The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  Flavio could not remember her ever speaking, and she hardly came near her own children because their father had instructed her to tend to the chores of the house; he would be in charge of the boy and girl. Flavio had only two memories of his mother. The first was of once when he crept into the kitchen, where he watched her for a long time. She moved silently, first stoking the stove and then washing pots in the stone sink. Even though the place was gloomy with smoke, she was aware that the boy was there. He knew it because as she worked she looked over to the corner where he stood. She smiled at him. He remembered that clearly.

  The second memory he had of his mother was of another time, when he was at his place waiting for breakfast. Brígida was sitting across from him, and their father had not yet come to the table. Flavio’s mother came in to serve their milk. She was pouring his glass when suddenly she stopped, put down the pitcher, and took the boy’s face in her hands. She held it so that he looked into her eyes. They were so black they glowed like silver, but they were not hard, they were soft. Her gesture lasted only a short while. The children’s father came into the room, and she let go of Flavio’s face.

  Flavio always thought it strange that both Brígida and he came from a body that was so dark. Sometimes he wondered if she really was their mother. He did not want an Indian woman for a mother. But the servants would not let him forget who she was; even his father admitted that she was Flavio’s mother. But he knew that he never loved the woman who bore him and that he never wanted to speak to her.

  She died when Flavio was fifteen years old. By that time he had almost forgotten her. Flavio often thought that the beginning of his story was when he chose to blot his mother out of his memory. He told himself that there was nothing wrong in this, because even though he did not love his mother, he loved his sister. Years later he discovered that he was wrong: The only person he ever loved was his dear daughter.

  Flavio left his father’s home when he was eighteen because he did not want to be a grocer. He made his way north; if a man was to be successful, it had to be to the north. Finding the place in which he wanted to stay took several years. He worked on farms, on ranches, in towns, all the time getting farther away from the ordinary boy he once was.

  When he got work at Hacienda Miraflores he felt lucky because the owner, Anastasio Ortega, was of a powerful family. Flavio liked to watch how the Patrón walked and wore his hat; and,without anyone noticing, Flavio began to imitate him. This went on until the day he beat Anastasio Ortega at cards.

  Sitting in his armchair, old Don Flavio stared through the window reliving those moments. Even the smell of alcohol and rancid cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. On that night every sound had stopped in the cantina. The tinkling notes of the piano next to the bar dropped off. Loud laughter and horseplay abruptly stopped. Women, brightly painted and corseted, moved cautiously toward the card table. Men, sweaty and unwashed, turned away from halfempty shot glasses. One man stood up so unexpectedly that the woman sitting on his lap fell to the floor.

  Chapter 2

  Ciudad Creel, Chihuahua, 1906

  “Amigo, cuidado. Be careful. Don Anastasio knows what he’s doing. You might lose the whole thing, even your wages.”

  Celestino Santiago stooped over his friend’s shoulder as he whispered, trying to counsel him against making the next move. Twenty-six-year old Flavio Betancourt knew what Celestino was talking about; the man sitting across the table was the Patrón, the ranch owner who paid him for breaking horses. He had a reputation for winning at cards.

  Without responding, Flavio gazed into Celestino’s face for a few seconds, as if his next move might be reflected in his eyes. Flavio scanned the copper-colored face, its long, beaked nose, the black, slanted eyes, broad cheekbones and protruding upper lip, the slack, drooping mustache that coiled nearly to his chin. Flavio then looked over to the dealer, scrutinizing him. The man’s thin face betrayed nothing. He sat poised, holding the deck of cards securely between his hands. His eyes were so narrow that Flavio could barely make out the tiny pupils.

  Shifting his attention, Flavio scanned the table, taking in the pile of silver pesos, ashtrays heaped with cigarette and cigar butts, empty beer and tequila bottles. The air was heavy with the blue haze of smoke. Part of the money piled in front of him came from five years of working and saving, and some of it had been won that night, but this was his entire holding. If he lost, he would have nothing; he would have to begin all over again.

  Anastasio Ortega tried to smile at his ranch hand, but it was instead a sneer that spread out under his thick mustache. He was an experienced gambler, but he had been losing badly all night. As he waited, Anastasio reminded himself that he was a son of the landed gentry of Chihuahua. If he lost everything, there would still be more waiting for him at his father’s door.

  Ortega became aware, in the silence, that the table was now surrounded by the men who worked for him and by the women who slept with them. He thought of vultures. He looked over his left shoulder to make sure that his bodyguard stood behind him.

  Flavio was taking time to place his bet, and for Anastasio the minutes dragged. Anastasio looked at his hand again and thought that it was almost unbeatable. He had been foolish to even think that his losing streak would hold. At any rate, he had made his move. Anastasio sniffed the air confidently when he sensed Flavio’s hesitation. He tried to smile, but again it was only a grimace.

  “I’ll call. A thousand pesos. Everything.”

  As Flavio slid his coins towards the center of the table, he tipped over a glass; its contents dripped, spilling onto the floor. Anastasio was motionless.

  “I’ve paid to see.” Flavio’s voice was steady, almost demanding. “What do you have?”

  “Three queens and a pair of tens.”

  Anastasio spread his cards on the soiled green felt. The bright colors of profiled, flat-eyed queens, spades, diamonds, tens flashed through the haze. A hiss—half-whistle, half sigh—rolled off the lips of the curious spectators.

  Without saying anything, Flavio put his cards on the table. Everyone shuffled forward, craning their necks, squeezing in as much as they could. Celestino closed his eyes, certain that Flavio’s hand would not match Anastasio’s, but he opened them when he heard a gasp. He gaped at the blues and blacks of four aces that seemed to leap from the table, alongside the devilish grin of the joker, el comodín, which mocked Anastasio Ortega.

  There was silence for a few moments. What if Anastasio Ortega was armed? What if someone pulled a knife? Quietly, the onlookers began to creep for the doors, for the stairs, for anywhere that would remove them from risk. Only Celestino Santiago remained standing by Flavio Betancourt, as did Anastasio’s bodyguard.

  Neither man spoke; they seemed lashed onto the chairs that held them. It was Anastasio who moved first. He reached over and pushed the pile of coins toward Flavio, trying to make his voice calm, matter-of-fact.

  “It’s yours. You’ve won it.”

  This unexpected manner perplexed Flavio because he, too, was expecting a confrontation. He felt a growing suspicion as he cautiously pulled the money towards his chest. The pile of silver was more money than he had ever seen or possessed.

  “You’re a good loser?”

  Anastasio smiled sardonically at Flavio but he kept silent for a long while.

  “No, I’m not a good loser, and I take back what I just said. I haven’t lost because I’m going to win it back. I have one more bet, and this time you’re the one who will lose. Are you willing to play one more hand?”

  Anastasio’s voice was challenging, almost sarcastic. The bodyguard behind him put his hand on his shoulder, trying to convince him to stop, to leave the place. Anastasio shrugged off the hand as he glared at Betancourt. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a document.

  “It’s the deed to my ranch. It includes my wife and four children. I bet all of it against that money that’s in front of you.”

  Now it was Celestino who gr
abbed Flavio’s shoulder as he whispered:

  “Don’t! You’ve won more money than you could make in five years. Don’t risk it, Flavio. Besides, it will be the whole Ortega clan that you’ll have to face if you win. Take your money and walk away from this.”

  “The hacienda? Your wife and children? Don Anastasio, you’re trying to make a fool of me. You don’t mean what you’re saying.” Flavio stood abruptly ready to leave, but Anastasio lunged from his chair, clamping Flavio back into the chair. The two men glared at one another.

  “Have you never heard of such a bet? It happens frequently. Here it is, Betancourt, the opportunity of your life. Did you think that you would ever be in the position to own a ranch such as mine? Now you can be Patrón. Think of it! You make yourself the fool if you refuse.”

  Flavio relaxed in the seat. He had dreamed of being a land owner, he had secretly wished to be of the privileged few of these parts. Staring at the man who was his boss, he saw the mockery in his eyes. He pushed the pesos back toward the center of the table.

  “A new deck!”

  Anastasio’s order to the dealer was crisp, urgent. The man silently went to a cabinet. The two gamblers glared at one another as the dealer removed the deck from its box, shuffled the cards, and indicated he was ready.

  “Un albur.”

  Celestino began to breathe through his mouth when he heard Anastasio call for the play that narrowed the possibilities for the players. With el albur, the dealer cut the deck and dealt each gambler one card. The highest card won the bet. One card apiece, that was all; there were no discards, no fresh possibilities.

  Flavio’s mouth went dry. There was still time to decline, to take his money and return to work for Anastasio Ortega as if nothing had happened. Gambling was an everyday occurrence in Creel and the surrounding haciendas. But when he looked at his opponent, he deciphered fear in his eyes, and this made the difference for Flavio.

  “De acuerdo. Un albur.”

  He agreed, thinking that his voice sounded thin, different. The dealer shuffled and reshuffled the cards. When it was time to cut the deck, he asked if both men agreed that he should do it. They nodded their permission. Anastasio got the first card, Betancourt the next one.

  “Señor Ortega, please show your card.”

  The dealer’s voice was taut, nervous. Anastasio turned over his card. It was the ten of spades.

  “Señor Betancourt, please show your card.”

  The dealer’s voice had escalated in pitch. Flavio’s fingers trembled as he flipped over the card. It was el comodín, the joker again flashing its demonic grin. Anastasio’s cheeks began to quiver as he rose to his feet. His voice now cracked under the weight of the insult he hurled at the winner.

  “¡Eres el patrón, hijo de tu chingada madre!”

  Flavio chose to respond calmly, and the tone of his voice startled even him: Although quiet, it was charged with haughtiness. He could now give orders to the man who, seconds before, had been his superior. Flavio liked his words and what he was feeling.

  “The ranch and everything on it is now mine, but take your wife and children. I don’t consider them part of the bet.”

  Flavio and Celestino walked out onto the muddy streets of Ciudad Creel in a deep silence which lasted for almost an hour. Each man cradled his thoughts as if they had been cards still clutched close to the chest. Celestino understood that they were no longer equal. Until then, they had been compañeros, taming horses, living in the common house shared by the Mestizos and Rarámuris. Now Flavio was Patrón.

  On the next day, when he arrived at the hacienda to make sure that Anastasio Ortega had taken his wife and children off the property, Flavio had prepared himself to be hard. When he saw the woman and the children crying, he felt pity. He was almost ashamed of himself, but he pushed away his sentiments. He had won without cheating, without betrayal. It was legal and he had nothing to regret. He turned his back while Anastasio Ortega loaded his family onto a carriage and he did not look back. He never saw Anastasio Ortega again.

  After winning the hacienda, Flavio concentrated on the house and its lands. Repairs were needed, additions had to be made. Mexico also was changing. The copper miners’ uprising at Cananea was put down, but not forgotten. Don Porfirio, el Presidente, was in trouble. Everyone knew it. Those who clung to the old ways were going to be left behind.

  Later on, when the war began, he was cautious. He sniffed the air and when the revolutionaries were on top, he was a revolutionary. When the Federales took the lead, he was a Federal. When the Zapatistas clamored for land for their Indians and peones, Flavio agreed, but he never said when he would give up the land. Depending upon who was victorious, Flavio was Carrancista, or Villista, or Obregonista. It did not matter. As long as they were on top, he was with them.

  In the growing shadows of his room the old man wagged his head, approving of that distant memory, trying to convince his daughter of the righteousness of his actions. He knew that she was not in the room with him. Nonetheless, he saw her. The mass of golden curls formed an aura around Isadora’s face, carving her out of the darkness. Don Flavio inhaled the damp air of Chihuahua and he reminded his daughter that it was a time when men seized and lost fortunes on a wager, at the whim of a Joker’s grin. He wrinkled his brow as he held his gnarled hands over his puffy abdomen, hoping that she would understand his side of the story.

  Chapter 3

  Five years after Flavio gained ownership of the hacienda, Brígida Betancourt stepped off the train in Ciudad Creel to find her brother waiting for her. She had not seen him in nearly ten years. She was fatigued by the long trip. Even traveling with a woman companion, the distance between Jalisco and Chihuahua had seemed endless.

  Don Porfirio Díaz had resigned the presidency in May of that year after the younger Francisco I Madero had captured Ciudad Juárez. In June his forces marched into Mexico City, and Emiliano Zapata’s army was organizing to formulate a plan at the end of that month. Brígida’s train had run into stoppages and interruptions. The coaches were packed beyond capacity. Hordes of peones, most of them armed, clung to the roofs of the wagons, lugging their possessions and even their women and children.

  “Welcome to Chihuahua. I hope your trip was not too unpleasant.” Flavio’s voice was low, and his smile told her that he knew what she had experienced.

  “It was not too difficult.”

  As usual, Brígida found herself short of words; it always was a hardship for her to speak more than she thought necessary. She examined her brother and saw that he had grown taller since she had last seen him. His body had become muscular and his skin, naturally as white as hers, was tanned by the northern sun. When he removed his hat, she saw that his hair was blonder than she remembered, as was the handlebar mustache that shadowed his full upper lip.

  Flavio also took time to inspect his sister. Her blue eyes sparkled as they had when she was a girl. The features of her face were elegant, finely chiseled, and when he slid his gaze down from her throat, he thought that she was somewhat tall for a woman.

  “I know you’ll be happy here.”

  Flavio bent over as he brushed her cheek with a kiss. She smiled in return, and he saw that her teeth were even and white. He was pleased because he intended that Brígida be the center of his hacienda until his marriage with Velia Carmelita Urrutia. After that, he would acquire a husband for her. It was encouraging to see that she was attractive, despite her having somewhat passed marriageable age.

  The driver and two Rarámuri natives loaded the luggage and parcels onto a wagon while she and Flavio waited under a shaded porch. When the men were finished, the driver signaled that they were ready to leave. Flavio took his sister by the arm and helped her into a carriage. They rode in silence until they reached the gates of the hacienda. Flavio Betancourt had prospered over the past five years. He had expanded the horse ranch into a vast hacienda that spread out toward the skirts of the Sierra Madre on the west and downward along the Sierra Tarahumara. His la
nd covered territory north almost to Ciudad Chihuahua and south nearly reaching Ciudad Creel. The Urique River watered the flat parts of Hacienda Miraflores before it disappeared into Urique Canyon.

  The herds that Anastasio Ortega had gambled away had, under their new owner, multiplied into thousands of saddle horses and pack mules. Flavio Betancourt now socialized and did business with powerful families—the likes of the Terrazas, the Urrutias, the Reynosos, and even the Manriques. His stock was traded in markets and auctions reaching north as far as the copper mines of Cananea in Sonora and south to the silver mines of San Luis Potosí and Guanajuato. His peones, horsebreakers, and Rarámuri natives numbered in the scores. They were all his. He had made them grow. He had known how to deal with the armies of the Revolution that came and went through Chihuahua.

  He looked at his sister out of the corner of his eye. Telling the driver to stop, Flavio stretched his arms wide, pointing to the buildings that loomed in front of them.

  “This is your home. I’ve called it Casa Miraflores.”

  He jutted his chin in the direction of a mansion surrounded by an arched cloister. Other sheds and huts, some small, others larger, circled it, clinging to the pink residence like flowers under the shade of a huge tree. But Flavio’s cocky gesture was cut off when he turned to face Brígida. She looked at him, and the boldness of her stare startled him; his self-confidence began to erode. He realized that she was not awed by him, nor by what she was seeing.

  “You haven’t asked about our father. Aren’t you curious about him?” Brígida’s tone of voice caught him off guard. It was cold, threatening, and he did not like it. He had grown used to being the only one to speak in such a tone.

  “He’s dead. What else do I need to know.” It was Flavio’s turn to be overbearing, his voice filled with ice. He frowned, disliking the direction their conversation was taking.