The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  She turned off the Victrola, pointing to a chair, which he refused.

  She shrugged her shoulders and sat like a queen.

  He smiled ironically when she tucked her skirt tightly around her legs, locking her knees against him. She pulled her feet in until only the toes of her filthy moccasins peeked beneath her skirt.

  She folded her hands in her lap, looking every inch a coyote lady, a half-breed with the pride of both her peoples on her face. He admired the stubbornness shining from her beautiful eyes.

  “Well, Patrón, I have invited you into my home, as you requested. Do not overstep your welcome and misunderstand my hospitality for more than it is.”

  He snorted.

  “What is it you want to talk to me about? I am very busy this late afternoon.”

  He looked around the room, wondering what she was busy at. There was no needle work in evidence. No piano that needed practicing. No desk with letter writing material. No easel for sketching. None of the refinements the living room of a young lady usually contained. There was just an odd smell coming from the kitchen.

  He paced, stopping several times to speak but said nothing. Finally, he set down the bouquet of roses and the candy on the table. He removed his top hat, coat, and white gloves, laying them across a chair. He was clothed in formal dress, in a dazzling black tuxedo with tails and a red rose in the buttonhole of his coat. His shirt was blindingly white, his boots sparkling black.

  “I don’t think, Patrón, removing your coat was necessary,” she said in a cold voice, looking down at her shabby clothing. “You won’t be staying long enough to get warm.”

  He loosened his collar and said in a soft voice, “I know, Miss Esperanza, that you have every right to think ill of me. I did not act like a gentleman day before yesterday.”

  “No, you did not,” she agreed.

  “You, Miss, make it damned hard for a man to apologize,” he snarled.

  “Oh? That was an apology?”

  Suddenly, Samuel was on one bent knee before her.

  She opened her eyes in amazement.

  “Miss Esperanza,” he said, all anger gone from his face. “I ask…no, I beg your forgiveness for my caddish behavior of the other day.”

  She lowered her lashes, chewing on her bottom lip. “I believe this is the first time you ever knelt before anyone, nor are you the type of man to apologize. You are a patrón in both Madrid and Albuquerque. You own the world. There’s no need to ask for forgiveness, much less beg.”

  He could see that he got to her. She held a hand over her heart and her face flushed red. She was, after all, a woman and he was a powerful man, whom everyone bowed down to. Him kneeling before her would be a heady sensation for any woman, especially a poverty stricken one, considered beneath the contempt of the villagers. He knew from the trial preparation that her entire life, Salia had been mocked, ridiculed, slightly feared, cussed at, thrown stones at, yelled at, and made lewd comments to by almost everyone in Madrid. Her being led through the streets by Whitie Smithson with her hands tied, helpless, her hair tangled like a wild thing the sheriff trapped, could not help her self-esteem. How ironic that only he, of all people, bowed down before her, showing his respect.

  She looked over at the roses and the bonbons. “Do you mean to buy me so cheaply, Patrón?”

  He cocked an arrogant eyebrow at her, waiting for her forgiveness. His blue eyes were glued to her face, and he was shocked at his vulnerability, a new sensation for him. She would crush him, if she turned away from him. Raw, naked emotion was in every breath he took.

  She clenched her hands tightly and said in a tingling voice, “Yes, Samuel, I do forgive you.”

  He bowed his head and took a deep, satisfying breath. He smiled secretly, wondering if she realized she called him by his first name. He couldn’t believe that those few words she spoke made him visibly tremble, and he was on one knee before her.

  He lifted his head and smiled.

  She smiled shyly back at him.

  He stood and walked over to the chair across from her. “May I?” he said, pointing.

  “Please. Do sit down.”

  He leaned forward, with his hands dangling at his knees.

  They simply stared at one another, an uncomfortable silence between them, neither willing to speak.

  Finally, she said, “Would you like a cup of coffee, Patrón? And cookies? I have some cookies.”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you, Miss Esperanza. We haven’t much time, and I preferred it when you called me Samuel,” he said, grinning foolishly.

  She lowered her brows, confused. “Samuel,” she said the name slowly, as though getting used to its flavor. “What do you mean, by not much time?”

  “Why, Miss Esperanza, I was hoping to escort you to the Christmas dance tonight.”

  “Me?” she squeaked. “Why?”

  He was taken aback by her question, even though her bluntness should not have surprised him. With a helpless look on his face that told her he was not used to being questioned, merely obeyed, he answered, “Why…why I would like you to go with me because…because I enjoy your company.”

  “But…other people will be at the dance.”

  “Yes,” he said, fighting to keep a serious expression on his face, “Other people will most likely be there.”

  “The whole village,” she said, pinching at her skirt.

  “Probably.”

  “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  “Absolutely! I can’t imagine anyone else I’d rather go with.”

  She twisted her hand in her skirt, pulling at the poorly mended rip and curling her toes into her moccasins. “I cannot,” she flatly said.

  He ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t know whether to strangle Salia or slap her. His rage lost out to other feelings, emotions foreign to him, sensations he pushed to the back of his mind, sentiments he would question Reincarnation later, when not in her presence, when he was more logical. Instead, he said in a ragged voice, “Don’t you like me? Even a little?”

  She raised her eyes from his strong jaw, to his brown hair, and then to his eyes, so strikingly blue. “I do like you, Samuel,” she confessed.

  He grinned, and then felt confused by her refusal to go to the dance with him.

  “I like you a little,” she qualified her response.

  He looked down at his boots, clenching his hands. A little was a beginning, he thought.

  “But I cannot go to the dance with you.”

  He lifted his head, a light shining from his eyes. “You don’t know how to dance.”

  “Of course, I can dance,” she snapped and raised her nose proudly. “My friend, Marcelina, showed me how to dance. My former friend,” she sadly added.

  He looked down at the floor so she wouldn’t see the amusement in his eyes. He noticed her dirty moccasins and yellowed petticoat, peeking out from beneath the only skirt he had seen her wearing.

  He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, looking around at the walls and furnishings. Because she appeared like a beggar in court, he was shocked when the car stopped at a house, grand by Madrid standards. He now noticed the room was shabby, the walls discolored, the furnishings falling apart. The living room was messy, but her poor housekeeping didn’t bother him. He was not neat, what with servants to pick up after him.

  He leaned back against the chair, feeling relaxed for the first time since he walked up the steps to her door. He crossed an ankle over his knee, swinging his boot. There was a spot of dirt on his pants leg, the one that he knelt on. He dusted his knee. “We’ll go to dinner first, then the play at the theatre, followed by the dance,” he announced in a confident voice.

  “The theatre,” she screeched.

  Ah, he had her. He smiled slyly.

  She clenched her fists, pounding her knees. “No. I cannot.”

  “Miss Esperanza,” he said in an exasperated voice.

  She could not hide the longing in her face.

  “I don’t ca
re if the whole damned world sees me with you,” he said in a husky voice. “I desire your company above all others. Please, come with me.”

  “I cannot go with you,” she said in a shaky voice like she was about to cry.

  She watched with tortured eyes, him put on his coat, hat, and gloves. He left the room without even looking at her.

  With closed eyes, she heard the front door shut behind him.

  She had wanted to feel if his face was as rough as it seemed where he shaved and his skin was darkening.

  She had watched him breathe, wondering what his bare chest looked like and fighting the urge to touch Samuel.

  She walked over to the table and picked up the bouquet of roses. In the middle of the red bouquet was one white rose. She inhaled its fragrant beauty.

  She rubbed the roses against her damp cheek. The roses felt like velvet, like the seats at the theatre.

  Perchance there was a spell to preserve the roses so their beauty would remain forever.

  Perhaps there was some way she could hold onto what happened in this room, the words he spoke to her, the look in his eyes when he bowed before her, because Salia knew she would never see Samuel again.

  29

  Salia still sat on the living room chair with her head bowed and holding a rose petal. Though she placed the bouquet in a jar of water, already the roses were falling apart. She rubbed the lone petal between her fingers, wondering how she might glue the petal to the rose.

  She sighed down at the floor. Why had she been born so awkward? Mother always said she was a clumsy cow. There were other petals on the floor, which fell from the bouquet when she placed it in the jar.

  Time passed.

  More petals fluttered.

  An eternity.

  “Miss Esperanza?”

  She looked up, startled. “Where did you come from, Patrón?” she said, blinking back the tears from her eyes, so he would not see she had been crying.

  He said softly, “I have been standing here for some time, trying to get your attention. What do you think?” He held up a beautiful gown the color of royal blue with white fur. Several pairs of sparkling women’s shoes were on the floor. A dark blue, velvet cape was draped across a chair. He looked at the dress with a crooked grin. “I think it’ll fit. I described your shape to the shop girl,” he said, turning red. “The shoes I wasn’t quite sure of so, I bought several sizes. Tomorrow, you can burn the dress, return the shoes, or read my chili seeds for payment.”

  After his behavior of the other day, she didn’t trust him and the thought crossed her mind that this could be a trick.

  He held up his hands. “In all honesty, Sal…, Miss Esperanza, there are no strings attached. I merely enjoy your company, and you are the loveliest thing I have ever seen. I swear, if I could just look at you all evening, I shall be satisfied.”

  She locked her eyes with his and sucked in her breath. The pure lust from two days ago was gone from his face. If this was a trick, then the patrón was master of the game, and she felt in grave danger. There had only been one other time in her life a man stared at her with worshipful eyes. Juan Martinez. She had felt nothing but derision for him. But when Samuel looked at her, butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and goose bumps popped out of her back. She was brought up to desire power, and here was the most powerful man desiring her.

  She pinched her cheeks to see if she was dreaming. Her heart beat faster as she touched the dress, rubbing the material between her fingers. She had never seen such beautiful fashion, even in magazines. The dress was made of velvet, as soft as the rose petal in her hand.

  She looked at Samuel, her eyes swirling with emotion.

  He took a step back, acting like she was going to slap him.

  She surprised him when she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “If what you say about the strings is true, you may call me Salia,” she said in a trembling voice. “We could be great friends, you and I, Samuel.”

  He rubbed his cheek where she kissed him. “Well, friendship is a step forward,” he gruffly said.

  “Thank you,” she shyly said, and took the proffered clothing.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s, uh, a petticoat and other feminine apparel.”

  She turned a bright pink and picked the one white rose from the jar. She said with a touch of mischief in her voice, “I shall be right back.”

  He glued his eyes to the staircase and watched her walk up the stairs, her hips swinging from side to side. When she disappeared from view, he felt as if the room darkened.

  He held his head between his trembling hands. He had no idea what just transpired between him and Salia, what she was thinking, but what he was feeling inside of him, in both his heart and in his head, Samuel had never felt before. If not for the beating of his own heart, he could have listened, acutely, to every rustle she made upstairs.

  She’s undressing, he thought and closed his eyes, imagining the possibilities.

  He leaned back against the chair and crossed his ankles, fighting the urge to charge up the stairs like a bull. For now, he had to be content with the pleasures of a cigar.

  Upstairs, Salia held her hands to the sides of the dress and tried to curtsy. She couldn’t quite carry it off, so a bowing of the head would have to do.

  How do the ladies in Albuquerque wear their hair?

  She retrieved a magazine from under her bed and flipped through the pages.

  She tiptoed up the stairs to the chapel of Tezcatlipoca, retrieved the piedra imán and kissed the magic lodestone. “Hello, old friend,” she told the ugly rock.

  She held the stone close to her heart and twirled. When she came to a standstill, her hair was done, swept in a fancy hairdo like the lady in the magazine.

  She put her piedra imán back in its hiding place. She sprinkled some metal filings on the rock. “So you will not go hungry.”

  The stone smacked its mouth, chewing the filings.

  She placed the white rose in her hair and looked down at Tezcatlipoca’s mirrored foot.

  She clenched her hands, watching the white rose slowly turn a deep black in color. She stared at herself in shock, having never placed a rose in her hair before. She did not know this would happen. Her mother cursed her. She inherited Felicita’s hair, even though it was not black in color. Her hair had the same thick texture, the Esperanza hair. Any rose touching her roots, turned black. She was born a witch, a Sister of the Black Rose, though she was not a member of a coven, because Mother and Grandma had been antisocial. La Llorona was founder of all the covens of the Black Rose, but even she ignored Salia.

  “Well, Mother,” she said in a nasty voice. “What do you think of your clumsy cow now? I look the lady you always claimed to be. You thought you were a queen? Well, I look like a queen, so there. A handsome man is waiting for me, and I did not put a spell on him, nor give him a potion. The patrón is here of his own free will.”

  She turned her head sideways. The black rose did not look so bad. “So be it. I am what I am.”

  She closed the curtains around the altar, took a deep breath, and left the room.

  Samuel was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, holding the cape.

  He whistled. “You look gorgeous. I knew you could turn that drab piece of velvet into something special.” He didn’t comment on the black rose in her hair. All he saw was her face.

  She smiled with her eyes aglow. “It’s a beautiful gown.”

  “But not as lovely as the jewel wearing it,” he said in a husky voice.

  For the first time in her life, she felt pretty. She did not feel like she needed to be a coyote to move with grace. Tonight, she felt as if she could fly, without needing a spell. Tonight, she was a fireball, her heart burning.

  “You’re wearing only a gold chain. I was remiss. I should have brought you a diamond necklace to go with the gown.”

  “I would have refused diamonds.”

  “Your eyes glitter like diamonds,” he said, placing the cape
around her and squeezing her shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  He gave her his arm, escorting her from the house.

  He held the car door open for her, and his chauffer held the door open for him.

  She could not hide her excitement, bouncing on the seat. “I have never ridden in an automobile before.”

  “I can see that,” he said in an amused voice.

  “An automobile is not as fast as a horse, is it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What makes the automobile run? What do you feed it?”

  He laughed. “I feed the automobile gasoline and oil.”

  “You are making fun of me.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek. “No, I’m not. I’m merely enchanted. You make me look at the world in a fresh way. With you, everything is new and exciting again, something I haven’t experienced since I was a boy.”

  “Oh.” What he said did not sound so bad. From the corner of her eye, she examined the way his dark-brown hair fell on his forehead. She felt confused. She twisted her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to brush his hair further back on his head where it belonged.

  They arrived at the restaurant and were escorted through a private entrance to a private dining room where a table, laid out with linen, silver, and candlelight awaited them.

  She exclaimed over the food.

  Samuel ate his turkey sparingly, consumed with watching her eat. Every forkful that went into her mouth delighted her. She chewed her food as if each bite was pure rapture.

  “You’ve never eaten in a restaurant before?” he said.

  “No. They would not serve me.”

  He clenched his fists, seeming really angry. “That will never happen again in Madrid. Your parents never took you out to eat?”

  She shook her head. “My father died when I was a baby. My mother never took me anywhere. My mother and grandma went to Albuquerque and Santa Fe all the time, to the restaurants and the theatres, but I was not allowed to go.”

  He exploded. “They left you all alone?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It was nothing.” She held up a forkful of steak. “This is the best meal I have eaten, since my grandma died. I am not a good cook.”