Mexican Gothic

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  His hand ran down her stomach and disappeared beneath the water, caressing her thighs. She was not trembling with fright anymore. It was desire making her shiver, delicious and thick, spreading across her limbs, his touch heavy, his fingers toying with her as her breathing hitched. His body was hot against her skin. Another flick of his fingers, a deep exhalation, but then—

  Open your eyes, hissed the voice, yanking her hard, and she turned her face away from him, staring up again at the ceiling. The ceiling had melted away.

  She saw an egg, and from it rose a thin white stalk. A snake. But no, no, she’d seen such an image before. In Francis’s room a couple of hours ago. On the walls. The watercolors of mushrooms with their neat labels beneath, and one of them had said “universal veil.” Yes. That’s what it was. The egg, pierced, the membrane removed, the snake that was the mushroom rising through the ground. Alabaster snake, sliding and knotting itself, devouring its tail.

  Then there was darkness. The light from the oil lamp had gone off. She wasn’t in the tub anymore. She had been wrapped in a thick cloth that impeded her movement, but she managed to pull it apart, to slide it away, and it slipped from her shoulders as neatly as the membrane she’d observed.

  Wood. She could smell damp earth and wood, and when she raised a hand her knuckles hit a hard surface and a splinter cut her skin.

  Coffin. It was a coffin. The cloth was a shroud.

  But she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. And she opened her mouth to yell, to tell them that she wasn’t dead even when she knew she’d never die.

  A buzzing, like a million bees had suddenly been unleashed, and Noemí pressed her hands against her ears. A blinding golden light shivered; it touched her, moving from the tip of her toes up to her chest until it reached her face, smothering her.

  Open your eyes, Ruth said. Ruth with blood in her hands and blood on her face and her nails caked with blood, and the bees were inside her head, tunneling through Noemí’s ears.

  Noemí snapped her eyes open. Water was dripping down her back and her fingertips, and the bathrobe she was wearing was not cinched; it lay loose and open showing her nakedness. She was barefoot.

  The room she stood in lay in shadows, but even in the dark the configuration indicated it was obviously not her own room. A dim lamp rose, like a firefly, grew brighter as nimble fingers adjusted it. Virgil Doyle, sitting in his bed, raised the lamp that had been resting at his bedside and regarded her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pressing a hand against her throat.

  She could speak. Dear God, she could speak, even if her voice was hoarse and she was trembling.

  “I believe you managed to sleepwalk into my room.”

  She was breathing much too quickly. She felt as though she had been running and God knew if she had. Anything was possible. She managed to close her robe with a clumsy motion of her hands.

  Virgil pushed the covers away. He put on his velvet robe and approached her. “You’re all wet,” he said.

  “I was taking a bath,” Noemí muttered. “What were you doing?”

  “I was sleeping,” he said, reaching her side.

  She thought he meant to touch her and took a step back, almost toppling the painted screen next to her. He steadied it with one hand.

  “I’ll fetch you a towel. You must be cold.”

  “Not that cold.”

  “You’re a little liar,” he said simply and went rummaging in an armoire.

  She was not going to wait for him to find the towel. She meant to walk immediately back to her room, in absolute darkness if necessary. But the night had stunned her, it had reduced Noemí to a state of anxiousness that did not allow her to leave. As in the dream, she was petrified.

  “Here,” he said, and she clutched the towel for a minute, before finally drying her face and then slowly blotting her hair with it. She wondered how long she had been in the tub, and then how long she’d wandered down the hallways.

  Virgil slipped into the shadows, and she heard the clinking of glass. He returned with two glasses in his hand.

  “Sit and have a sip of wine,” he said. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “Let me borrow your lamp and I’ll be out of here.”

  “Have the wine, Noemí.”

  He sat in the same chair he’d used the last time, setting the oil lamp on a table, along with her drink, while he nursed his own glass. Noemí twisted the towel between her hands and sat down. She let the towel drop to the floor and picked up the glass, taking a sip—only one, as he’d suggested—very quickly, before setting the glass down again.

  She felt as though she were still floating in the dream even though she had woken up. A haze lingered in her mind, and the only clear thing in the room was Virgil, his hair a little wild, his handsome face peering at her intently. He expected her to speak, that much was obvious, and she sought proper words.

  “You were in my dream,” she said. More for her sake than for his. She wanted to understand what she’d seen, what had happened.

  “I hope it wasn’t a bad dream,” he replied. He smiled. The smile was sly. It was the same smile she’d dreamed. Slightly malicious.

  The ardor that she’d felt so vividly and pleasantly was now turning into a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, but the smile was like a stray spark, reminding Noemí of her eagerness, of his touch.

  “Were you in my room?”

  “I thought I was in your dream.”

  “It did not feel like a dream.”

  “What did it feel like?”

  “Like an intrusion,” she said.

  “I was sleeping. You woke me up. You are the intruder tonight.”

  She’d seen him rise from his bed and grab his velvet robe and yet she didn’t think him innocent. But he couldn’t have swept into the bathroom, like a medieval incubus, sitting on her chest as if they were posing for one of Fuseli’s paintings. Sneaking into her chamber to ravish her.

  She touched her wrist, wanting to feel the blue-and-white beads. She’d taken off the bracelet against the evil eye. Her wrist was bare. So was she, for that matter, wrapped in the white bathrobe, with water droplets still clinging to her body.

  She stood up.

  “I’ll be heading back now,” she declared.

  “You know, when you wake after sleepwalking you are not supposed to go back to bed right at once,” he said. “I really think you could use a little more wine.”

  “No. I’ve had a terrible night and don’t wish to prolong it.”

  “Mmm. And yet if I didn’t agree to let you take my lamp you’d be forced to remain here for a few more minutes, wouldn’t you? Unless you plan to find your way back by touching the walls. This house is very dark.”

  “Yes. I do plan to do that if you won’t be polite and assist me.”

  “I thought I was assisting you. I’ve offered you a towel to dry your hair, a chair to sit down, and a drink to calm your nerves.”

  “My nerves are fine.”

  He rose with the glass in one hand, eyeing her with a dry amusement. “What did you dream tonight?”

  She did not wish to blush in front of him. To turn crimson like an idiot in front of a man who wielded such meticulous hostility toward her. But she thought of his mouth on hers and his hands on her thighs, like it had been in the dream, and an electric thrill ran down her spine. That night, that dream, it had felt like desire, danger, and scandals, and all the secrets her body and her eager mind quietly coveted. The thrill of shamelessness and of him.

  She blushed after all.

  Virgil smiled. And even though it was impossible, she was sure that he knew exactly what she had dreamed, and that he was waiting for her to give him the smallest hint of an invitation. The fog in her brain was clearing, though, and she remembered the words in her ear. That single phrase. Open your eyes.


  Noemí curled a hand into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. She shook her head. “Something terrible,” she said.

  Virgil seemed confused, then disappointed. His face turned ugly as he grimaced. “Perhaps you were hoping to sleepwalk into Francis’s room, hmm?” he asked.

  The words shocked her, but they also gave her the confidence to stare back at him. How dare he. And after he had said they could be friends. But she understood now. This man was an absolute liar, toying with her, attempting to confuse and distract her. He turned kind for a second when it suited him, granted her an inch of cordiality, then took it away.

  “Go to sleep,” she said, but in her mind she thought fuck you, and her tone plainly indicated that. She snatched the lamp and left him in the shadows.

  When she reached her room she realized it had started to rain. The sort of rain that does not ease, a constant patter against the window. She ventured into the bathroom and looked at the bathtub. The water was cold, and the steam had dissipated. She yanked up the plug.

  18

  Noemí slept fitfully, afraid she’d launch into another somnambulistic escapade. Eventually, she dozed off.

  There was a rustle of cloth in her room, the creak of a board, and she turned her head in fright toward the door, her hands clutching her bedsheets.

  It was Florence in another of her prim dark dresses and her pearls. She had let herself into her room and carried a silver tray in her hands.

  “What are you doing?” Noemí asked, sitting up. Her mouth felt dry.

  “It’s lunchtime,” Florence said.

  “What?”

  It couldn’t be that late, could it? Noemí got up and pulled the curtains aside. Light streamed in. It rained still. The morning hours had burned away without her noticing, exhaustion bleeding her dry.

  Florence set the lunch tray down. She poured a cup of tea for Noemí.

  “Oh, no, thanks,” Noemí said, shaking her head. “I wanted to see Catalina before eating.”

  “She’s woken up already and has gone back to bed,” Florence replied, setting the teapot down. “Her medication is making her very sleepy.”

  “In that case, will you tell me when the doctor arrives, then? He is supposed to come today, isn’t he?”

  “He won’t be here today.”

  “I thought he visited every week.”

  “It’s still raining,” Florence said, indifferent. “He won’t come up with this rain.”

  “It might rain tomorrow too. After all, it’s the rainy season, isn’t it? What’ll happen then?”

  “Well get by on our own, we always have.”

  What neat, crisp answers to everything! Why, it almost felt like Florence had written and memorized all the right things to say.

  “Please tell me when my cousin wakes up,” Noemí insisted.

  “I’m not your servant, Miss Taboada,” Florence replied. Her voice lacked animosity, though. It was merely a fact.

  “I am well aware of that, but you demand that I not visit Catalina without warning and then you set up an impossible schedule for me. What is your problem?” she asked. She realized she was being incredibly rude, but she wished to draw a crack through Florence’s calm façade.

  “If you have an issue with that, you’d best bring it up with Virgil.”

  Virgil. The last thing she wished to do was bring anything up with Virgil. Noemí crossed her arms and stared at the woman. Florence stared back at her, her eyes very cold and her mouth curved a little, the slightest hint of derision.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” Florence concluded, and there was superiority in her smile, as if she thought she’d won a battle.

  Noemí stirred the soup with her spoon and sipped the tea. She quickly gave up on both of them. She felt the beginning of a headache. She ought to eat but stubbornly decided to look around the house.

  Noemí grabbed her sweater and walked downstairs. Did she hope to find anything? Ghosts, peeking from behind doors? If there were any, they evaded her.

  The rooms with sheets on top of the furniture were dire, and so was the greenhouse with its wilted plants. Aside from evoking a mild sense of depression, they revealed nothing. She ended up seeking refuge in the library. The curtains were drawn, and she pulled them open.

  She looked down at the circular rug with the snake she had noticed during her first visit and slowly walked around it. There had been a snake in her dream. It burst from an egg. No, from a fruiting body. If dreams had meaning, what did this one tell her?

  Well, she was damn sure one needn’t phone a psychoanalyst to determine it had a sexual component to it. Trains going through tunnels make for neat metaphors, thanks, Mr. Freud, and apparently phallic mushrooms straining through the soil served the same purpose.

  Virgil Doyle straining against her.

  That was no metaphor; it was crystal clear.

  The memory of him, with his hands in her hair, his lips against her own, made her shiver. But there wasn’t anything pleasant in the memory. It was cold and disturbing, and she turned her eyes toward the bookshelves, furiously looking among the tomes for a book to read.

  Noemí grabbed a couple of books at random and went back to her room. She stood by the window, looking outside, nibbling on a nail before she decided she was too nervous and needed a smoke. She found the cigarettes, the lighter, and the cup decorated with half-naked cupids that she utilized as an ashtray. After taking a drag, she settled on the bed.

  She hadn’t even bothered to read the titles of the books she’d picked. Hereditary Descent: Its Laws and Facts Applied to Human Improvement, it said. The other book was more interesting, dwelling on Greek and Roman mythology.

  She opened it and saw the faint, dark marks of mold upon the first page. She turned the pages carefully. The interior pages were mostly intact, a few tiny spots on a corner or two. They made her think of snatches of Morse code. Nature writing upon paper and leather.

  Noemí held the cigarette in her left hand and let the ash drop into the cup, which she’d placed on the side table. Golden-haired Persephone, the book informed her, had been dragged down into the Underworld by Hades. There she ate a few seeds of pomegranate, which chained her to his shadow world.

  The book contained an engraving showing the exact moment when Persephone was snatched away by the god. Persephone’s hair was strewn with flowers and a few flowers had fallen to the ground; her breasts were bare. Hades, reaching from behind, had picked her up, clutching her in his arms. Persephone had one hand in the air and swooned, a scream on her lips. Her expression was one of horror. The god stared forward.

  Noemí clapped the book shut and looked away, her eyes landing on the corner in her room where the rose-colored wallpaper was stained black by mold. And as she looked at it, the mold moved.

  Christ, what kind of optical illusion was that?!

  She sat in the bed and gripped the covers with one hand while with the other she held her cigarette. Slowly she stood and approached the wall, unblinking. The shifting mold was mesmerizing. It rearranged itself into wildly eclectic patterns that reminded her of a kaleidoscope, shifting, changing. Instead of bits of glass reflected by mirrors it was an organic madness that propelled the mold into its dizzy twists and turns, creating swirls and garlands, dissolving, then remerging.

  There was color to it too. At first glance it appeared black and gray, yet the longer Noemí looked at the mold, the more it became obvious there was a golden sheen to certain sections of it. Gold and yellow and amber, dulling or intensifying as the patterns remade themselves into a new combination of staggering, symmetrical beauty.

  She reached a hand up, as if to touch that section of the wall that was dirtied by the mold. The mold moved again, away from her hand, skittish. Then it seemed to change its mind. It pulsated, as if it was bubbling up, like tar, and it crooked a long, thin finger, beck
oning her.

  There were a thousand bees hiding in the walls, and she heard them buzzing as she pressed forward drowsily, intending to slide her lips against the mold. She’d run her hands across the shimmering gold patterns, and they would smell of earth and green, of rain, and then they would speak a thousand secrets.

  The mold beat to the rhythm of her heart; they beat as one, and her lips parted.

  The forgotten cigarette, still in her possession, burned Noemí’s skin, and she let go of it with a yelp. She quickly bent down and picked up the cigarette, tossing it into her makeshift ashtray.

  She turned around to look at the mold. It was absolutely still. The wall looked like old, dirty wallpaper and had not changed even a little bit.

  Noemí rushed into the bathroom and shut the door. She gripped the edge of the sink to keep herself steady. Her legs were about to fail her, and she thought, panicked, that she would faint.

  She opened the faucet, splashing cold water against her face, unwilling to collapse even if it took all her damn might. Breathe and breathe again, that’s what she did.

  “God damn it,” Noemí whispered, bracing herself with both hands against the sink. The dizzy spell was passing. But she wasn’t going out there. Not for a while, at least. Until she made sure…made sure of what? That she’d stopped hallucinating? That she wasn’t going mad?

  Noemí slid one hand against her neck while she examined the other. She had a great, nasty burn between her index and middle fingers, where the cigarette had burned down to a stub. She’d have to obtain an ointment for that.

  Noemí splashed more water against her face and stared into the mirror, her fingertips on her lips.

  A loud knock made her jump back.

  “Are you in there?” Florence asked. Before Noemí had time to reply, the woman opened the door.

  “Give me a minute,” Noemí muttered.

  “Why are you smoking when it’s forbidden?”