Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection

by Cody Luff

  “Señor Mejia--”

  “Armando, please.”

  Doña Karina raised her eyebrow again toward her interrupter. “Señor Mejia, do you have a place to stay?”

  He shook his head, defeated. Doña Karina’s long and bony fingers reached for her bell and in seconds a young servant appeared.

  “Maria Cristina, please make up one of the spare bedrooms for Señor Mejia.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t.” Armando started placing his cup on the tiny wooden end table.

  “You will, Señor Mejia. I insist. A gentleman such as yourself needs a proper home and I need a proper companion. Someone to help pass... the time I have left.”

  She waved her servant away as Armando rose to his feet in protest.

  “Senora, I assure you that I can make my own way in the world and don’t need your help.”

  His pride enveloped him. Karina raised her skeletal hand.

  “It is not a handout but a payment, Señor Mejia. You can live here and in exchange you will keep me company. That’s all this lonely woman asks. How could you deny this last wish from a dying woman?”

  Armando was brought up to respect his elders but Doña Karina hardly looked elderly. Yes, she was older and thin to the point of fragility, but she was still a handsome woman under the veneer of old world customs and propriety. Her hair a dark brown bun so tight it looked as if it may be a wig. He noticed her thin lips would disappear when she grimaced and that made him wonder what she looked like when she smiled. And what would make a woman like Doña Karina smile? It seemed to Armando that she had been the type of woman who had smiled often but had forgotten, as if life had robbed her of joy. She had smooth skin with few wrinkles. Those wrinkles that did exist bookended her dark eyes. She was a handsome woman, Armando thought. She was a handsome woman who was accustomed in getting her way and he was a man who needed accommodations or would face an uncertain future.

  “If I, a young single man, live here with you, what will become of your reputation? Of mine?”

  “My dear Señor Mejia,” Doña Karina began, a tinge of a cackle behind her words. “I have more money than God. There isn’t a reputation or opinion I can’t buy.”

  Armando hardly believed her until the whispers began to cease and polite families, who didn’t want anything to do with him, received him in their homes. He became Señor Mejia, a formal title reserved only for the sons of the aristocratic among his new social circle, though he had no money. However, he was a ward of Doña Karina, like a son, and that was enough to guarantee a lifestyle of local royalty. With any luck, thought those with marrying-age daughters, the old bat will keel off soon and Armando would be her heir.

  His friend Fausto, a local jeweler, made fun of Armando and his present situation. They became friends when Dona Karina decided one day to reward her ward with a new pair of diamond cuff links. She picked the young jeweler because of how close he was located to the house. He often joked about all the young ladies rumored to want his attention. Some went as far as consulting local witch doctors for the potion that would win Armando’s heart.

  “You have to be careful, amigo. These women are beginning to go into a frenzy. They can smell the money.” Fausto told his friend during one afternoon visit at the jewelry store.

  “They are harmless, but I have gained such a reputation as a result,” he said with a smile, as if tickled with a feather.

  “Soon you will come to me to pick out a ring,” Fausto countered.

  “I promise you if that day comes, you will be the only jeweler I will use.”

  Fausto’s wife, Rebecca, her belly with child, waddled from the store and sat down next to her husband. The tiny framed woman with long brown hair and sharp blue eyes was nearly due, but was too stubborn to heed the wishes of doctors and her husband to rest. Instead, she liked to be in the store near bobbles that glittered and shined.

  “Woman, why are you not resting? You’re due any day now,” Fausto reproached his wife.

  “Hush up, husband, and buy your wife some food. Your child is hungry.”

  As Fausto ordered, Armando couldn’t help but think of how happy his friend was at that moment. A wife, a daughter on the way, and a new business. He wanted a similar life though he could do without children.

  “Have you thought of a name?” Armando asked.

  Rebecca shook her head. “Perhaps after Fausto’s mother, que en paz descansa.”

  “Don’t name the baby after a dead person. It’s bad luck.”

  Armando began to think of a name for his friend’s daughter. Karina was the first name he thought of, but he didn’t know how she would feel having a child she didn’t know named after her. Armando finally settled on a name, the origin of which came from nowhere.

  “Name her Mayra,” he said.

  And so it was.

  At the annual Christmas Eve dance, Doña Karina was accompanied by Señor Mejia in a striking new formal suit with a starched, decorative white shirt that gleamed like moonlight. As he escorted her into the ballroom, he felt her lighter than a notion and heavier than a thought. Had it not been for her arm intertwined with his, surely she would have floated away. A seed of worry planted itself in the middle of Armando’s chest and began to grow. If his generous benefactor were to die, what would become of him? This realization had not entered his mind before although it was more evident as time passed and the sturdy body that glided into his life that faithful day curled with decay and age.

  Yet, with death beckoning, he saw a truth hardly anyone, especially those in her social circle, did. Karina, as he now called her, had a tenderness about her that made him smile. It was there in small ways, like when Maria Cristina was sick and she tended to her personally because she thought doctors were one brick short of being lunatics with stethoscopes, or when the anniversary of his parent’s death came along he searched for their grave sites to find an elaborate tombstone paid for by a “friend of the family”, or when he began courting young ladies she would make sure he had something in his hands to give them. “Never show up to a lady’s home without a small token,” she would advise in a raspy voice.

  “I showed up here without one,” he’d reply slyly.

  “And it has been to my detriment,” she’d return, coming as close to a smile as she could.

  On the nights Doña Karina was home alone, when Armando would visit his latest conquest, she was attacked by tiny fits of anger. The later the night grew, so did the anger until its monstrous form swallowed her whole.

  She had suspected Liliana, the daughter of the Colonel and Doña Fuentes, as the lady he was courting. Karina could hardly stand to think about it much less discuss it with him, but she knew it was her. The way she looked at him, swirls of lust in her eyes, always gave her the fits. As far as Karina was concerned, that young lady was a harlot sent by her money-strapped parents to snag Armando for his possible dowry upon her death.

  So it was there, in the grand ballroom on Christmas Eve, that Doña Karina saw the look upon Liliana’s graceful face and interpreted it as greed.

  “There is your lady love, Armando,” she nodded toward Liliana, who stood like a princess next to her parents. “Shall we go say hello?”

  “She is not my love. My heart belongs to another.”

  How distressing this news was to her. Another lady? But who? And when?

  “And can we know who this lady is?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I am sure she will never reciprocate. I am destined for a loveless life.”

  “Stop with the melodramas, Armando. It is only love. I’m sure if you tell her of the vast fortune you are sure to inherit, she will come around.”

  “Money means nothing to her, I’m afraid.”

  “Come on, tell me who it is and I will talk to her parents on your behalf.”

  “Her parents have long died, Karina.”

  “An orphan then. Like yourself. How...fitting.”

  “Can we not discuss this any further?”

  Before
she could protest, Armando guided Karina toward the first group of polite, gentle people. And then to the next group. And then next. And the next until they created their own circle. He would make polite conversation. She’d make polite conversation. He’d laugh appropriately at dull jokes, she’d follow his lead. He’d make a comment on the weather, she’d recall the plot of a recently read book. He would cough. She would sneeze. Armando would yawn and Karina would sigh. It was all a beautifully rehearsed public dance of avoidance. Both wanted to avoid any deep discussion with guests and with each other but, as with most human emotions, the avoidance grew and filled the room like fruit filling in a cake. It laid on the dance floor. It globed on the table filled with finger foods. It clung to the walls, the ceilings, and the chandeliers. Then it filled all the empty space until it sent its creators outside for air.

  “This is a beautiful evening. The stars are bright,” Armando said without looking up.

  “Yes, I agree. They are quiet bright,” Karina responded, playing with the seams of her glove.

  Armando and Karina stood outside of the grand ballroom, surrounded by a bright night absent of sound. It was as if they were in a tunnel and deafened by a silence of an on-coming train.

  “Why won’t you tell me who she is?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why?! Don’t you think I am entitled as your sponsor?”

  “You, lady, sponsor my lifestyle, not what is in my heart.”

  “And what do you know about things that happen in the heart? Do you know about its disappointments or how it can defy you in a breath?”

  “I know enough to know I’ve known my share.”

  “What if you tell her and she doesn’t refuse you?”

  “But she will--”

  “For laughs, let’s pretend she feels the same way. What will you do?”

  “I would marry her.”

  “And what of me? Of our arrangement?” Karina was offended.

  “Is that all I am to you? An arrangement?” Armando was equally as offended.

  “That is all I am to you. A roof over your head. Food in your belly.”

  “You are more than food or a roof, Karina.”

  “You are not an arrangement, Armando.”

  The couple paused and for the first time saw each other and not their ages. To Armando, Karina was a woman in need of love. To her, Armando was a man searching for himself.

  “I disappear every night not for a woman but for a cause.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am my own man. I work at the docks every night to earn my own wage.”

  She adored and admired his pride.

  “And what will you use the money for?”

  From Armando’s jacket pocket came a simple silver ring with a humble diamond.

  “I would say yes. If I were her I would accept happily.”

  “But what if she was much older than me?”

  “She would say happiness knows no age.”

  “And what would she say if I said how I had long since stopped thinking about her as an arrangement and more as a possibility?”

  ***

  The wedding was a simple service ceremony with Doña Karina's dressing maid serving as maid of honor and her unimpressed and curious attorney serving as a witness. The ceremony was in the front room of the six bedroom home in the old part of Santo Cristobal next to the church. While it would have been no trouble to have walked next door to perform the marriage ceremony, Karina insisted a low key affair at home and when you are rich, your will be done. At that wedding, the bride wore a simple pale blue dress with silver ribbons on the hem in a youthful pattern that looked odd to the untrained eye. To Armando, it was a testament to devotion.

  That devotion lasted ten years. Karina died being made love to by a man who wanted love as much as she did.

  Part III

  The aged Don Armando stopped to rest on a wobbly stool outside of Chiflada’s Brothel. Chiflada was Armando’s solace upon Karina’s death. He missed the smell of a woman, the graceful way their long hair would pool on his chest after a night of love making. It was his reward.

  It was then, in the middle of a deep breath and surrounded by his wedding guests, that Chiflada in all her rotund presence shimmied over to Armando, a smile on her face like a Picasso painting and sweat soaking through her black corset.

  “So you’re marrying another one, huh?” Chiflada laughed and slapped Don Armando’s back. Nearly falling off the stool, the gentleman used his decaying cane to support himself. He stared at the brothel queen with eyes like two gun barrels.

  “Chiflada!” Don Armando pounded his cane on the pebbled street. “I should have known this was your doing! What did you say?”

  “Hoder! Did you think I’d let my prized pupil and client marry someone who would surely kill him on his wedding night? Never!”

  Chilfada’s barrel laugh made her belly and breasts jiggle and Don Armando remembered his excursions among those pronounced structures. To her, the good sir knew, he owed his reputation. The fact his first beloved wife died in his arms during the act of love making was moot since she was near death anyway. However, within weeks of starting his new vice of women and drink, the legend of Don Armando began and the exaggeration did as well. First, it was the rumor of his stamina.

  “A marathon,” the putas at the brothel would say. “We would have to charge him extra.” Then it was a matter of size. “So intimidating,” they’d giggle with a fake, virginal blush. “Never seen anything like it.” Then, around the time he met his second wife, the gossiping whores would whisper, where they could be purposefully overheard, the intensity of the love making and how, in the same breath he could make the most experienced concubine feel like it was her first time.

  Chilfada was responsible for most of these rumors. A stallion in the stable brought in business. Male vanity was as predictable as the minute hand on a clock.

  “What did you tell her!” Don Armando demanded.

  “Nothing that hasn’t been told before!” Chiflada yelled in defense. She pulled out a white handkerchief with blue stitching from inside her stocking and blotted the sweat from her bosom.

  Chiflada’s darkest secret was the reason for the rumors -- a vain attempt to keep other women, not only those in the brothel, away from him. At first Don Armando didn’t mind. How could a man of his stature object to such flattering whispers behind his back? But those rumors nearly cost him sweet and impressionable Catalina, wife number two.

  “You had no right!” Armando yelled, shaking his cane toward Chiflada. “You and your damned rumors nearly ruined my life!”

  “You have no right, viejo! You are a pathetic old man still chasing girls as if he was still twenty two! When he could have a young chicken, he took an old one!”

  Chiflada’s laughing and taunting echoed in the street as he shuffled toward Mayra’s house. Just a couple of blocks and this entire misunderstanding would be cleared up, he thought.

  “You’ll be back! I love you, you old bastard!” she yelled before walking back into her building.

  Doña Catalina Rocio del Castillo, dressed in a plain brown cotton dress, was negotiating the price of three peaches in the market when Armando, no longer Señor Mejia but a Don after inheriting Karina’s estate, saw the prim woman and the idea of taking her as his next wife popped into his head. For his first marriage, he married for love and in the days since the ending of it, he fulfilled his manly desires with regular visits to Chiflada. Now he needed a wife befitting a Don, a man of means and a boss of his lands, his estates, and his future.

  And he looked like a dueño. Armando, the boss, was considered quite a catch. He had grown out of his boyish looks and morphed into a rugged man with a chiseled chin and an eye twinkle like Independence Day fireworks. He was a muscled man, a sure sign of his intense virility, and had a smile with strong, straight teeth like a picket fence. The young women of the town, both single and widowed, aimed to gain his favor through
small testaments of their devotion. For him, they cooked whole meals and dropped them off at his door step with love perfumed notes signed with hearts and kisses. Then there were the invitations to meals, events, and teas. The men of the town finally took part in the courting on behalf of their daughters by singing their praises to Don Armando during social interactions.

  At some point, however, Don Armando would need a new wife, one who was attentive, attractive, pious, with a good reputation, and would be worthy of the man with enough money to purchase the entire town on a whim. But none of the young ladies, any of which would have made an excellent match, turned his head. Instead a recent divorcee, Doña Catalina with all her 45 years, was the woman Don Armando thought he deserved. She was a plain woman having lived as a wife of a soldier who did not allow flashy things in his home. She wore her faded brown hair in a tight bun and pursed her thin lips into a line during polite conversation. Doña Catalina never dared looked anyone in the eye not out of fear but out of respect as she considered looking into some one's eye an insult.

  In addition to her plainness, Doña Catalina was not a fan of change. Change, she said, made devils out of good men. And it had made a devil out of her ex-husband whom she swore to love, honor, and obey when she was seventeen. When he changed, so did her status from a married woman of a brave solider to the ex-wife of a soldier who ran off with the general’s wife without warning. The change was so drastic that she mourned more out of custom than of grief when the general found the pair in the Capital and placed a bullet in both of their heads.