Three Messages and a Warning (3 page)

“I came to participate in the festivities, and you?”

“Same here; this is when the town is happiest. It’s been years since I’ve seen it like this . . .”

“How long have you been coming back here to celebrate?”

“Coming back? About twenty years, I guess; and you?”

“It’s my first time . . . I was feeling a bit lonely out there . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry; we all feel bad after a while and long to come back here. You’ll get used to it.”

Your uncle falls silent and you follow his lead. You stop together at a place where the path ends. In the distance, you catch sight of some lights: some yellow paper lanterns have just been lit.

“Well, nephew, they are waiting for me. Stay here if you want; honestly, I won’t be long.”

“All right uncle,” you answer.

You see him move deep into the darkness and disappear into it. Time passes and he has yet to return. Moved by curiosity, you want to follow him down the path where you saw him disappear, but at that very moment someone behind you pronounces your name. You turn around and discover your Aunt Enedina.

“Good evening, aunt, I’m so happy you’ve come!”

“My dear nephew, who are you waiting for?”

“Uncle Juan. He told me he wouldn’t be long in coming back.”

“We buried Juan years ago. He was killed because he stole some cattle and slept with another man’s wife.”

“But I just spoke with him a little while ago; he was happy to be back in town.”

“You should come with me. This is a bad place to wait. There are many lost souls wandering about. Let’s go eat with the others.”

“Aunt Enedina . . . where are you?”

You continue walking along the narrow path. The turmoil of the crowds and the movement of the lanterns come into view, yet they appear to be disconnected. Finally, you realize that each light corresponds to an individual person.

You are there, looking for someone familiar. Suddenly, you see a light that is more intense than the others; a deep and profound one. You move closer. You discern among the shadows a few familiar faces: your Uncle Nicolás and Aunt Adela. They tell you that they have come from afar to greet you.

Suddenly, you see your father. It cannot be. You never have believed in such things. What things? Your little daughter Elvirita is there too . . . it’s impossible. Isn’t it? You know that it is, but you want to believe it is true because you can see her! She is standing right there in front of you. You run toward them, you want to embrace them, you want to talk with them; but you can’t. They take no notice of you, or perhaps they don’t want to see or hear you.

They have left only some offerings at the foot of your tomb, some fruit and a lit candle.

The house was quite large, with a garden in the middle and rooms arrayed around it. Between the rooms and gardens, we had corridors to buffer the bedrooms from the frequent onslaughts of rain and wind. To keep such a big house orderly and the garden impeccable—my daily morning task—was hard work. But I loved my garden. The corridors were filled with vines that bloomed practically year-round. I remember how much I loved to spend my afternoons in those corridors, seated between the perfume of the honeysuckle and the bougainvillea while I sewed clothes for the children.

In the garden we grew chrysanthemums, pansies, Alpine violets, begonias, and heliotrope. While I watered the plants, the children amused themselves searching for worms among the leaves. Sometimes they’d spend hours, silent and focused, trying to collect the drops of water that dripped from the ancient hose. I couldn’t help stealing occasional glances at that corner room. Even though he spent all day sleeping, I could never be too sure. Lots of times I’d be making dinner and suddenly his shadow would fall across the wood stove. I’d feel him behind me . . . I’d drop whatever was in my hands and run from the kitchen screaming like a madwoman. He’d return once more to his room as if nothing had happened.

I think he ignored Guadalupe completely, never harassing or even going near her.

Not so with my children and me. He hated them and was always lying in wait for me. Every time he came out of his room, I was thrown into the worst nightmare anyone could know. He’d set himself up at a little table across from my bedroom door. I stopped leaving. Sometimes, thinking he was asleep, I’d sneak toward the kitchen to prepare a snack for the children, and I’d stumble on him in some dark corner of the corridor, hiding beneath the vines. “I’ll be right there, Guadalupe!” I’d scream desperately.

Guadalupe and I never discussed him by name; it seemed like doing so would mean relinquishing our reality to that dark being. We’d always say, “There he is, he’s gone out, he’s sleeping, he, he, he . . .” He only ate twice a day, once when he rose at dusk and again, sometimes, in the early morning before going to sleep. Guadalupe was responsible for bringing him his food; I can say with certainty that, inside that room, the poor woman felt the same terror as I. Meat was all he’d eat—he wouldn’t even touch other food.

When the children went to sleep, Guadalupe would bring my dinner to our room. I couldn’t leave them alone, knowing that he might be up. As soon as she’d finished her chores, Guadalupe and her little one would retire to their room and leave me alone, watching my children sleep. Since the door to my room was always left open, I could never sleep, fearing that at any moment he might come in and attack us. Closing the door wasn’t even an option; my husband always got home late and if he’d found it closed he’d have thought . . . And I mean he got home really late. You work such long hours, I remarked once. I wonder if work’s the only thing keeping you out . . .

One night, I was woken at nearly two in the morning, hearing him in the distance . . .

When I woke, I saw him at my bedside, looking at me with his fixed, penetrating stare . . .

I jumped up and hurled the gas lamp I kept lit at night. Our little town didn’t have electricity and I couldn’t stand the dark, knowing that at any moment . . . he deflected the lamp and slipped away as it crashed on the brick floor with the gasoline bursting into flames. If Guadalupe hadn’t heard my screams, the whole house would have burned down. My husband had neither time to listen to me nor any concern for what went on in our house. We spoke only when necessary. Over time, our affection and our words had run dry.

I still feel sick when I think about this . . . Guadalupe had gone shopping and left little Martín asleep in the crib where he rested during the day. I went to check on him intermittently; he was sound asleep. It was around noon. I was combing my children’s hair when I heard the little boy’s howl mixed with strange grunts. When I reached the bedroom I found him cruelly hitting the child. I don’t know what happened, but I somehow got hold of the boy and managed to swing a club I found in my hand, attacking him with all the rage that had been building for so long. I don’t know if it did much damage, since I passed out cold. When Guadalupe got back from her errands, she found me distraught and her little one bleeding and covered in bruises. She was overcome by pain and fearsome fury. Fortunately, the boy survived and healed quickly.

I was scared that Guadalupe would go away and leave me all alone. If she didn’t, it was because she was a noble, valiant woman who had deep affection for me and my children. But that day saw the birth of a hatred in her, one that demanded vengeance.

When I told my husband what had happened, I begged him to take him away, pleading that he might kill our children like he tried to kill little Martín. “You get more hysterical every day. It’s really painful and depressing to see you like this . . . I’ve told you a thousand times that he’s harmless.”

I thought then that I should flee from that house, from my husband, from him . . . But I didn’t have any money and getting in touch with the outside world was almost impossible. Without friends or relatives to turn to, I felt as lonely as an orphan.

My children were terrorized; they didn’t want to play in the garden and wouldn’t leave my side. Whenever Guadalupe went out to the market, we’d shut ourselves up in my room.

“This situation cannot continue,” I told Guadalupe one day.

“We have to do something, and soon,” she replied.

“But what can we two do alone?” Alone, true, but full of such hate . . .

Her eyes gleamed strangely. I was terrified and thrilled.

Our chance came when we least expected it. My husband went to the city on business. He’d be back, he told me, in twenty days or so.

I don’t know if he realized that my husband had left, but that day he woke up earlier than usual and stationed himself in front of my room. Guadalupe and her son slept in my room that night, and, for the first time, I was able to shut the door.

Guadalupe and I spent almost all night scheming. The children slept quietly. Every so often, we heard him walk up to the bedroom door and bang on it furiously . . .

Guadalupe sawed several planks of wood, big, strong ones, while I looked for a knife and some nails. When everything was ready, we tiptoed over to the corner room. The sliding doors were ajar. Holding our breath, we turned the bolts, locked the doors with a key, and used the hammer and nails to seal up the room completely. While we worked, big drops of sweat rolled down our faces. He didn’t make a sound, seemingly fast asleep. When everything was finished, Guadalupe and I held one another and wept.

The days that followed were frightful. He survived a long time without air, light, food . . . At the beginning, he pounded on the door, threw himself against it, yelling desperately, clawing the wood . . . Neither Guadalupe nor I could eat or sleep, the screams were so terrible! Sometimes we were scared my husband would return before he was dead. If he were to find him like this . . . ! He resisted mightily, I think he made it nearly two weeks . . . Then, one day, we didn’t hear anything. Not even a cry . . . We waited two days more, however, before opening the room.

When my husband returned, we greeted him with the news of his sudden and disconcerting death.