Mexican Gothic

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “I like you very much and you know it,” he said, his hands sliding into his jacket’s pockets again as he looked down.

  “Then you’ll help me and take me into town now, won’t you?”

  “Why do you need to go into town?”

  “I want to find out what was in the tincture Catalina drank.”

  “It won’t do you any good.”

  “Even if it doesn’t, I want to go. Will you take me?”

  “Not today.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “The day after tomorrow, perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “Why not make it in a month,” she replied angrily. “I can walk into town without you if you have no desire to help me.”

  She meant to stomp away and succeeded only in stumbling. Francis offered her his arm to steady herself, and he let out a sigh when her fingers caught his sleeve.

  “I have every desire to help you. I’m tired. We all are. Uncle Howard has been keeping us awake at nights,” he said, shaking his head.

  His cheeks seemed more hollowed out and the dark circles under his eyes were almost purplish. Again she felt selfish and awful. She thought of no one but herself and did not pause to imagine that other people at High Place had problems of their own. For example, who knew if at nights Francis was called to tend upon his sickly uncle. She could picture Florence, directing her son to hold up an oil lamp as she pressed cold compresses against the old man’s face. Or perhaps other tasks were handed to the young men. Virgil and Francis, undressing the frail, bleached body of Howard Doyle, applying ointments and medications in a closed room reeking of impending death.

  Noemí flexed her fingers, raising them to her mouth, and recalling, vaguely, that horrid nightmare in which the pale man had extended his arms toward her.

  “Virgil said he has an old wound. But what is the injury?”

  “Ulcers that won’t heal. But it won’t be the end of him. It’ll never be the end of him.” Francis let out a low, sad chuckle, his eyes on the stone statue of Agnes. “I’ll take you to town early tomorrow, before the others wake up. Before breakfast, like the last time. And if you should want to take your suitcase—”

  “You’ll have to think of a more creative way to get me to leave,” she replied.

  They began to drift, quietly, back toward the iron gates of the cemetery. She brushed the cool tops of the headstones as they walked. At one point they passed a dead gray oak tree that lay upon the ground, clumps of honey-colored mushrooms growing upon the rotten bark. Francis bent down, running a finger across the smooth caps, just as she’d touched the headstones.

  “What has made Catalina so miserable?” she asked. “She was happy when she married. Stupidly happy, my father would have said. Is Virgil cruel to her? Last night, when I spoke to him, he was hard, he had no pity.”

  “It’s the house,” Francis murmured. By now the black gates with their snakes were in sight. The ouroboros, casting shadows upon the ground. “It wasn’t made for love, the house.”

  “Any place is made for love,” she protested.

  “Not this place and not us. You look back two, three generations, as far as you can. You won’t find love. We are incapable of such a thing.”

  His fingers curled around the intricate iron bars, and he stood there, for a second, looking at the ground, before he opened the gate for her.

  * * *

  —

  That night she had another curious dream. She could not even classify it as a nightmare because she felt calm. Numb, even.

  The house had metamorphosed in the dream, but it was not a thing of meat and sinew on this occasion. She walked upon a carpet of moss, the flowers and vines crept up the walls, and long, thin stacks of mushrooms glowed a pale yellow, lightening up the ceiling and the floor. It was as if the forest had tiptoed into the house in the middle of the night and left a part of itself inside. As Noemí descended the staircase, her hands brushed upon a banister covered in flowers.

  She walked down a hallway that was thick with clumps of mushrooms as high as her thighs and peered at paintings that were hidden under layers of leaves.

  In the dream she knew where she ought to go. There were no iron gates to greet her at the cemetery, but why would there be any? This was the time before the cemetery, when they were building a rose garden upon the mountain slope.

  A garden, though no flowers grew here yet. No flowers had taken. It was peaceful here, at the edge of the pine forest, with the mist shrouding rocks and shrubs.

  Noemí heard voices, very loud, and then a piercing scream, but everything was so still, so calm, that it calmed her too. Even when the screams changed in pitch and seemed to grow in intensity she did not fear.

  She reached a clearing and beheld a woman who lay on the ground. Her belly was huge and distended, and she appeared to be in the midst of her labor, which would explain the screams. Attending her were several women who were holding her hand, brushing the limp hair from her face, muttering to her. Men held candles in their hands, others carried lanterns.

  Noemí noticed a little girl sitting on a chair, her blond hair tied in a pigtail. She carried a white cloth in her arms, meant to swaddle an infant. A man sat behind the child, with his ringed hand on her shoulder. A ring of amber.

  The scene was a little ridiculous. A woman, panting and giving birth in the dirt while the man and the child sat in velvet-upholstered chairs, as if they were observing a theater performance.

  The man tapped his finger on the child’s shoulder. One, two, three times.

  How long had they sat there, in the dark? How long since the labor had begun? But it wouldn’t be long now. The time had come.

  The pregnant woman clutched someone’s hand and let out a long, low moan, and there was a wet sound, the slap of flesh against the damp earth.

  The man stood up and approached the woman, and when he moved, the people surrounding her stepped aside, as if a sea were parting.

  Slowly he bent down and carefully held the child the woman had birthed.

  “Death, overcome,” the man said.

  But when he raised his arms, Noemí saw he held no child. The woman had given birth to a gray lump of flesh, almost egg-shaped, covered in a thick membrane and slick with blood.

  It was a tumor. It did not live. Yet it pulsated gently. The lump quivered, and as it did the membrane ruptured and slid aside. It burst, sending a golden cloud of dust into the air, and the man breathed in the dust. The woman’s attendants, the people with their candles and lanterns, and all the onlookers moved closer, holding their hands up, as if to touch the golden dust, which slowly, ever so slowly, fell upon the ground.

  Everyone had forgotten the woman, focused now, singularly, on the lump that the man was hoisting above his head.

  Only the little girl paid the shivering, exhausted figure on the ground any attention. The child approached her, pressed the cloth she had been holding against the woman’s face, as if veiling a bride, and held it tight. The woman convulsed, unable to breathe; she tried to scratch the child, but the woman was exhausted and the child, her cheeks red, held on tight. As the woman quivered and suffocated, the man repeated the same words.

  “Death, overcome,” he said, and he raised his eyes, staring at Noemí.

  It was then, when he looked at her, that she remembered to be afraid, that she remembered revulsion and horror, and turned her face away. Her mouth had the coppery taste of blood, and in her ears there was a faint buzzing sound.

  When Noemí woke up she was standing at the foot of the stairs, moonlight streaming through the colored glass windows, tinting her pale nightgown yellow and red. A clock struck the hour and floorboards creaked, and she rested a hand on the banister, listening intently.

  15

  Noemí knocked and waited, and waited some more, but no one came to the door. She stood outside Mart
a’s house, nervously pulling at her purse’s strap before finally conceding defeat and walking back toward Francis, who was looking at her curiously. They’d parked the car near the town square and walked over together, even though she’d told him he could wait for her just like last time. But he said he could use the walk. She wondered if he was trying to keep an eye on her.

  “No one seems to be home,” Noemí said.

  “Do you want to wait?”

  “No. I need to stop by the health clinic.”

  He nodded, and they slowly headed back toward what constituted the downtown section of El Triunfo, where there was a real road instead of muddy paths. Noemí was afraid the doctor wouldn’t be in yet either, but as they reached the door of the clinic, Julio Camarillo rounded the corner.

  “Dr. Camarillo,” she said.

  “Good morning,” he replied. He was carrying a paper bag under one arm and his medical bag in the other. “You’re up early. Will you hold this for a moment?”

  Francis stretched out his hands and grabbed the medical bag. Dr. Camarillo took out a set of keys and unlocked the door, holding it open for them. Then he walked toward the counter, placed the paper bag behind it, and smiled at them.

  “I don’t think I’ve met you officially,” Julio said, “but I’ve seen you at the post office before, with Dr. Cummins. You’re Francis, aren’t you?”

  The blond man nodded. “I’m Francis,” he said simply.

  “Yes, when I took over Dr. Corona’s practice in the winter he actually mentioned you and your father. I think they might have played cards together. A good chap, Dr. Corona. But, anyway, is that hand bothering you, Noemí? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Could we talk? Do you have time?”

  “Sure. Come in,” the doctor said.

  Noemí followed him into his office. She turned her head to see if Francis planned to accompany her, but he was sitting on one of the chairs in the lobby, his hands in his pockets, his gaze on the floor. If he wanted to keep an eye on her, he wasn’t doing that good a job; he could easily have eavesdropped on her entire conversation. She was relieved to think he wasn’t interested in that. Noemí closed the door and sat across from Dr. Camarillo, who settled behind his desk.

  “Now, what is the matter?”

  “Catalina had a seizure,” Noemí said.

  “A seizure? Is she epileptic?”

  “No. I purchased a tonic, a medicine from that woman, Marta Duval. Catalina asked me for it, she said it would help her sleep. But when she drank it she had a seizure. I went to see Marta this morning, but she wasn’t there. I wanted to ask if you’ve heard of something like that happening around town before, if her medications have made anyone ill like that.”

  “Marta goes to Pachuca to see her daughter, or she goes on herb collection trips, which is probably why you didn’t find her. But as to this happening before, I haven’t heard of such a thing. Dr. Corona would have mentioned it, I’m sure. Did Arthur Cummins examine your cousin?”

  “He said an opium tincture caused the seizure.”

  Dr. Camarillo grabbed a pen and twirled it between his fingers. “You know, opium was used to treat epilepsy not so long ago. There’s always the possibility of allergic reactions with any medicine, but Marta is very careful with this sort of stuff.”

  “Dr. Cummins called her a quack.”

  He shook his head and set the pen back on the desk. “She’s no quack. Many people go to Marta for remedies, and she helps them well enough. If I thought she was endangering the health of the townsfolk I wouldn’t allow it.”

  “But what if Catalina took too much of the tincture?”

  “An overdose? Yes, of course an overdose would be quite awful. She might lose consciousness, she might vomit, but the thing is, Marta wouldn’t be able to procure an opium tincture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Camarillo laced his hands together, his elbows resting on the desk. “It’s not the kind of medical care she provides. An opium tincture is a remedy you could find at a drugstore. Marta makes remedies using local herbs and plants. There are no poppies here with which to make a tincture.”

  “Then you’re saying it must have been something else that caused her to be sick?”

  “I can’t say with certainty.”

  She frowned, unable to make heads or tails of this information. She’d gone looking for an easy answer, but there was none. Nothing seemed to be easy here.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. Maybe I can look at your rash before you leave? Have you changed the bandage?” Dr. Camarillo asked.

  “I haven’t. It has completely slipped my mind.”

  She hadn’t even opened the little jar with the zinc paste. Julio took off the bandage, and Noemí expected to see the same raw, red skin. Perhaps it would look even worse than the last time. Instead, her wrist was completely healed. There was not a single bump blemishing her skin. It seemed to startle the doctor.

  “Well, this is quite the surprise. Why, it’s vanished,” Dr. Camarillo said. “I don’t think I’ve seen such a thing before. Usually it takes seven or ten days, sometimes weeks, for the skin to clear. It’s barely been two days.”

  “I must be lucky,” she ventured.

  “Extremely,” he said. “What a thing. Do you need anything else? If not, I can tell Marta you were looking for her.”

  She thought about her odd dream and the second sleepwalking episode. Yet she didn’t feel the doctor would be able to assist her with that either. It was as he’d said: he wasn’t very useful at all. She was beginning to think Virgil had been right when he told her Camarillo was too young and inexperienced. Or maybe she was being grumpy. She was most definitely tired. The anxiety of the previous day hit her suddenly.

  “That would be an utter kindness,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  Noemí had expected to return to her room without anyone noticing, but of course that was too much to ask. Not even an hour after Francis and Noemí had parked the car, Florence came looking for her. She had Noemí’s lunch tray with her, which she deposited on the table. She didn’t say anything unpleasant, but her face was fiercely sour. It was the face of a warden ready to squelch a riot.

  “Virgil would like to speak with you,” she said. “I assume you can eat and be presentable in an hour?”

  “Of course,” Noemí replied.

  “Good. I’ll come to fetch you.”

  She did indeed return in exactly one hour and proceeded to guide Noemí to Virgil’s room. When they stopped in front of his door, Florence knocked once, her knuckles so soft upon the wooden surface that Noemí thought he’d never hear them, but he spoke, loud and clear.

  “Enter.”

  Florence turned the doorknob and held the door open for Noemí. Once the young woman stepped inside, Florence carefully closed the door again.

  The first thing she noticed upon walking into Virgil’s room was an imposing painting of Howard Doyle, hands clasped together, an amber ring on his finger, staring down at her across the room. Virgil’s bed was half hidden behind a three-fold painted screen depicting branches of lilacs and roses. The divider created a sitting area, with a faded rug and a pair of shabby leather chairs.

  “You’ve gone to town again this morning,” Virgil said. His voice came from behind the divider. “Florence dislikes it when you do that. Just off, without a word.”

  She approached the painted screen. She noticed that among the flowers and the ferns there lay a snake. It was cleverly hidden, the eye peeking from behind a clump of roses. It lay in wait, like the snake in the garden of Eden.

  “I thought driving alone into town was the issue,” Noemí replied.

  “The roads are bad, and the rains will grow stronger any day now. Torrential rains. The soil turns into a sea of mud. The rain flooded the mine
s the year I was born. We lost everything.”

  “It does rain, I’ve noticed. And the road is not good. But the roads are not impassable.”

  “They will be. There’s been a lull in the rain, but it will fall ferociously very soon. Fetch me the robe on the chair, please.”

  She grabbed the heavy crimson robe that had been left on one of the chairs and walked back toward the wooden screen. She was startled to see Virgil hadn’t bothered putting on a shirt and stood there half naked and nonchalant. This was much too casual; it was frankly immodest, and she blushed in shame.

  “How, then, will Dr. Cummins make his way here? He’s supposed to visit every week,” she said, averting her gaze quickly as she held out the robe. She tried to maintain a cool tone of voice despite the warmth on her cheeks. If he wanted to mortify her, he must try harder.

  “He has a truck. Do you honestly think the cars we have are fit for driving constantly up and down the mountain?”

  “I assumed Francis would let me know if he felt it was hazardous.”

  “Francis,” Virgil said. She glanced at him when he said the name. He tied the robe’s belt. “It seems you spend most of your time with him rather than with Catalina.”

  Was he reproaching her? No, she thought it was slightly different. He was assessing her, the same way a jeweler might gaze at a diamond, trying to measure its clarity or an entomologist would look at a butterfly’s wings under the microscope.

  “I have spent a reasonable amount of time with him.”

  Virgil smiled without any pleasure. “You are so careful with your words. So poised in front of me. I picture you, in your city of cocktail parties and careful words. Do you ever lower your mask there?”

  He gestured for her to sit down in one of the leather chairs. She pointedly ignored the gesture. “It’s funny, here I thought you could teach me a thing or two about masquerades,” she replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not the first time Catalina was ill like this. She drank the same tincture and had the same bad reaction.”