The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  The sun rose high and defiantly scorched the clouds. A blood red haze swept the sky, its crimson glow moving along the roof of the hansom cab that Alejandro had chartered. The carriage squeaked and ratcheted to a stop in the courtyard of Hacienda de la Vega, while within its oak-paneled depths, Alejandro studied his son. Joaquin averted his gaze as he repacked the schoolbooks that had spilled from his bag on the bumpy ride.

  Alejandro’s hand brushed his son’s hair. “Hey, now, what’s that you have growing from your ear?” With a flourish, Alejandro produced a shining gold coin that he had palmed. The magic trick usually brought a smile to his son’s face.

  Not this time. Alejandro sheepishly pocketed the coin.

  “I’ll pick you up again tomorrow, alright?” asked Alejandro brightly, his hands wide in an expansive gesture. “We’ll do something after school.”

  Joaquin sullenly shrugged. “I’m going fishing with Ricardo.”

  “Bring him along,” offered Alejandro robustly. “We’ll go to the magic lantern show. You know what that is?”

  “No…” said Joaquin, a flicker of intrigue lighting in his eyes despite himself.

  Alejandro seized on the opportunity to recapture the boy’s interest. “It’s the newest thing, moving pictures! They project stories onto a screen about heroes and villains and you can imagine you’re anywhere in the world.”

  Joaquin’s gaze stole toward his father and the corners of his mouth twitched in a brief smile. “Yeah, alright,” Joaquin said skeptically.

  Joaquin climbed out, the carriage rocking like a ship at sea. Alejandro leaned toward Joaquin, tapping the boy’s shoulder. Turning, Joaquin displayed a flat, guarded expression.

  “See you tomorrow, eh?” asked Alejandro, smiling though his eyes took on a wounded look.

  “You and me.”

  Joaquin’s breath quickened—as if he dared for just an instant to believe it might happen. Then he lowered his gaze and walked along the path to the hacienda without giving an answer.

  No answer is needed if you think the offer isn’t real, decided Alejandro. He raised his chin determinedly, even as his heart threatened to sink.

  A rustling sounded high above. His gaze whipped to the veranda, where Elena stood watching him. Her shoulders rose suddenly and she whirled away, disappearing within the home they had shared for so long.

  Alejandro’s palms grew clammy and a sudden stabbing ache lanced his chest. He withdrew into the carriage and nodded to the driver. With a great holler and the cracking of whips, the carriage plunged away from the hacienda, and the reddening sky reached down to cast crimson shards into the tired eyes of the lone passenger.

  Ah, Felipe, thought Alejandro, if you knew the day I’ve had, would you forgive my skipping the opening tonight?

  Alejandro laughed quietly as the rickety carriage rocked, its wheels spinning, the horses hauling it into the deepening evening, braying as if even they knew how unlikely that would be.

  Chapter 6

  Hacienda de la Fere perched above the rolling night-enraptured hills north of the city, holding court over the winding valley and its far-reaching vineyards. The hacienda was alive with golden light and sparkling laughter. Music could be heard in the far reaches of its stunning gardens, where its spectacularly attired guests gazed admiringly at its breathtaking arcades, powerful columns, and boldly arched windows. The wealthy had come out in droves for this evening’s wine tasting, well-mannered couples gliding across the rich, manicured lawn or bending to the elegantly arranged banks of flowers. The lush garden hosting the evening’s wine tasting event lent a cultured serenity to the event with its gentle waves of lilacs, violets and roses. The rich strolled leisurely over flagstone walks, sighed brightly in greeting, or retired to the many chairs and tables beneath understated umbrellas.

  Alejandro de la Vega glared at his surroundings. His skin itched as if he had developed an allergy to the fiber of his custom-tailored black tuxedo with gray pinstriped pants, his black bow-tie rubbing against the nape of his neck. He hated dressing up. Beside him Fray Felipe warned him yet again to stop twitching just as a pair of giggling lovers rushed off to the gazebo in the distance.

  “Ten minutes, then I’m going,” warned Alejandro gruffly.

  A servant circulated through the crowd, offering tall glasses filled with wine. Fray Felipe scooped a glass from his passing tray, savoring the aroma of the local vintage. The servant—a peasant Alejandro recognized—would not meet his gaze. The wiry man, a vaquero brought low by an injury, made his rounds as if he were unworthy to look those he served in the eye.

  Alejandro’s stomach knotted. This is why we must fight for freedom. The people must know that no man, no matter what their rank or station, no matter what their nationality, is superior. And they must understand their own worth, even the “lowliest” peasant.

  As the servant departed, Fray Felipe sipped the wine and swished it on his tongue, breathing in its scent with his well-trained nose. “Ahh…effervescent, yet tenacious,” reported Felipe, his face flushed with joy as he smacked his lips. “A mellow bouquet of fruity—”

  “I thought you were forbidden to drink,” Alejandro put in reproachfully.

  The padre winked at his good friend. “I need at least one vice to keep in touch with the sinners.”

  Alejandro rolled his eyes. Turning from his friend, he looked around. Some of the men strolling through the spacious garden wore dazzling uniforms ablaze with finery marking them as dukes, generals or shipping magnates. Formal affairs such as this had never been his forte. True, he could recognize the rich harmonies and passionate melodies rising from the polished instruments of the elegantly dressed string quartet, marking a Mendelssohn nocturne at one turn, a Schubert romance at another. Learning such minutia had been necessary in his efforts to ensure that he appeared a cultured gentleman whom no one would ever suspect of walking the dangerous path of El Zorro. And that he had made the effort to master these refined arts also pleased Elena.

  Alejandro shook his head. His beloved would have adored this place and everything about this night. A dull, empty ache gnawed at his soul as a lump rose in his throat. If only they were still together…

  Shuddering, Alejandro asked, “Who owns this vineyard anyway?”

  “A count, recently in from France,” Felipe replied as he sipped the wine again. “I’m told he purchased it from Don Gallo’s widow.”

  Finishing his drink, Fray Felipe turned to a nearby table. He dipped his glass in a pitcher of water meant for rinsing between rounds then surveyed his choices. Delicate calligraphy numbered each of the tasteful white bags hiding the labels of the bottles they contained. He expounded on his knowledge, informing Alejandro that in this way, a group of reds, such as three Zinfandels and three cabernets, could be sampled without prejudice. Or the vineyard’s prize export, a bubbling champagne, could be compared to the products from Limoux or Saumur, France or from Spain—or even a wine of the purest lineage from France’s actual Champagne region.

  Alejandro watched Felipe sample other wines and was surprised that Felipe had mastered the wine-taster’s art—look, whiff, sip and savor. As strangers drew close, the padre spoke of a particular wine’s nutty or fruity qualities, comparing one to dark chocolate, another to a candied apple. He met with approving nods. Next to him, perched over baskets filled with bread and cheese, an elderly couple discussed Prosper Mérimeé’s Carmen of Seville, his tale of the gypsy woman he met working in a tobacco factory whose voluptuous beauty drove men mad.

  Ah, thought Alejandro, imagine the tale he might have spun had he met Elena…

  Ahead, moonlight and starlight mixed as guests held their glasses against the bright white linens adorning the long tables bearing endless selections from the vineyard to scrutinize the wine’s color. Alejandro glanced at the great hacienda’s entrance, where a pair of flags rustled proudly—the American flag and the French tri-color.

  Hmmm. It seemed there was at least one flag missing. The lack of the
California or Mexican flags suddenly made him feel a bit less charitable to his unseen French host.

  A crystal tinkle of ice caught Alejandro’s attention. Felipe offered a glass to Alejandro. He turned it down, then began to casually sort through a table of canapés.

  “You say a French count owns all this?” asked Alejandro, nudging Felipe with a good-natured chuckle. “He’s probably still in his parlor putting on makeup.”

  An amused voice put in, “Or his perfume, perhaps.”

  Alejandro whirled to take in a smiling dark-haired man admiring the lavish spread beside him. This fellow guest was well attired, like everyone here, but he had a down-to-earth quality that instantly set Alejandro at ease.

  “Rumor has it the French invented it to avoid bathing,” Alejandro added with conspiratorial laughter.

  The party guest joined in Alejandro’s laughter. “And you are?”

  “De la Vega. Alejandro de la Vega,” Alejandro responded with a graceful bow.

  “You’re de la Vega?” asked the party guest with a start of surprise. “What an honor, I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Alejandro’s brow furrowed. “Really? From whom?”

  “You know, I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’m wanted elsewhere,” the man said as his eyes focused on something behind Alejandro. “Please, excuse me.” He strolled off in the direction of his gaze.

  Alejandro returned his attention to Felipe who was still engrossed in his wine tasting.

  “I just met a most charming fellow,” announced Alejandro as he placed a delicate canapé into his mouth.

  Fray Felipe turned to face his friend. “And who might that be?”

  The two men’s conference was interrupted by the tinkle of a crystal wineglass being gently tapped to call the attention of the party’s guests. Their host was making his presence known from a small stage in the hacienda’s ornate courtyard.

  Alejandro nearly choked on the canapé he had just stuffed into his mouth. The man holding the crystal glass was the same man he was just talking to at the buffet table. Dios Mio! What had he done?

  Count Armand Compte de la Fere smiled cordially at his assembled guests as he quietly handed the small knife he’d used to tap the crystal glass to his servant Ferroq.

  Alejandro felt as if he was seeing the man for the first time. Moonlight crested against the tight black ringlets of Armand’s lustrous hair and shimmered restlessly in his dark soulful eyes, drawing attention to his piercing gaze. His strong proud cheekbones pressed up above his smile, which was at once inviting and merciless, while a glimmer of golden light swept down his aquiline nose to the square of his strong chin. A crimson scarf, something like a lady’s favor, was tucked between the lapels of his long elegant coat.

  “I’m still not sure why they call it a wine tasting,” Count Armand said as he playfully raised his glass of wine. “After two glasses, you can’t taste anything.”

  Gales of laughter burst from the crowd at the count’s little joke.

  Armand graciously waited for the laughter to subside before starting his toast. His eyes shining with pleasure, he raised his glass again. “Welcome friends, Californians…as we toast the evening, I can’t help but think how easy it is for us to celebrate tonight. We never go to bed hungry. We never wake up cold. This vineyard represents what I hope will become an industry that depends on the people for its success, instead of exploiting them. That’s what America means to me—the promise of a country by the people, for the people. A country blessed with limitless beauty…but none more stunning than my escort for the evening.” The count adroitly whirled and thrust out his gloved hand for a woman who elegantly ascended the steps from the courtyard. “Ladies and Gentlemen—Señora Elena de la Vega.”

  The blood drained from Alejandro’s face as his eyes drank in the magnificent and heart-rending vision that was his beloved. He nearly staggered, but Fray Felipe caught his arm.

  A sumptuous rich yellow ball gown he had never seen before clung to Elena’s incredible form. He took in the gown’s plunging neckline and delicate black lace trim upon her arms and waist as she swept forward with a relaxed grace Alejandro thought he would never see again. Elena crested the stage, her hand delicately settling into Armand’s waiting grasp.

  Alejandro’s body went numb, his face stricken, as the count slightly bowed—and kissed his Elena!

  Her gentle fingers drifted to her raven’s hair and drew forth a white-petaled romania, which she presented to the handsome count in an all-too-familiar, and saddening ritual.

  It was a token of passion.

  For a terrible instant, Alejandro was a study of desolation, his face drawn, his eyes etched with sorrow. Then a cold fist closed around his heart. His stomach contracted into a tight ball. His face burned and he quaked with rage as the count took the flower, drawing it through an eyelet in his lapel and setting it in a place of honor for all to see before kissing Elena once more. The crowd exploded with applause and an enormous display of fireworks echoed their joy with thunderous pinwheeling bursts, igniting the night sky, cascading with the colors of the French and American flags.

  You want to see celebrating? thought Alejandro, his face darkening with fury. Oh—what I will show you tonight!

  A ravenous appetite had been awakened within Alejandro, but it was not for food. He tossed the plate of remaining canapés to a passing servant who caught it expertly without breaking stride. Then he surged forward, hungering for revenge, thirsting for answers. His rage redoubled as he watched Elena and Armand happily receive their guests. Only three short months ago, he had been the one to stand at her side when she greeted the elite like this, and it had been done at his hacienda—where he was no longer welcome. Elena had given no explanation for the split. He had gone over every word they had angrily hurled at one another the night of their “tiff,” when he’d stormed off, and was certain that they would have worked out all of their grievances once their anger cooled—just as they always did.

  We fight, Elena. That’s what we do.

  Then we make up…

  But something had gone wrong. Some unexpected element had entered the mix. Alejandro first believed it was some meddling friend of Elena’s, but he soon realized that couldn’t be the case. None of Elena’s friends were even speaking to her.

  He stared at the handsome count. Yes, hello, if you would, a quick question: How do you see yourself? As an unexpected element perhaps? And if so, would you be at all interested in seeing how far my fist can fit down your lying, devious throat?

  Grasping his cross, kissing it, then rolling his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for strength, Fray Felipe chased after him. Snagging Alejandro’s arm, he casually remarked, “Well, I’m pooped. Time to go.”

  “Go? Why would we go?” asked Alejandro darkly, yanking himself free as his hand closed into a crimson fist. “I’m having so much fun.” The heartbroken don gulped his wine then hurled his empty glass at an innocent rose bush. The wine stung his throat, agitated his nerves.

  Good.

  With his heart racing wildly, Alejandro stalked ahead, leaving his frustrated friend behind. He ignored Felipe’s pleas to leave at once—and the padre’s further frustrated demands that he not act like an ass. The music swelled as Alejandro rudely thrust his way through the crowd, closing in on the warmly smiling raven-haired woman whom he thought he knew better than anyone in the world. Gussied up as she was, adorning the arm of this Armand fellow, she might have very well been a stranger to him, but his rage recognized her. Yes, his anger knew her.

  Surprise, surprise, Mi Amor, he thought as her eyes fell upon him—and her complexion went pale. Perhaps you should have checked your guest list more closely.

  “Alejandro!” Elena cried, a rush of heat rising to her face and returning color to her cheeks.

  A torrent of cruel satisfaction took hold as Alejandro slowly nodded, images of wrongdoers he had confronted in the past rifling through his mind. Each had worn the same startled loo
k that his wife now offered, as if they thought they could do anything at all and never be made to answer for their actions.

  I am justice on two legs, he thought thickly, the wine numbing his reasoning. And you can bet that you will answer for this.

  Alejandro’s mouth contorted grotesquely as he snorted, “Elena.”

  Armand wrapped a protective arm around Elena’s waist and drew her near. He raised his chin imperiously, not taking his gaze off Alejandro. Evenly, he asked, “Elena?”

  “Armand…’’ stammered Elena.

  “De la Vega.” Armand acknowledged his new acquaintance with a small arrogant nod. A barely perceptible, but clearly weary sigh accompanied his pronouncement. He nodded to his servant, who rushed in and ushered those who had been waiting to greet the happy couple to a table filled with many illustrious guests.

  Alejandro nodded sharply. “Count.”

  “You know each other?” blurted Elena as she tried to stop her hands from shaking.

  Armand smiled congenially as he offered his hand to de la Vega. “We shared a giggle at the buffet table.”

  “Seems that’s not all we’ve shared,” Alejandro said bluntly, ignoring Armand’s hand.

  Armand’s spine stiffened and he drew back his hand the way one might when faced with a suddenly snapping dog: respectfully, though without displaying a trace of fear. “Allow me to diffuse an awkward situation—Elena’s portrayed you as a man of impeccable character.”

  “I’m honored to be mentioned at all,” Alejandro growled. “Why, I nearly forgot we were still married only three months ago.”

  Elena’s eyes narrowed with contempt and Armand lightly chuckled, as if to signal that he would certainly be willing to make certain allowances for the awkwardness of the situation—and for Alejandro’s somewhat inebriated state—but that his patience would have limits that were best not tested.

  In response, Alejandro delivered a wolf-like grin, tensing as he might an instant before launching into battle.