The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  “Sí.”

  “I haven’t seen you until now.”

  “No.”

  “Why haven’t you come by to say hello?”

  Jerónimo stared at Isadora. He wanted to run, but he could not. He wanted to speak, but he could not do that either. He wished that he could speak the words that were in his heart, but his tongue would not obey him. As if hearing his thoughts, Isadora spoke for him.

  “We used to be friends. We used to do so many things together, but it’s as if that hadn’t happened. And I don’t know why.”

  Isadora’s voice was charged with emotion; it had lost its playful tone of a moment earlier. Jerónimo’s body relaxed as if her voice were a warm, soothing fluid coursing through his veins. He dropped the bridle and took her arm, steering her to a place to the side of the stable where they could sit.

  “I am happy to see you, niña.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “I know you’re not a child, but that’s how I call you in here.” Jerónimo pointed to his chest. The nervousness that had overcome him when Isadora surprised him was melting away, and instead he felt the joy he had always experienced when he was with her. She smiled at him and nodded.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Up there, to Texas. I worked on a ranch like this one. It’s not too different from here. The horses are the same.”

  Isadora stared at Jerónimo, absorbing his voice, his looks, into her skin. Her heart was beating intensely, and she felt the same stirring as on the night of her eighteenth birthday fiesta, when she had desired him in her bed.

  “Why did you go?”

  Jerónimo looked away from her, and she saw his jaw twitch. His lips pursed nervously, and his eyes seemed riveted on to the tip of his boots. Suddenly, he jerked his face up toward her and looked into her eyes. He was smiling.

  “Remember the last race we ran together? The time you and I beat my brothers? I’ve never forgotten. It was the best race I’ve ever run.”

  Isadora knew that he was trying to distract her from her question. She remembered that race because it, too, had been wonderful for her. But she returned to the subject.

  “Jerónimo, please tell me why you left Miraflores.”

  “Because you married, niña, and because I thought I was going to die of sadness.”

  “Are you angry at me because I married?”

  “No. Women in my tribe marry who they’re told to. It’s more or less the same for women everywhere.” He paused for a moment. “It was the sadness that made me go.”

  “My husband went away. Did you know that? He left me soon after we were married.”

  Jerónimo mumbled something under his breath, but Isadora could not make out the words. After this, they kept quiet. Evening was approaching and several of the workers were picking up gear and belongings as they prepared to make their way home. Muffled sounds drifted in the air: doors opening and shutting, horses snorting, the crowing of a rooster. In the bushes, crickets were beginning their song, and somewhere in the distance a tecolote owl prepared for its night watch.

  “You have a son.”

  Jerónimo’s words startled Isadora; she did not know what meaning was in them. The idea that he resented Samuel flashed through her mind.

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Nothing. I’m glad.”

  Isadora sensed that Jerónimo was mouthing words, not saying what he felt or thought. She thought abuptly that they had lost too much time, years even, not to speak what was on their minds, and hearts, immediately.

  “Jerónimo, I’ve loved you ever since I can remember and I know that you love me.”

  His face showed shock and elation at once, as if he were two men, each going in a different direction. His breathing became agitated, and he clenched and loosened his fists. He cocked his head to one side as he looked at Isadora. Then raising his hand, he put his index finger on her lips. His touch was soft, and she took hold of his hand and kissed it.

  “Niña, we can’t do this.”

  “Why? Because I’m married? Eloy has gone. He’ll never return.”

  “It’s not that. Think …”

  “Is it my son? I love him in a different way!”

  “You know why.” Jerónimo had recovered from the wave of emotion he had felt hearing Isadora’s declaration of love, as well as the sensation of her lips on his hands. He looked at her steadily, but she had slouched back and was sucking in air through her teeth in exasperation. “It’s impossible for someone like me to love someone like you.”

  “Impossible?”

  “I mean that I shouldn’t.”

  Brígida’s words returned to Isadora. In front of her also was the unseen barrier her father had repeatedly forbidden her to transgress. Isadora felt anger growing within her: rage against her father who warned of invisible boundaries; irritation against her aunt who played with words; impatience with Jerónimo who circled the truth.

  “Why don’t you say it as it is: You won’t love me because it’s forbidden. That’s what you mean, Jerónimo. Because you’re a Rarámuri and I am who I am. Because you and your family come from a cave and I from here.”

  They fell silent after her outburst, but Isadora’s words dangled in the waning light.

  “What are we going to do, Isadora?”

  Jerónimo closed his eyes, waiting for her answer. His body betrayed surrender, mixed with fear. With his eyes still shut, he reached out, groping for Isadora, who took his hand in hers. She moved closer to him and put her face next to his.

  “I’ve tried to listen and do whatever Papá has asked of me, but now I can’t. I want to be with you.”

  Darkness covered Hacienda Miraflores as Isadora and Jerónimo made their way toward the llano. No one saw them when they lay on a grassy place under a clump of trees. There were no witnesses when she took off her clothes, nor when he took off his. Don Flavio, sipping his early evening chocolate as he sat in his armchair, thought of the past day’s business as his daughter was transported by joy and pleasure to a world she had never experienced. Not even Isadora and Jerónimo could have imagined the happiness they now felt as they embraced, becoming one with each other and with the ageless sierras and barrancas that sheltered them.

  After that night, Isadora and Jerónimo met each evening at dusk to make love under the trees. Every time was more intense, longer, less cautious, less silent. She began to abandon discretion when she was with others, laughing loudly in the corridors of her father’s house, in the kitchen, joking with the maids, and teasing Samuel. Jerónimo also became more assured after separating from Isadora each night. Instead of walking with a normal step, he strutted. He grew reckless, insisting on riding the wildest horses. He smiled incessantly, without apparent reason.

  Their ecstasy went on for weeks before people began to talk. In the beginning, there were whispers, insinuating questions, hints, sometimes assertions. Soon eyes exchanged meaningful glances whenever Isadora or Jerónimo came near. Pursed lips communicated silent messages. Raised eyebrows affirmed the unmentionable. After a time, maids, cooks, seamstresses, washerwomen, ropers, vaqueros, loggers, mestizos and indios, were all gossiping, and they murmured about nothing else except El Rarámuri and the daughter of the Patrón.

  Finally, Jerónimo and Isadora were struck by the reality that swirled around them. Their secret was not a secret: What they did, when they did it, and why they did it was on the tongue of every worker on the hacienda.

  One night, Isadora and Jerónimo met at a different place, where, with contempt and fear, they spoke of what was happening around them on the hacienda.

  “I’m going to him. I’m his daughter and he should know it from me.”

  “I’ll come with you. He must hear me say that I love you.”

  “No! He won’t even allow you in the house.”

  Jerónimo stared at Isadora, knowing that she spoke the truth. “When will you speak to him?”

  “Tonight.”

  That evening after
dinner, Isadora rapped at the door of her father’s den; she felt her knees weakening and her heart beating. He was seated at his desk. The green lampshade cast sharp, limecolored tones on his face. She realized at once that he already knew why she was there.

  Flavio’s jaw was clamped shut as he glared at Isadora, but she moved closer to him despite his intimidating manner. She was inwardly shuddering but convinced that she could not run away as her body was urging. She had to face him with the truth.

  “Papá, I—”

  “Your son is only five years old. Have you thought about him? And what your actions will do to him?”

  Isadora was taken by surprise. She had not expected him to hurl Samuel in her face. “Samuel will understand.”

  “When you’ve abandoned him! He’ll understand?”

  “I’ll not abandon him! He’ll come with me!”

  “Where? To those vermin-infested caves?”

  Isadora felt that rage was about to engulf her, cut off her breathing. She feared losing control over herself, so she held back the words she was thinking.

  “Tell me that this filthy gossip is a lie. Tell me that you are not the concubine of a savage, that you haven’t defiled yourself and me. Tell me that you haven’t forgotten all I’ve taught you. Tell me this, Isadora, and everything will be as if nothing had happened.”

  A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. A horse whinnied in the gloom of the night. Isadora thought of the hearth in Narcisa’s cave.

  “Papá, I love him. I have his child inside of me and I intend to live with him the rest of my life. Nothing will stop me from doing this.”

  Isadora turned to leave, but when her hand was on the doorknob, she heard her father’s bootheels slam down on the hardwood floor, and she turned to look at him. The light behind him radiated a glow around him, a silhouette, and she imagined that he had grown, because he looked like a giant. His legs were spread apart and his hands were hooked into his belt.

  “Isadora, I won’t allow you to insult me in this manner.”

  She turned away from him to go to Jerónimo, who had been waiting where they always met. When she found him, they sat in silence. The realization that Don Flavio was aware of their relationship, that he was in a position to control their lives, and that he would be exempt from punishment no matter what actions he took, all this filled them with apprehension.

  “We’ll leave this place and go to Texas.” Jerónimo nodded his own head up and down several times, confirming his own idea. His mouth was pinched and his forehead furrowed. When Isadora did not respond, he looked at her. She was staring at him.

  “Texas! What will we do there?”

  “I know where I can work and we can live without being afraid. We must go as far away from him as we can. If we stay in Mexico, he’ll follow and hurt us.”

  Isadora was quiet, but Jerónimo saw that her hands were coiled into fists and her body had stiffened. He waited for her to speak.

  “We belong here, we were born on this land. Why should we go to a strange place?”

  “Because he’ll come after us if we don’t, Isadora.”

  “What about Celestino and Narcisa?”

  “They will suffer more when Don Flavio hurts us.”

  She did not say anything, but her head shook in wordless denial. Her breathing became loud, agitated, and she nervously pressed her knees one against the other.

  “Your father won’t rest until he makes us pay for what we’ve done.”

  “No! You’re wrong!”

  Isadora’s voice was shrill, defensive. Her face showed the anxiety she was feeling as Jerónimo pressed her with talk of her father’s reprisal.

  “Isadora.”

  “He’s angry, that’s all. But he would not hurt me. I know, because I’m what he loves most. Let’s give him time, Jerónimo. You’ll see that I’m right. In a few months, when our child is born, he’ll celebrate just as he did when Samuel was born. And then everything will be as usual. Soon he’ll consider you his son.”

  “You’re the one who is wrong! Let’s not take a chance. We can return if we think—or if he lets us know—that he has given up planning to punish us. Isadora, think of the child. Think of yourself.”

  Exasperated, Jerónimo’s voice had escalated, matching Isadora’s testiness. But then they fell into silence, both of them wrestling with what they imagined would happen. It was Jerónimo who yielded. He looked at Isadora; he was calculating, figuring. Then he nodded, at first slowly, then with more energy.

  “Maybe you’re right, niña. Maybe he won’t hurt us. Maybe we can go on living here. We’ll go up to the barranca, with my family.”

  Next day before sunrise, Isadora waited in the stable; Samuel, sleepy and grumpy, was with her. When Jerónimo arrived, they left Hacienda Miraflores and began the climb up to the caves of the Rarámuri. A few days later, Ursula Santiago packed her belongings and she, too, left the hacienda and made her way back to her people.

  Isadora pressed her forehead against the damp windowpane. She straightened her head and stared at the wire mesh embedded in the glass. How much force would be needed to break through that net? She closed her eyes and felt her eyeballs burning. Then she opened them and focused on the park surrounding the asylum.

  It was the end of the day; darkness had wrapped itself around the high arches and recesses of the building. Isadora concentrated on the fog creeping in from the marshes of Zapopan, snaking its way beneath bushes, and clinging to the drooping stalks of tall grass. The trees loomed against the sky; their branches hung low against the soggy ground, and she heard them weeping.

  Isadora traced a line on the clouded glass with her finger, then she wrote her name. Next to it she etched a J, then an A. She jerked away from the window and paced the cell, moving from one wall to the other, back and forth, until she stopped at the cot where she slept. She sat on its edge, feeling the crossbar press against her buttocks.

  She got back on her feet and returned to the window. The fog had risen, almost reaching the lower branches of the trees. She craned her neck and saw the moon rising in the eastern sky. The thought flashed through Isadora’s mind that the phosphorescent white sphere glowed like a skull circled by a transparent halo. After staring at the moon for a few moments, she remembered that the Rarámuri believe the dead return to meet with the spirits of those who are alive—to those who lie dreaming during the moonlit night.

  Chapter 12

  “They call it the Day of the Moon.”

  Isadora and Jerónimo lay on a grassy embankment, away from the cave they inhabited. His gaze was fixed on the sky as it turned shades of red and orange toward the west and lavender in the east. As she reclined on her side, her head on his outstretched arm, she outlined his profile with her finger.

  Jerónimo and Isadora had grown more and more worried at what was happening around them, and today they had been trying to distract themselves. They could no longer deny the antagonism of the tribe. It was a resentment that Jerónimo had not anticipated when he brought Isadora and Samuel to live among his people. He had known that there would be surprise and even gossip, but he had not expected the undercurrents of bitterness that welled up each day.

  Another source of uneasiness was Don Flavio’s silence and inertia. He was behaving as if nothing had happened, as if Isadora’s abandoning Hacienda Miraflores and her flight with Jerónimo had not been an affront to his honor. When Jerónimo left the hacienda with Isadora he was able to find work on a nearby ranch. Each day, when he went down to the llano, he listened to the rumors that eventually reached him: The Patrón of Miraflores was sick. He could not even leave his room. But then, as time passed, Don Flavio was seen riding his horse, crossing one side of his land to the other, yet no change in his behavior was detected by anyone, no matter how closely he was watched. This filled everybody with anxiety. It was unnatural that the father of a white woman did nothing when she ran off with one of their own. Instead, there was a strange calm in Don Flavio, and the tribe suspected
that something dreadful was about to happen to them.

  That evening, hoping to distract her, Jerónimo began speaking of Rarámuri beliefs. Isadora listened carefully, although much of what he told her was not new to her. As he talked about the cross, she remembered how it was thought of as a saint by the Rarámuri—an actual being, deserving of homage and reverence. She knew also that peyote was considered a god and often called Tata, father, by the old ones, the huehues, of the tribe. As a child she had experienced the processions, the dances, the chants; and all along Isadora had felt that even though different from what she had learned from the nuns, the beliefs of Jerónimo’s people did not contradict her own way of thinking. But now Jerónimo’s words caught Isadora’s attention. They call it the Day of the Moon. She drew her hand away from his face and lifted her head, balancing herself on her elbow.

  “That’s beautiful, but what does it mean?”

  “The ancient ones believe that while we sleep, our souls join the spirits of the dead, and that together they work hard—harder yet than during the day, when we walk about in sunlight. They also believe that during the night, when we’re sleeping, we do wonderful, mysterious things with those who have gone to the other side of the sierras. They say that it is at this time that we make new songs and poems, and that we discover who we love. This is what is meant by the Day of the Moon. It happens, they say, every night when we’re dreaming.”

  “I had never heard that before,” Isadora said as she looked into Jerónimo’s eyes. “But you say they as if you don’t believe in the Day of the Moon. I think I could believe in it.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Well, maybe. What I mean is that I don’t know. Maybe when I’m old I’ll see things as the ancient ones do.” He looked up at her, his eyes shining. “Do you believe everything that you’re told?”

  “Not everything. But don’t you think that our spirit does something when we’re sleeping? I do. I ask myself, Where does my soul go? Does it look for something, for someone?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “It’s beautiful to think that we’ll meet again after we die, Jerónimo. And what better time than during a dream, when the moon gives us another day to work, to sing, to love.”