The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  Diego countered by throwing his hips forward. Francisco’s foot only caught air, which almost sent him tumbling off the stool.

  “You will have to be faster than that,” Diego taunted, dashing out of the stable.

  Francisco looked at Regalo, whose head was draped over a stable gate. “What? You think I do not know? Of course I know. There will be a wedding and then a celebration. And you and I will have to figure out a way to make it happen.”

  The burro redirected his ears to better understand Francisco’s discourse and, deciding it had nothing to do with feed and water, gave a little snort.

  Diego ran all the way home. He changed into his best trousers and hurried into the kitchen to wash his face and torso in a fresh basin of water. But when he looked in the mirror that hung over the basin, he scowled. There was a cowlick that sprung up like a rooster’s tail from the crown of his head. He wetted the errant tuft of hair and pressed it down against his skull. He examined himself again and smiled, but the smile turned into consternation when the cowlick popped up, recovering its natural bearing. Again he pressed down on the patch of hair, and again it sprang out of place.

  Diego’s brain whirled through a series of solutions. Then, landing on one, he retrieved a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard. He gave it a sniff, and, it was true, it smelled a little rancid, but it was the only bottle in the house, and he had no choice. He tipped the open bottle over his head, and the oil poured out slowly—too slowly to please Diego, so he increased the angle, which let loose a torrent of the thick liquid. Diego sopped up the mess as best he could with a dishtowel and then, not knowing what to do with the soiled cloth, tossed it under his bed.

  He reexamined his profile in the mirror with satisfaction; the cowlick was finally tamed. He put on his best white shirt, quickly tucking the tail into his trousers, and flew out of the house.

  Diego was half way to Lupe’s home when he remembered the coin purse on his bedroom dresser. “Aye!” he said, snapping his fingers. He hurried back to the house and retrieved the purse. It did not contain a fortune, only three pesetas, but it was more than enough to treat Lupe to a sweet cake and a cup of coffee. Again, he scampered off to Lupe’s home, his arms outstretched like a bird on wing to keep his armpits dry.

  Lupe’s father answered the door. He embraced the young man and invited him into the house. There she was. Lupe was sitting at the kitchen table, darning a pair of her father’s socks. A yellow glow from the table lantern fell across her face. She was heaven: her black eyes, her shimmering hair, the turn of her lips smiling softly. It was a scene that Diego would remember that moment for the rest of his life.

  “Hola, Lupe,” Diego said, wanting to say so much more, but not in the company of Lupe’s parents and the snickering eyes of her little brother Zavier.

  “Hola, Diego. I am enchanted to see you again.”

  “I am enchanted to see you again,” Zavier sang out, mocking his sister.

  “Hush now,” Lupe’s mother said, tapping the boy on the side of the head.

  Diego bowed to Lupe’s parents. “I wonder if I might invite Lupe for a walk on the square. I thought she might enjoy the cool evening air.”

  Lupe’s father responded. “I think the evening air would be very good for Lupe.”

  Diego grinned.

  “And Zavier,” Lupe’s mother added.

  Diego’s grin fell off his face. “Yes, of course.” He smiled weakly at Zavier, who was playing imaginary maracas, his shoulders gyrating to the silent rhythm.

  The three left the house and slowly strolled toward the square, Zavier sandwiched between the sweethearts.

  Suddenly, Zavier sniffed the air. “What is that awful smell?” He leaned toward Diego and filled his nostrils. “It is you!” he howled. He jumped onto Diego’s back and poked his nose into his hair. “Yuck! What is that?”

  “It is nothing,” Diego snapped, swinging the small boy off his back.

  “No, it is something all right. It is olive oil! Your head is a salad,” the urchin jeered.

  “You be quiet,” Lupe scolded, shaking her brother by the arm.

  “Lupe loves a salad bowl. Lupe loves a salad bowl,” the boy chanted, skipping out of arm’s reach.

  When the three reached the café in the village square, Diego had an idea.

  “Your talking about salad makes me wonder if you are hungry,” Diego said to the boy.

  “Yes, I am hungry, I am hungry,” Zavier said, bouncing straight-legged.

  “How would you like hot chocolate and a big plate of churros?”

  “Oh, yes! Churros, churros, churros.”

  “Good,” Diego said, opening the door to the café. “They make the best churros here with extra sugar and cinnamon. You will love them.”

  Diego would have normally chosen an outside table to watch the people pass by, but that did not fit in with his plan. Instead, he seated Lupe and Zavier at the table in the back corner of the room. Then he walked to the bar where his schoolboy friend, César, was wiping down the counter. He leaned over the bar, seizing his friend by the shoulder. “César, you have to help me.”

  César was always a bit of a rascal himself, and he was intrigued by the urgency in Diego’s voice. He raised his eyebrows. “What did you have in mind, Diego?”

  Diego whispered his plan into César’s ear and emptied his purse of the three pesetas to seal the bargain. Then he returned to the table.

  In a few moments, César arrived with three hot chocolates and an enormous stack of churros, all freshly deep-fried and sugar coated.

  “These look wonderful,” Diego said. “Do you not think so, Zavier?”

  The boy was preoccupied. He had already dunked the first churro in hot chocolate and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Oh, look, Lupe. There is Amando,” Diego exclaimed, pointing toward the front window at an imaginary friend.

  “I do not see anyone,” Zavier said with a mouthful of dough.

  “He just now walked by,” Diego adlibbed. “I know he would love to see you, Lupe.” Diego hooked Lupe by the arm. “We will be right back, Zavier.”

  The two rushed out of the café and darted across the long square, holding their sides with laughter. When they came to the fountain, they were both out of breath. They sat on a bench on the opposite side of the pool, hidden from direct view of the café.

  “When do you think my brother will realize that we have tricked him?”

  “Not until he has devoured the last churro.”

  “But he will be sick if he eats all of them.”

  “Oh, it is worse than that. I told César to serve a second platter when he was down to his last churro.”

  “You are terrible.”

  “Do you forgive me? I had to be alone with you, Lupe.”

  Lupe blushed. “Yes. To be honest, I wanted to be alone with you too.”

  Diego leaned back against the bench, stuck his legs straight out, crossing them at the ankles, and eased his arm around Lupe. At that moment of perfect bliss, all was right with the world.

  “I am so happy you are here, Lupe. I thought the day would never come.”

  “Me too. I thought about you constantly. Did you think about me?”

  “Oh, let me see. I remember one day last March you came to mind. But then I thought about a much prettier girl, and the feeling went away.”

  Lupe gave Diego a rabbit punch to his thigh.

  “Hey, easy. I am a fragile guy.”

  Lupe put her fist under Diego’s chin. “How would you like a sock to your fragile jaw?”

  “No thank you. I like my jaw the way it is.”

  “So do I,” Lupe said, giving Diego a peck on the end of his chin.

  Diego straightened up and turned his body toward Lupe, placing his hand behind the small of her back. “I love you, Lupe, and I think you love me.”

  Lupe tilted her head up, her lips just a breath away from Diego’s mouth. “I do love you.”

  The sweethearts kissed. Both
were reeling with passion. Diego held Lupe tighter against his chest, and Lupe put her hand on the back of his head to press his mouth onto hers. And then she laughed.

  “What? What is it?”

  “It is the olive oil. My hand is full of olive oil.”

  Diego took Lupe’s hand and ineffectively tried to wipe it clean with the palm of his hand. “I am sorry, Lupe. I have a patch of hair that refuses to lie down.”

  “It does not matter. In fact, I love you for it. I adore that sprig of hair.”

  She walked to the fountain and dipped her hand into the basin, and, to wipe the excess oil off her hand, she drew out a handkerchief from the hollow between her breasts. Diego’s chest collapsed with longing. Then, she turned to Diego and wiped his hand with the handkerchief; he silently watched her work, and thought he had never seen a more graceful and tender gesture.

  The time passed quickly. There were sweet exchanges and lingering gazes. Then, Lupe said, “We have to get back. Zavier will be sicker than a dog.”

  “It will be a good lesson for him.”

  “What lesson? Not to eat too many churros? Or not to be tricked by your sister?”

  “Maybe both.”

  When they walked into the café, César gave a knowing nod. Zavier was still at the table, finishing up the last churro from the second platter. All three cups of the hot chocolate had been drained. He looked a little green.

  “Oh, that Amando is a real talker,” Diego said. “Did you enjoy the churros?”

  Zavier wobbled his head. His stomach retched, and he quickly covered his mouth.

  “You need some fresh air,” Diego said, lifting the boy out of the chair.

  Diego led the way to the front door, his arm around Zavier, who was holding his stomach with both hands. “Thank you, César.”

  “Anytime,” the bartender said, drying a wine glass with a towel that was draped over his shoulder.

  On the way back to Lupe’s home, Zavier was groaning.

  “My, those were good churros,” Diego said, rubbing it in.

  Zavier looked up at Diego. His eyes were swimming in agony. And then he threw up on Diego’s sabots.

  “Not on my shoes,” Diego bemoaned, shaking the remnants of partially digested churros from his sabots.

  When they had reached the house, Zavier entered first, and Lupe quickly kissed Diego goodnight.

  “You might want to wash your head and shoes when you get home. You smell … Well, you have smelled … better.”

  Diego pointed to himself in self-mockery.

  Lupe smiled. “Uh-huh.”

  It was a strange thing to Diego. Lupe could talk about rancid olive oil and vomit, and still make it sound like music. He breathed a long sigh of utter contentment and marched home, his arms swinging high.

  Diego and Lupe worked the harvest side by side. Sometimes they swatted the olive branches; sometimes they swatted each other, playing their own lover’s version of tag among the olive trees. Francisco would smile and raise his eyes to heaven as if to say, “It is all in your hands now, God.”

  By the end of harvest, Diego and Lupe knew that they would be married; there was no question in their minds. But Diego still had to present himself to Lupe’s father and formally ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. It was not a task that Diego relished, and Lupe’s father did not make it any easier.

  “My daughter is my dearest possession—a gift from Allah,” her father said. “Why should I give her to you?”

  “Because I will love her more than I love myself.”

  “Is that wise?” her father asked, convinced that the young man was right for his daughter, but still savoring the moment to make him sweat.

  “Is what wise, señor?”

  “Is it wise to love another more than yourself? For if you do not love yourself, how can you love another?”

  “But if I do not value the life of my wife over my own, how can I expect her to love me? And I do not think I could live without her love—not for one day, not for one minute.”

  “Very well said, young man.”

  “Thank you, señor. It is easy to speak when you tell the truth.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. You have my blessings.”

  Both families were delighted with the choice that their children had made. Yes, they were both very young and practically penniless, but Diego was a strong, hard-working young man with an exceptional heart. As for Lupe, she was not only a ravishing señorita, but also undaunted in spirit, something that would serve the couple well in the hard times to come.

  There was one bright spot in their impoverished condition. Lupe’s parents owned a very small one-room apartment in the Arab Quarter of Granada and, although in shambles, it was vacant and was offered as a wedding present to the young couple.

  Excitement mounted as the wedding day approached. And, yet, there was one who secretly disapproved of the marriage: Diego’s brother, Francisco. When he saw the beautiful Lupe—her smooth, caramel-toned skin, the sensuality of her mouth, the curve of her breasts—he was overtaken with desire. It was unbearable. Naturally, he could not have her—she was to be his brother’s bride—but, more, he was now an ordained priest and wedded only to the Savior.

  And, yet, Francisco could not stop thinking about Lupe. He once saw her lift up her skirt and wash her legs on the bank of the Rio Guadalquivir at a family picnic, and, from that moment on, he longed to caress those legs. In his bed at night, he imagined the dark-skinned girl wrapping her limbs around his waist and, with her hands clasping the metal tubing of the bedrail, draw him into her below the crucifix above her head. And each time, when he had come, he would muffle a scream and fall to his knees, begging God for forgiveness. But the temporary relief from God’s grace was not nearly as powerful as the pulsating current of his sexual imagination, and again he would give in to the seduction of her call.

  Two weeks before the wedding, Francisco traveled from Granada to visit his father and brother in Espejo. One evening after dinner, he and Diego walked to the town plaza. Francisco was wearing his priestly black cassock, which pleased Diego; he was proud to be seen by the villagers with his brother, the handsome young priest. Diego knew nothing of Francisco’s secret resentments and passions; he thought of him only as a wise and compassionate older brother, someone to be trusted wholeheartedly.

  When they reached the fountain, Francisco laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder and spoke to Diego in muted tones. “You know, little brother, that you cannot marry this woman.”

  Diego half laughed at the statement, thinking it was an awkward attempt at humor. But then he studied his brother’s face and saw only a hardening of the eyes. “What are you talking about? I can and will marry her.”

  Francisco took his brother’s arm and pulled him down to the ledge that circled the base of the fountain. “Yes, you can marry her. But if you do, it will be a sin against God and all that is holy.”

  Diego stared at his brother, completely baffled by his harsh words. “But why? Why would you say such an ugly thing?”

  “Because it is God’s truth. And you know I am bound by my vows to speak only the truth.”

  “What truth are you talking about?”

  “She is Muslim.”

  “She is not Muslim; she is a Christian.”

  “Yes, that is what she claims. But her parents are Muslim—as are her grandparents and her great grandparents before them. Her roots are Muslim; that is not something she can change with a perfunctory conversion to the Holy Church.”

  Diego’s eyes were brimming with tears. “I have always loved you, Francisco, and I thought I knew you, but I have discovered tonight that I know nothing about you.”

  “Then know this: It was the blessed Saint Paul who said to the Corinthians, ‘Be ye not unequally yoked with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?’ That is the truth. You must not copulate with this whore of darkness.”

  With
out thinking and without hesitation, Diego slapped his brother hard across the right side of his face. He stood, trembling with fury and grief, and turned to walk away.

  Francisco called out to him. “Christ has commanded us: ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’”

  Diego circled back and squared up on his brother, who sat upright, offering the left side of his face as a target. “I will never speak to you again,” Diego said. “You are dead to me.” He turned his back on his brother, took two steps, froze for an instant, and returned to Francisco who was still seated at the fountain ledge.

  “If you want my forgiveness, you have it,” Francisco said.

  Diego was trembling. He slapped his brother so hard across his other cheek, the momentum of the blow sent Francisco to his hands and knees.

  Two weeks later, Diego and Lupe were married, not by his brother, which had been Diego’s dream for as long as Francisco talked of becoming a priest, but by the curé of Espejo. His brother was not present at the ceremony; Diego did not want him there.

  But nothing—not even the condemnation of Diego’s brother—could taint the joy of their wedding day. Diego wore the suit that his father had worn at his wedding and, for all he knew, the suit his grandfather had worn. It was a little snug across the chest, and the sleeves were two inches too short, but Diego’s father, surprisingly nimble with a needle and thread, let out the sleeves and the back panel, and, in the end, Diego was very handsome indeed.

  At the ceremony, the groom stood shiny and bright, a sturdy, straight-backed young man, but his good looks were overshadowed by the radiance of his bride. Lupe amazed everyone. She wore her mother’s Muslim wedding dress. It was spectacular: red and wine with heavy gold beading and ribbon trimmings. At her neck was a wide, intricately ornate costume necklace with matching three-inch pendant earrings. Her long black hair was held back with a red ribbon, which was elegantly woven in an impossible pattern.

  Despite some whispering among wedding guests that her dress should, after all, be white, signifying purity, no one could dispute her beauty.

  As much as Lupe adored her dress, she was even more thrilled with her bouquet: white lilies—her absolute favorite and almost impossible to find, requiring a long horseback ride by her father to Córdoba. When she saw them for the first time, she kissed her father and said that she did not merit so much love.