, feeling. I found it in the corner. I was covered in gasoline. I felt my way to the bathroom and washed my hands with soap and hot water.
It was easily after midnight now.
I scrambled with my hands outstretched back onto the deck and to the rail where the ladder was. I lifted my leg over and glanced down. The dinghy was gone.
I checked my surroundings, making sure I was on the right side of the yacht, but the small rubber craft was gone. I did not have the time to figure out how to lower a lifeboat. I would have to swim. What if I could not find my way to shore, down in the water in the dark? If it was too far I would get tired before I reached land, the way a man in the desert will die of thirst trying to reach a mirage that keeps retreating. I did not know if my gun would be ruined by the water. There were no other options.
I stood on the ladder and struck the match as far away from my fuel soaked body as possible. It took two hesitant passes, and on the third it caught and flickered and then blew out. I pulled out another, cupped my hands and got it on the first try. I tossed the match, and was knocked off my feet by the sudden whoosh of flame, the whip and spread of it, instantaneous and hot and powerful. It sucked the air right out of my lungs. Underneath the water the bubbles were red and orange liquefied fire. It was beautiful. I surfaced gasping and struck toward shore. The fire was so bright that I could not see my destination; I only knew to swim away.
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