by Luz Gabás
Now!
But the smile would not come.
Her brain couldn’t process his features, being too busy with disconnected images from a dream where a man lay facedown by a river, images from a nightmare with a confusing sound track.
I know you. I’ve seen you before.
Those eyes looking at me and burning me …
7.
Brianda felt a stab of pain in her chest. She grabbed the drinks and hurried back to the table. Her cheeks were burning, her heart was racing faster than ever, and her hands were trembling. First the inscription in Latin, then the vision in the church, and now this man who she’d nearly called by name.
Corso.
She would bet her life that his name was Corso.
The unusual name had sprung from somewhere deep in her mind, as if it had always been there and was now claiming its rightful place. But she’d never met this man; she was certain of that. She would never have forgotten a face like that.
“Are you tired?” Isolina asked. “Shall we go?”
Brianda shrugged. On one hand, she wanted to run away as fast as she could. On the other, she felt inexplicably compelled to stay right where she was.
“Don’t you want to stay?” asked Neli. “We could have dinner here.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Isolina said. “Stay! Spend time with someone your own age! Petra and Bernardo can give me a ride home.”
Brianda nodded. She’d stay.
The older folks drifted out, and Jonas and Zacarias joined their table. Every few minutes, Brianda couldn’t resist turning slightly and throwing furtive looks toward the bar. The man was still there. Sometimes he was chatting with the owner, sometimes with one of the locals. But most of the time he was sipping his drink and glancing over at Brianda’s table. She knew he was watching her just like she was watching him. She was tempted to go start a conversation, but decided against it. She had no idea what to say. And she didn’t want him to think she was a flirt.
“I wonder if I should ask him to join us,” said Jonas.
Brianda tensed up. It was obvious who Jonas meant.
“Whenever he comes in, it’s always the same,” said Berta. “He loiters near the door, has one drink, chats a little with my husband, and leaves.”
“My father is overseeing all his building work,” Zacarias added. “He says he’s a great employer and a great worker but a bad talker.” He turned to Jonas. “You work for him too, right? What do you think?”
“I’ve had no problems with him,” said Jonas. “He’s just a loner is all.”
“And he’s Italian?” Brianda ventured.
“But he seems to speak good Spanish,” Zacarias replied. “My father says he’s shy because he’s embarrassed about his face. Have you seen it up close?”
Brianda shivered. She’d seen it at the bar. She closed her eyes and imagined running her fingers along the deep scar from the man’s right eye to his chin, as if a lava flow of tears had opened a furrow in his flesh.
“It’s pretty intense,” Neli admitted. “And on top of that, he’s new here. Jonas and I were talking about how maybe we should be friendlier to him.”
“I don’t know,” said Jonas. “When all is said and done, he’s my boss. Maybe once the house is finished—”
“Well, it’ll have to be another day,” Zacarias announced, “because he just left.”
Brianda spun around. Damn it, she thought. She wondered if she would see him again. Tiles wasn’t very big, but time was against her. She’d come to the country for a few days of rest, and a week had already gone by. Soon she’d have to return to Madrid. The longest she could stretch her stay would be to the following weekend, and she’d just have to hope that he came to the bar again. A feeling of dread gripped her chest. What if he didn’t come? If he didn’t leave his mysterious house?
She scarcely recognized herself. Why was she so anxious to see him again? She wiped her brow with a clammy hand. She must be sicker that she’d thought. Strange things kept happening to her, both inside and out. Maybe she should never have come to Tiles.
She was getting worse and worse.
Something in her brain was not right.
Brianda headed back to Anels House. As soon as she pulled away from the bar, she regretted not having returned earlier with Isolina. Complete darkness reigned; it was only broken by her headlights. Beyond them, there was nothing.
When she took the turnoff toward the high part of the valley, she stepped on the gas, eager to reach the safety of the house as quickly as possible. But the car did not accelerate. Instead, it jolted. The engine choked and then gave out.
Brianda cursed, banging the steering wheel with both hands. She tried repeatedly to restart the car, but to no avail. Not a single light on the dashboard came on. She pulled the hand brake and began crying in fury. She couldn’t believe it. Stranded in the middle of the night. On a deserted road. Too close to the graveyard.
Stopping to catch her breath, she realized it wasn’t that serious. She’d just call her aunt. She rummaged in her purse, but couldn’t find her phone. She emptied the contents onto the seat beside her and, among tissues, lipsticks, a compact, pens, keys, and other miscellaneous objects, there was a little white pouch she didn’t recognize. How had it gotten there? Then she spotted her phone. Brianda typed in the code to unlock it, then stared at the screen for several long seconds as she recalled her first encounter with Neli.
In this backward and godforsaken place, there was no signal.
She wiped the condensation off the window and looked out; her heart beat as if afraid someone or something was about to pounce on the car, and she hit the automatic lock button. She estimated that Anels House was about fifteen minutes away by foot. She kept a flashlight in the trunk, though she wasn’t sure the batteries were charged. All she had to do was open the door, get out of the car, open the trunk, grab the flashlight, pray that it would work, and run. She repeated the sequence out loud to give herself confidence, and then she threw open the door.
With her senses on high alert, Brianda faced the outside world. The dampness of the earth filled her lungs. Luckily, the flashlight worked. She locked the car and began walking, trembling and hunched, a thin scarf her only protection against the cold and the fear. She concentrated on the luminous circle projected on the ground from her flashlight and began to recite comforting words to shield herself from the imposing silence. However, no matter how she repeated these positive messages—a technique she’d gotten from a book on how to control fear—menacing thoughts persistently flashed through her mind. She’d never make it home, they said. An animal would attack her. Or a murderer. Or a ghost. Maybe a witch? She couldn’t do anything about it. Death was close. The pain. Her blood on the earth. The end. The grief of her loved ones …
Suddenly, she heard something and her heart jumped. It was a dull, repetitive sound. She turned back and raced for the car. The noise was getting loud. It seemed to rise from the road itself. A freezing sweat covered her body.
Still short of her refuge in the car, she recognized the sound: a horse’s hooves. Brianda stopped dead, accepting defeat. The fear made her tremble uncontrollably, and she could only breathe by gasping. She heard the gallop ease to a trot and then a walk. A whinny revealed that the horse was very close, too close.
“Hello,” said a raspy voice. “Car trouble?” He had a slight accent.
Brianda pointed her flashlight toward the looming figure, first on to the black horse and then its rider, whom she immediately recognized by his lumberjack shirt under a leather jacket. She cautiously took a few steps toward him.
“The engine died.”
The rider dismounted. Brianda couldn’t see his face clearly, but it was imprinted in her mind. The scar. The black eyes. The straight nose, slightly narrow. His creased brow. The serious expression on his lips. Despite the darkness, she noticed his surprise when he realized who she was. She wondered whether he too had her face etched in his mind. They rem
ained in silence for a few moments.
“Maybe I could try?”
“If you want, but I don’t think it’ll start. It’s completely dead.”
“If you hold my horse, I’ll take a look.”
“Hold the horse?”
Brianda shone her flashlight at the enormous animal. It had a long and wavy mane, thick hair partially covering its hooves, and a tail that nearly reached the ground. It was a magnificent and elegant specimen but intimidating. She kept her distance from it.
She felt tempted to run the light over the man as well but stopped herself. He came a little closer and handed her the reins.
“Don’t move and neither will he. May I have the keys?”
Stunned by the proximity of the horse and its owner, Brianda handed over the keys and waited. He tried to start the car without success. He then lifted the hood, looked at the engine, and closed it again.
“Too sophisticated,” he said. “You’ll have to take it to a mechanic.”
Brianda wasn’t surprised, though for a moment she had harbored the hope that he might magically fix the car so she could go home. She would never have imagined wanting to get to Anels House so badly. At least the fear of being out here alone had let up, pushed aside by the tension between her and the strange rider, as well as the concentration required to hold that impressive horse.
The man crossed in front of her and took the animal by the bridle.
“See? He stayed quiet. Because you did.”
“I’ve never been so close to a horse before.” She didn’t know what else to say. “Is it a Friesian?” She spoke the word without thinking.
“You’ve never been close to a horse,” he replied in amazement, “but you recognize the breed?”
Brianda blushed in confusion. She must have read it somewhere and gotten it right by chance, but she wasn’t going to admit that.
“Well, I should go.”
“Alone? You’re brave.”
Brave? She could barely contain a laugh. If he only knew!
“I’ll go with you,” he proposed. “Where do you live?”
“A little past the turnoff to Lubich.”
“Very good. Let me help you up on the horse.”
“Oh, no.”
“No?” He shrugged. “We could walk, but it’ll take longer.” He gently rubbed the Friesian’s jaw, and his voice got husky again. “There’s nothing like riding a horse at night. It is a unique feeling. The perspective is different. A mixture of peace and absolute freedom.”
The horse responded to the caress by stretching its neck, half closing its eyes, and twitching its nose. Brianda found the gentle, masculine scene oddly relaxing. For a moment, she was compelled to take part in this intimate connection. She ran her hand along the magnificent animal’s back. The man studied her, and she quickly pulled her hand back.
“If you’re afraid to touch,” he said with a hint of disappointment in his voice, “I won’t push you to ride.”
She wanted to explain that it was one thing to touch but quite another to get up on that colossus. She wanted to explain that he’d seemed annoyed when she touched the horse, but that sounded absurd. His presence was disorienting; the words didn’t want to come. She took a deep breath and forced herself to tell the truth.
“I’d really like to try riding, but I have to admit I’m terrified.”
“Then we’ll go slow.”
He took the flashlight and put it in his pocket. Then, he held the stirrup and motioned for her to place her left foot in it. He took her left hand in his—big, strong, weathered—and guided her to the withers. Brianda felt a shiver that increased in intensity when he applied light pressure on her waist with both hands.
“Push yourself up,” she heard him say.
Brianda concentrated. She was agile, but the horse was very tall. She counted to three, bending her knee with each number, then pushed. The pressure on her waist increased until she was seated properly on the saddle. Unsteady, she gripped the front saddlebow with both hands.
“Very good,” he said, placing himself a handsbreadth away from the animal’s nostrils. “Now just hold on tight and enjoy.”
Brianda sat bolt upright, totally alert to the new sensations she was discovering: simultaneous fear and pleasure. She was afraid that the horse would buck and rear or bolt out of control. She was afraid of falling and breaking her neck. Once more, twisted thoughts tried to edge out the pleasant ones, but she fought them back. She enjoyed the gentle rocking, the rhythmic clopping of the hooves, the power of the animal’s muscles between her thighs. She found she now enjoyed the silence and even the shadows just outside the space occupied by the three of them.
“Are you OK?” he asked after a while.
“Better than I expected,” she answered. “But at this pace it’ll take us as long as if we walked.”
“In a hurry?”
“Huh? No. I mean that I don’t think it’s right for you to have to walk.”
“Do you want to get down?”
“It’s not that.” Brianda wasn’t sure if he was being kind, testing her, or making fun of her.
“Ah, you want me to join you.”
She bristled at the hint of laughter in his voice, but she said nothing. She certainly didn’t want to get back down and walk in the dark.
He took her silence for assent. He guided the horse to an outcropping of rocks and climbed up. Then he motioned for her to take her feet out of the stirrups.
“Could you move back a bit?”
Brianda scooted back onto the hindquarters. He leapt from the rocks down into the saddle.
“And now, hold on to me very tightly.”
He took the reins with one hand and rested the other on Brianda’s clasped hands wrapped around his waist. He squeezed his legs against the horse’s flanks, and it began to move, slowly at first and then a little faster. The walk became a trot.
Brianda held on for dear life. She couldn’t believe this was reality. In the middle of the night, she was riding a black steed and clutching a stranger, her cheek and chest against his back, her arms around his waist. She could smell his sweat, and something elemental, like fire, earth, storm, and maybe a subtle hint of tobacco.
She prayed the little bumps that brought her body closer and closer to his would never end. It had been ages since she had felt so relaxed, so safe, so complete. Now she wished Anels House were miles away so that this unexpected journey could continue into an infinite dawn.
“Are those the lights from your house?” he asked.
Her rider turned around, and a lock of his long dark hair brushed her face.
Brianda opened her eyes reluctantly. With a gentle pull on the reins, the horse returned to a leisurely walk and stopped in front of the gate. Luzer’s hoarse barking could be heard in the distance. Corso swung his leg over the horse’s head, slid to the ground, and then helped Brianda dismount.
The weak light of the lamps on the façade of Anels House gave Brianda a few final seconds to enjoy his features, especially the intense gaze that successfully diverted attention from the scar.
“Thank you so much,” she finally managed to say. “I’m so lucky you passed by.”
“It was a pleasure,” he whispered. “I hope we meet again.”
He mounted the horse again and began to walk into the night, but then doubled back.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Brianda, and yours?”
“Corso. It’s Italian.”
8.
Four days later, when Brianda returned to Anels House after picking up her car in Aiscle, she was amazed to see Esteban’s car parked out front. She rushed across the yard. He must have gone to great lengths to get free from work midweek; he must not have been able to stand being away from her. She suddenly yearned to return to Madrid with him, to get her daily routine back, to flee this strange valley where her worries had only increased.
Then she felt a twinge in her chest and froze.
&nb
sp; Leaving Tiles would mean leaving Corso.
She hadn’t seen him since that night, and yet whenever she closed her eyes, there was his face, his dark, penetrating, tormented gaze. She would give anything to ride again on his horse, arms around his waist, his back protecting her from the night’s cold. She wanted to know everything about him: why he’d come here, how he had gotten his scar, what his horse’s name was, where he was from, if he had family. She’d been tempted to ask when they said their good-byes at the gate of Anels House but hadn’t wanted to seem nosy. And, after the magic of their nocturnal ride, part of her had been afraid that general, even banal, questions and answers could have broken the spell. The abrupt good-bye had preserved the mystery.
For the past four days, the walk from Anels House to the turnoff to Lubich became her sacred ritual, morning and afternoon. She crossed the graveled yard where Luzer now looked at her with indifference, passed the linden beside the fountain, walked down a hill framed by walls of rock and thyme, rosemary, and lavender plants, dormant with the coming of winter; then she took the fork to Lubich, leaving the gloomy environs of the graveyard, its old pines and its hidden, ruined church. Then she walked a short way, straining her ears for the sound of hooves. She continued a little farther to where the undergrowth became thicker, where the aromatic plants gave way to familiar bushes—juniper, blackthorn, holly, and boxwood, and then to trees—birches, ashes, walnut, maple … And when she reached the spot where the forest began in earnest, she stopped, the warning from her childhood ringing in her ears: beyond that point there was only danger. After a few minutes of indecision, she hurried back home, kicking herself all the way. It was absurd and illogical to fear the woods, of course, but she had recently learned that fear and anxiety were powerful forces.